Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 624: Plague

After Duke finished speaking, every general and officer in the room felt their blood turn to ice water in their veins.

Duke wasn't crying wolf here - he was dead serious as a plague outbreak.

The Third War of the Dark Portal had been the most catastrophic kingdom-crushing apocalypse since the Alliance first raised its banners.

According to the original timeline, Lordaeron, Dalaran, and Quel'Thalas were all trampled into dust beneath the unholy hoofbeats of Death Knights and obliterated like sheep before wolves. As for Stromgarde, which had also abandoned the Alliance several years prior, though Stromgarde didn't technically fall this time around, it was gutted so thoroughly that the entire kingdom was left more fractured than a shattered shield wall.

After the Third War ended, including the long-fallen Alterac in the body count, the human race would officially plummet from seven proud kingdoms to three pathetic remnants clinging to existence. Even though Dalaran would eventually be rebuilt, the entire northern continent of Lordaeron in the Eastern Kingdoms would be as dead as Northrend's frozen wastes.

Having witnessed the soul-crushing horror of the Scourge's plague firsthand, and having seen those soldiers who had just perished or been freshly bitten transform into shambling zombies due to delayed treatment, Mograine and the others harbored not a shadow of doubt about the bone-chilling truth of Duke's words.

The only silver lining in this nightmare was that the Holy Light could effectively purge the undead and heal wounds inflicted by their cursed fangs.

However, Mograine and Abendis were far more tormented by concerns over Lordaeron's fate than relieved by this small mercy.

"What will become of His Majesty Menethil?"

Duke couldn't stomach delivering the full brutal truth to Mograine's desperate question. The most soul-crushing tragedy in all the world is when blood spills blood. Knowing that the first act Arthas would perform upon his return would be to drive cold steel through Terenas' beating heart, Duke still chose his words with the delicacy of defusing a goblin bomb: "The danger is... beyond mortal comprehension."

For a loyal paladin like Mograine, this was equivalent to watching his entire world crumble into ash.

Modern Earth dwellers before the time-traveling couldn't fathom how servants and vassals in medieval times would throw themselves on their swords for their liege lords. In truth, when one bloodline has served another for ten or twenty generations, that brand of unwavering loyalty becomes seared into their very bones, carved into the deepest chambers of their souls, and transforms into something as natural as breathing.

Witnessing the crushed expressions on Mograine's and Abendis' faces, Duke couldn't bring himself to deliver the killing blow.

However, Duke's reluctance to crush their spirits didn't mean that cruel reality would show them the same mercy.

Just as the great tent fell into suffocating silence, a thunderous commotion erupted outside like a raging storm.

"Report! Our forces have rescued Lord Molev, captain of the Lordaeron Palace guard!"

Mograine snapped back to awareness like a man drowning who suddenly finds air, bellowing, "By the Light! Bring him in immediately!"

Molev was hauled in on a stretcher like a broken warrior fresh from the Barrens. His condition was more devastating than a raid wipe. His right arm hung mangled and was bound tight with a leather tourniquet that looked ready to snap. Seven horrific gashes across his chest and abdomen carved so deep they revealed bone beneath, the wounds dusted with hemostatic powder and caked in dried blood that reeked of dark magic. A malevolent aura clung to him like the stench of a cursed artifact.

He appeared to be clinging to life by a thread thinner than spider silk.

If even the captain of the royal guard was reduced to this state, the hearts of every general in that tent plummeted faster than a gryphon with clipped wings.

"Lord Molev! By Uther's hammer, what in the name of the Light happened!?"

Molev's eyes blazed crimson with anguish, and he struggled against his restraints like a man possessed, howling, "His Highness Arthas has been transformed into a Death Knight! He... He murdered his own father, His Majesty Menethil! Lordaeron has fallen into the abyss!"

In fragmented gasps and broken sentences, Molev painted the complete picture of catastrophe.

In that moment, the emotions of every Lordaeron general in the entire tent exploded like a mana bomb.

Some wailed with the anguish of banshees.

Some roared oaths of vengeance that would make orcs proud.

Some writhed in such torment they begged for death's sweet release.

But Alexandros Mograine simply sat motionless in the command chair without uttering a single word. It was as if his very soul had been ripped from his body and his entire being had transformed into cold, lifeless stone—a statue carved from grief itself.

Duke and Ilucia stood frozen in place, offering no words. They weren't children of Lordaeron, but this was the moment for Lordaeron's sons and daughters to unleash their fury and sorrow.

After what felt like an eternity that could have lasted through multiple raid lockouts, everyone's raw emotions began to settle, and in their place rose a burning thirst for vengeance that could melt titansteel.

Patricide!

An act so vile that even the Burning Legion would recoil in disgust!

This was a violation of every sacred oath and moral code known to mortal kind.

This was a declaration of war against humanity itself and everything decent in creation.

Perhaps the fact that Arthas had been seduced and corrupted by demonic forces was itself a tragedy worthy of mourning.

But so what!?

So bloody what!?

Watching the Scarlet Crusade generals approach the tactical sand table with fists trembling like leaves in a Stranglethorn storm, Mograine nearly burst forth with commands to march every last soldier toward Lordaeron's capital and exact revenge on Arthas regardless of the cost in blood and gold.

But they were shocked to discover Duke stepping forward and firmly grasping Mograine's wrist.

"What in Azeroth's name are you doing!?"

Duke's voice carried the weight of mountains as he declared: "Preventing you from marching tens of thousands of elite warriors into a suicide mission that would make the Battle of Blackrock Spire look like a tavern brawl!"

What absolute madness!

He had fought tooth and nail to return to this timeline, not to watch these heroes throw their lives away, or to witness them foolishly march their finest troops straight into Arthas' waiting maw like sheep to slaughter!

"Lordaeron is finished! Since the royal bloodline of Lordaeron has been severed like a broken blade, from this day forward, the Scarlet Crusade renounces all allegiance to the Alliance. We shall achieve our vengeance through our own righteous path!" Mograine declared with the finality of a guild disbanding.

"Duke! Don't stand in our way, and we can still call each other allies!" Abendis immediately rallied to his commander's banner.

Duke's vision nearly went black as shadow magic. Though he had known for ages that these two were warriors with hearts full of righteous fire, and that they possessed the stubborn determination of dwarven miners, and wouldn't be easily swayed from forming the most fanatically devoted anti-Scourge organization in existence—the Scarlet Crusade—Duke was still stunned by the sheer depth of their loyalty.

It was enough to break a man's heart thinking about it. After the three great wars had run their course through history, nearly all of the legendary Five Silver Hand paladins had fallen in battle, leaving only Tirion Fordring, nicknamed the "Ashbringer's Last Hope," standing alone...

Duke felt his head begin to pound worse than after a night of drinking with dwarves when he saw Mograine reaching for the Alliance insignia on his armor, clearly preparing to formally renounce his oath to the Alliance.

Damn it all to the Twisting Nether! He could certainly mobilize Stormwind's military forces. But the Northern and Southern continents were separated by more distance than between Orgrimmar and Ironforge, and war preparations hadn't even begun yet. By the time troops could be fully mobilized, at least a fortnight would pass. By the time all soldiers and equipment were positioned and ready for battle, it would be too late—like arriving at a raid after the final boss had already been defeated.

If the Scarlet Crusade—the most powerful and largest military force on the entire Lordaeron continent—were to march to their doom, the situation in the northern lands would deteriorate faster than reputation with the Bloodsail Buccaneers. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

As the air grew thick enough to choke on, oppressive as the atmosphere in Blackwing Lair, a flash of inspiration suddenly struck Duke's mind like lightning from a storm elemental. Duke whirled around and locked eyes with Ilucia beside him: "Vanessa's team..."

Ilucia's understanding dawned like sunrise over Elwynn Forest: "We're positioned right here in East Elwynn Forest."

Originally, Duke had planned to guard this secret more carefully than the location of Onyxia's lair and allow that pure and noble woman to live a life of freedom forever, but fate had other plans in store.

Forgive me...

Duke drew in a breath deep enough to fill his lungs like a warrior preparing for battle, and suddenly unleashed a revelation more explosive than a goblin engineering experiment.

"Hold your horses! Mograine, Abendis, you swore sacred oaths to protect the Menethil royal family, did you not!?"

"Yes! Of course that oath doesn't extend to that filthy undead abomination who committed the ultimate sin of kinslaying!" Mograine's fury burned hotter than molten core.

"Well then, what I'm about to tell you is this: the bloodline of the Menethil family has not all been extinguished like a snuffed candle."