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"Surrender, Onyxia."

"You have failed, and there is no escape. If you do not yield, today will be your end." 

"My blade will pierce your heart, and your head will become my trophy, displayed on the gates of Stormwind for all to see." 

Wayne's voice rang out clearly, cutting through the chaos like a thunderclap. Whether it was the black dragoness pinned beneath him, her scales torn and bloodied, or the humans trapped in the rubble of the collapsed manor, all could hear his words. 

The sword in Wayne's hand, glowed with a golden light as it pierced Onyxia's chest, sinking deep into her scaled flesh. In mere moments, the once-glamorous Lady Katrana Prestor had been reduced to a bloodied, broken beast, her monstrous form writhing in pain. Wayne could have ended her life with a single thrust, but he stayed his hand—for now. 

The reason for his restraint was King Varian Wrynn. 

The ruler of Stormwind was a broken man, his soul fractured by Onyxia's dark sorcery. If Wayne were to slay the black dragoness outright, restoring Varian's sanity would become far more difficult. Moreover, killing Onyxia would draw the ire of her father, Deathwing, and the entire Black Dragonflight. As an adventurer from another world, Wayne had no desire to shoulder such a burden unnecessarily. 

Hearing Wayne's ultimatum, Onyxia's massive form shuddered, her wounds gushing more blood. The pain was unbearable, and the threat of death loomed over her like a shadow. Yet, her pride as a daughter of the Black Dragonflight refused to accept defeat at the hands of a mere mortal. 

She snarled, her massive body thrashing against the ground, but Wayne's blade held her fast. The agony of the sword tearing through her chest forced a guttural roar from her throat. 

Whether she accepted it or not, the reality was clear: her life was in Wayne's hands. 

"Spare me!" 

Onyxia's voice boomed in Common, her words laced with desperation. For all her arrogance, she was not a creature eager to meet her end. Her schemes had always been to please her father, not to die in some forgotten corner of Azeroth. 

As Wayne withdrew his sword from Onyxia's chest, a figure emerged from the shadows nearby. It was Mathias Shaw, Master of SI:7, his dark leather armor blending seamlessly with the night. His voice was sharp with urgency. 

"What's going on, Wayne?" 

"This wasn't part of the plan. You've thrown everything into chaos. Care to explain?" 

Mathias's tone was accusatory, his usual calm replaced by frustration. He had trusted Wayne to handle the situation discreetly, but now the entire city was on the brink of war. 

Before Wayne could respond, the air grew heavy with the sound of beating wings. Three more black dragons descended from the sky, accompanied by nearly a hundred dragonkin warriors. They surrounded the ruined manor, their eyes glowing with malice. 

At the same time, Highlord Bolvar Fordragon and a group of Stormwind guards emerged from the collapsed banquet hall, their weapons drawn. The sight of the black dragons and their monstrous allies sent a wave of panic through the nobles. 

In the annals of Azeroth, black dragons were synonymous with destruction and chaos. Their presence in Stormwind, masquerading as nobility, was a betrayal of the highest order. The tension in the air was palpable, as both sides prepared for another bloody confrontation. 

But Wayne was unfazed. The battle had been fierce, but he had held back, careful not to kill Onyxia outright. Now, with his adrenaline still coursing and his bloodlust barely contained, he welcomed the arrival of more enemies. 

With a wave of his right hand, the pet badge on his belt flashed a green light.

With a flash of emerald light, the pet badge on Wayne's belt activated. A thunderous roar shook the battlefield as his titanic beast materialized from the magical void, its presence instantly commanding attention.

Robin, the Deathclaw, over ten meters tall, stomped into the fray.

The monstrous beast sniffed the air, sensing its master's unyielding battle fury. Excitement surged through its massive form, and with an earth-rattling bellow, it dug its massive hind claws into the battle-scarred ground.

Then, with a titanic burst of speed, Robin charged forward like an unstoppable juggernaut, its claws gouging deep trenches in the stone and dirt beneath it.

The drakonid warriors, initially advancing with disciplined precision, hesitated, their instincts screaming danger.

It was already too late.

The Deathclaw crashed into them with the force of a battering ram, sending several armored drakonids hurtling through the air like broken dolls. Those unfortunate enough to stand in its path were either crushed underfoot or torn apart by its razor-sharp talons.

Screams filled the battlefield. Yet, in the midst of this chaos, Wayne vanished.

One moment, he was standing atop Onyxia, his sword still drenched in her blood—

The next, he was gone, his shadow flickering like a ghost. Before anyone could react, he reappeared mid-air, standing atop the smaller black dragon that had just swooped in.

This one was less than fifty meters long, a younger descendant of the Black Dragonflight, barely into adulthood.

Once, he had been infatuated with Onyxia, obsessed with proving himself worthy of her favor—a loyal hound, blindly devoted to her cause.

For centuries, he had fought for her, schemed for her, believing that if he was loyal enough, if he pleased her, she might one day grant him the honor of becoming her consort.

Now, his dreams ended with a single swing of a blade.

Wayne's golden lightsaber, now extending dozens of meters, shimmered like a divine executioner's scythe.

With a single sweeping arc, the weapon sliced clean through the dragon's thick neck, cutting through scale, sinew, and bone as if they were paper.

A wet, sickening crack rang through the air.

The young black dragon's severed head spiraled downward, hitting the ground with a resounding thud, before rolling several meters across the blood-soaked battlefield.

The headless corpse, still mid-flight, jerked violently as life abandoned it—

Then crashed, slamming into the mangled earth of the back garden. Its massive body tumbled uncontrollably, gouging deep trenches in the ground before finally coming to a halt in an undignified heap.

The entire battlefield froze.

Even the remaining black dragons, who had boldly soared forward, suddenly halted mid-air, their amber eyes widening in stunned horror.

A dragon had just been executed—effortlessly. No glorious battle. No desperate struggle. Just a single swing of the sword—

And a dragon was gone.

Even Onyxia—the Black Dragon Princess herself—stared in disbelief. She had lived for millennia, had seen countless warriors attempt to challenge the might of dragons—and fail.

And yet, this one man, this "mortal", had just beheaded a black dragon as easily as one might slice through parchment.

If Wayne could do that to a dragon,

What could he do to her?

The two remaining dragons, far more experienced than their fallen kin, immediately assessed the situation. They had thought their massive forms would be an advantage—but against an enemy like Wayne, their size was a liability.

He was too fast.

His blade was too strong.

Their massive bodies were easy targets for his lethal swordplay.

Realizing this, they made a split-second decision.

Their massive wings beat the air, sending out torrential gusts of wind. Then, in an instant, they shifted forms, their colossal draconic figures shrinking and twisting as they reverted into their human disguises.

Now in humanoid form, they blended seamlessly into the ranks of the drakonid warriors, using them as shields.

Their centuries of experience had taught them one undeniable truth. The battlefield is no place for a dragon to be slain. They would strike again—but not here, not now.

Wayne stood alone in the ruined back garden, his sword still glowing with the blood of dragons, his cold gaze locking onto the remaining enemies.

For the humans present—Mathias Shaw of SI:7 and Highlord Bolvar Fordragon, who had only just emerged from the collapsed banquet hall, the situation had become painfully clear.

They now held the advantage. More importantly, they had an unexpected force of destruction on their side—Wayne.

There was no need for hesitation or orders—both Shaw and Bolvar acted on instinct.

Shaw, ever the master tactician, immediately rallied his SI:7 operatives, swiftly dispatching orders to secure the battlefield and cut off any escape routes. Bolvar, despite his initial shock, took immediate command of Stormwind's elite guards, who rushed forward to engage the drakonid warriors in brutal melee combat.

Outside the mansion, the chaos had spread.

The clergy from the Cathedral of Light, the hired adventurers, and SI:7's hidden operatives had all sensed the severity of the situation. Without waiting for further instructions, they moved swiftly into action:

Priests and paladins rushed in to heal the wounded and bolster the defenders. Adventurers, sensing an opportunity for glory and riches, poured into the fight with reckless abandon. Rogue operatives of SI:7 melted into the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike from behind enemy lines.

Despite the urgency of their tasks, there was one undeniable truth:

Wayne was the spearhead of this battle.

The two remaining black dragons, now in their humanoid forms, had abandoned brute force.

Instead, they had shifted tactics, weaving deadly incantations and hurling devastating spells from behind a wall of loyal drakonid warriors.

Fel-infused firestorms scorched the battlefield. Dark tendrils of shadow magic lashed out, seeking to ensnare their foes. Ruptures of molten earth erupted beneath Wayne's feet, each aimed to break his momentum.

Yet, none of it mattered. Wayne danced through the carnage.

With a flick of his wrist, he conjured Witcher Signs, erecting magical barriers to deflect incoming attacks. With a step, his form flickered like a ghost, his teleportation leaving afterimages in his wake. With each strike of his sword, the air itself trembled, leaving behind glowing arcs of golden light.

To the battle-weary eyes of the Stormwind defenders, the sight was unbelievable—

A lone adventurer, effortlessly weaving through magic and steel, his every movement a calculated execution.

It was not a battle. It was a massacre.

The drakonid warriors, born and bred to serve the Black Dragonflight, fought with unyielding ferocity.

They knew no fear. They would lay down their lives for Onyxia without a second thought.

But even their unyielding resolve meant nothing in the face of Wayne's absolute carnage. Every time he reappeared, another drakonid fell.

Their massive, scaled bodies were torn apart—limbs severed, torsos eviscerated, heads rolling across blood-soaked cobblestones.

He was a whirlwind of steel and magic, a living harbinger of destruction. Even the two black dragon spellcasters, their pride and arrogance as ancient beings, had now turned to pure, unrestrained fear.

They had seen countless warriors challenge the Black Dragonflight. They had crushed armies under their claws. And yet, this lone human was hunting them down as if they were vermin.

Desperation seeped into their every move. They attempted to retreat, to regroup, to find a weakness in Wayne's onslaught—

But he never gave them the chance. To the onlookers, the once-mighty black dragons, feared across Azeroth, were now scrambling like terrified prey before an apex predator.

From his vantage point, Mathias Shaw, the commander of SI:7, watched in silence. He had expected Wayne to be a capable warrior—Perhaps stronger than Van Cleef, perhaps even a match for a seasoned knight.

But this? This was beyond comprehension.

Wayne hadn't just uncovered the conspiracy. He hadn't just exposed Onyxia's deception. He had single-handedly begun the extermination of the Black Dragonflight's presence in Stormwind.

And he had done so without consulting SI:7 or the royal court. For all of Shaw's careful planning, for all of Stormwind's political games, Wayne had simply walked in and executed the problem.

It was unbelievable. It was terrifying.

For the first time, Mathias Shaw wasn't sure if Wayne's presence was a blessing—or a curse—for Stormwind.