The Death Knight

"These past few days, you've been eating less and less," Jorgen remarked, glancing at the half-full bowl of oatmeal in front of him, as he spoke to Jemar.

Jemar was seated on the ground, his hands shackled and a chain wrapped around his neck, its other end entwined with a tent pole.

"This is enough for me," he replied.

"You seem tense. I can see it. So anxious that you can't eat," Jorgen continued.

Jemar remained silent. Jorgen went on, "Barring any unforeseen circumstances, we should reach Sodoryl Bridge by tomorrow noon."

He noticed Jemar give a slight shake of his head, not necessarily indicating denial but more like avoiding a pesky mosquito buzzing around his face. His right hand rested on his left knuckles, trying to keep his back straight to ease the discomfort caused by the iron chain around his neck. As a prisoner with shackles, he was trying his best to find a comfortable sitting position. This was the demeanor typically adopted by petty criminals like thieves, brawlers, and minor rogues, as they believed they would soon regain their freedom. So, instead of causing trouble or acting tough, they preferred to coexist peacefully with the cold damp floor of the cell, the pain from the shackles digging into their wrists, and the mocking gaze of the jailer. But this was not how Jemar was in the dungeon. Once, he had sat upright on a stone bed, like a confined monarch, with the dark underground space as his domain.

It had been five days since they set out, and Jemar's attitude had gradually changed. After being confined in the dungeon for over a month, though he spent a half-night in Neheri's mansion in between, being able to step out and walk under the not-so-clear sunlight gradually awakened something dormant inside him. He was nearing Sodoryl Bridge, about to meet with the Bloodscar Crusaders waiting for him. Jorgen could sense his anxiousness for this moment to arrive, making him seem more like an ordinary soldier rather than the Bloodscar Crusader who lurked in the mist of blood, spreading terror.

Jemar pondered Jorgen's words: "We should reach Sodoryl Bridge by tomorrow noon. Tomorrow noon. Tomorrow." He took a deep breath, and the black scar on the right side of his throat tightened with it.

"I brought some liquor, want some?" Jorgen lifted a small bottle of alcohol from his right hand. Though his initial intention was to offer the alcohol to alleviate Jemar's anxiety, he immediately sensed the ominous implication behind his suggestion: special liquor. The last drink before Judgment Day arrives.

"No, I don't drink. Most of the Bloodscar Crusaders voluntarily abstain from alcohol, and I am one of them," Jemar replied.

"Why?" Jorgen inquired.

"To keep the mind clear. To be mentally focused at all times, ready for combat."

"I know the Bloodscar Crusaders have strict disciplines, but I've never heard of abstaining from alcohol before. Is tobacco prohibited too?"

"Of course. There are many more rules. Each day, we must spend at least an hour reading the Holy Light Scriptures. During meals, each person is limited to two dishes. Private gatherings cannot exceed four people, and so on."

"I've said it before, you're not cut out to be a Bloodscar Crusader, and from what you're saying now, I must emphasize that again."

"I strictly adhere to them," Jemar replied.

"You may adhere to them, but you won't become fanatical about these rules. If a companion breaks them, you won't rush to report it to your superiors. Am I right?" Jorgen questioned.

"You agent of MI7 really are... Do you know that we take pride in secretly killing a agent of MI7? Because you guys have brought a lot of trouble," Jorgen said.

"Actually, agent of MI7 take pride in persuading a Bloodscar Crusader to join their cause, because you guys are the most stubborn lot in Azeroth," Jemar retorted.

"But you can't persuade me."

"And you can't kill me."

Jemar chuckled, the first time since Jorgen met him. His face turned to the side, the corner of his mouth twisted slightly, and though the laughter was just a stifled grunt in his throat, it was still a laugh. Despite the scars covering his face, he didn't look too unpleasant when he smiled.

"Give me some of that liquor," he said.

Jorgen handed the bottle to Jemar. It was a bit difficult for him to raise the bottle to his lips with his hands locked in the shackles. But Jorgen had no intention of helping him. Jemar tilted his head back and took a small sip. A few drops of amber liquid dripped onto the shackles. He returned the bottle in the same awkward manner.

"Jemar," Jorgen said, "do you regret becoming a Bloodscar Crusader?"

"It wasn't my choice," he paused for a moment, "but I have no regrets."

Jorgen had a premonition that tomorrow he would find out the reason behind Jemar's words.

A young boy, on the verge of death in the woods, faced a series of choices and torments beyond his control. Over two decades later, he confronted the Lich Arlaki on the battlefield, survived, only to be manipulated again. Yet he claimed he had no regrets. Jorgen wondered if Nehari, his opposite, would feel the same. Nehari had absolute control over his life and influenced the lives of many who admired him. Would he be content? They were perhaps the most dissimilar yet similar pair of brothers, as they had both reached extremes in their respective paths.

The brothers faced their first life-or-death choice in the woods, but they were powerless to affect the outcome. This reminded Jorgen of something distant, like a reflection hidden in the foam of the sea. The stable. The haystack. A pair of hands that always emitted a pungent but not unpleasant smell, avoiding him—

Enough, that's enough. Jorgen stepped out of the tent and instructed the guards not to let Flint near. He scanned the surroundings and saw Flint standing in front of his personal tent, staring at the campfire, throwing something into the flames. Unable to spot Erlyn, he must have mingled with some group of soldiers to play cards.

"Jorgen," Renner approached him, "how is Jemar doing?"

"His emotions seem stable. You can go in and see for yourself."

"No, I haven't spoken to him yet. And I've been concerned about him killing our soldiers. Come with me for a moment, would you? I want to show you something and have a chat."

The two walked to the edge of a cliff, quite a distance from the campsite. Below them was the murky yellow water of Darrowmere Lake, rubbing against the sharp edges of the rocks in silence under the cover of night. In the far distance, the island where the Scholomance was located could be seen. Dilapidated buildings stood out starkly in the moonlight, with various sizes of phosphorescence scattered across their surfaces, strangely reminiscent of coral reefs.

"Is there still no plan to attack the Scholomance?" Jorgen asked.

"The defense on the island is too tight. And we still lack a precise assessment of its threat," Renner replied.

"What did you want to show me?" Jorgen asked.

"Wait a moment, you'll see soon enough. Just keep your eyes on the Scholomance," Renner replied.

After ten seconds, the scattered lights on the surface of the school all disappeared at the same time.

"Ah, there it is."

"I still don't quite understand, Renner."

"It's lights out time. Every day at this time, even the students of the Scourge have their own rules to follow."

"I see."

"It seems like you're not very interested."

"Not interested? No, it's not that... I just don't know what to say."

"I had the same reaction at first. The cursed cultists, under the control of the Scourge, are one of our main enemies - it's hard to imagine that these people also have their own lives. As students, they have to sleep on time. I guess there must be a collective cafeteria inside the Scholomance, right?"

"Enemy's lives shouldn't be our concern."

"True. The enemy doesn't eat, sleep, or rest, devoid of emotions and individual consciousness. All we need to do is defeat them. As an ordinary soldier, that's enough to think about. But I can't help but want to know more. Perhaps, the cursed cultists also have their private lives they can control, just like us. If they don't, then some of us may not have it either."

"For example... the quarantine of those infected with the plague."

"Speaking of that, have you made any progress on finding who started the fire?"

"Not yet, no conclusion yet."

Renner shook her head and continued, "There's a theory you might not have heard before... and I'm not sure if it's related to the case."

"Tell me about it."

"The plague infection can vary in severity. These people might have been infected during their battles with Arthas, and that's why they haven't recovered. I doubt if they really have a chance of being cured."

"So, they will eventually turn into Scourge?"

"That has happened in the past. Our medics have exhausted their efforts, but some infected individuals couldn't be restored to normal. However... according to military regulations, if you admit plague-infected patients without preventing them from turning into Scourge, the responsible person will be punished."

"That sounds like a heartless regulation."

"It certainly is, and it's absurd and rigid. However, fortunately, there is another rule that prohibits the execution of infected individuals under the pretext of preventing the plague. This has reduced a lot of pointless deaths, but it also makes many people fear the first regulation even more. If their patients don't recover, they will definitely be punished. Depending on the circumstances, demotion to imprisonment is possible."

"You mean Nehari might fear this regulation more than others."

"He would fear it more because he still holds the aura of a bishop. You should understand this better than I do."

Jorgen naturally understood. In the bishop's administrative region, where the doctrine of "faith in the Holy Light can dispel the plague" was constantly preached, there were cases of incurable plague-infected individuals. This was not only a blow to Nehari's political position but also his religious standing. If these infected individuals were to disappear due to an accident...

"I'm not guiding you to target Bishop Nehari; I'm just providing this information. Perhaps there's some significance to it."

"Thank you. I will consider it."

"By the way, there's one more thing." Renner hesitated for a moment. "...I have been training and managing new recruits since I arrived in the Plaguelands. So, the first thing I did when I took on the role was to investigate the records of troop deployments over the past few years to deepen my understanding of the current situation. I found something. Three years ago, just before I assumed the position, a group of soldiers arrived half a month later than scheduled because they participated in a battle against the Dragonmaw orcs in Menethil Harbor. Some of them died in the battle, and upon reviewing the list, I found that there were thirty-six casualties—now listen to me, there was also one person reported missing. I don't know the missing soldier's name because someone had erased it from the archives. Whoever altered it must have done it before I took office, so I couldn't investigate further. Why would someone want to cover up the fact that a soldier went missing? It's not that uncommon for someone to go missing during a battle. I had no leads, so despite being troubled for a while, I eventually abandoned the question. But now, I'm recalling it. Perhaps this missing soldier had a special identity, and a significant accident needed to be concealed. Do you understand what I mean?"

Jorgen involuntarily tightened his right hand. Three years ago. Menethil Harbor. The missing soldier. The erased name.

"Thank you, Renner. Why did you choose this moment to tell me all this?"

"To be honest, I often have premonitions of not being in control of my life. Today, this premonition is particularly strong... Perhaps it's also related to meeting the 'Prophet' tomorrow," he chuckled and raised his left hand. "Look, I took off my wedding ring. Whenever I feel uneasy, I do this..."

Renner fell silent. Suddenly, a sense of foreboding and danger began to infiltrate their minds. It came from the approaching sound along the cliffside—a sound that was somewhat ethereal yet seemed to forcefully shatter the ground. The grating noise of armor rubbing against each other gradually emerged. The air was filled with a putrid smell.

Jorgen turned his head and saw a tall shadow appearing to the west. It was clearly more than ten meters away, yet it felt oppressively close, creating a conflicting sensation. It wasn't just one person's shadow; it was that of a skeletal warhorse, with a man wielding a long sword on its back. Moonlight cautiously approached, outlining the man's pale face before he disappeared into the deep, dark, eyeless sockets with a mournful wail.