Location

The path to the bottom floor of the temple looked like someone had let a Void-addled toddler loose with a brush and a thesaurus. Arcane symbols scrawled every which way, cryptic runes pulsed on the walls, and disturbing illustrations danced in and out of the shadows. And Galen? Galen was not impressed. His ears were being assaulted by an endless stream of deranged whispers—like a sleep-talking cultist with a throat full of gravel and daddy issues.

Fortunately, the Heart of Origin was humming softly at his chest, acting like noise-cancelling headphones from the Light itself. The words were garbled, just vague muttering now—like the Void was drunk at a dinner party, trying to sound deep but failing miserably.

Xal'atath, ever the melodramatic roommate trapped in Galen's knife, suddenly decided it was time for a soliloquy. "We're almost there. Be patient. When the moment comes, place the holy relics, channel their power, and begin the glorious ritual!" she chirped, sounding way too excited for someone who had spent millennia as a glorified paperweight.

Apparently feeling her freedom just around the corner, Xal'atath flipped from brooding silence to full-on TED Talk mode. "You know," she said with mock reverence, "when I first saw you, I thought, 'Wow. He's got protagonist energy.'"

Then she added with faux wisdom, "The end of one road is often the beginning of another. Isn't that just—"

"Baffling," Galen interrupted flatly, not even blinking.

Unknown to him, the Void-drenched chatterbox had been secretly tugging on the frayed edges of reality, whispering seductions to the ambient Void in a hopeless attempt to worm her way into his brain. But thanks to the Heart of Origin, Galen heard none of it. To him, it was just atmospheric static.

Xal'atath didn't realize she was wasting prime monologue material on someone who couldn't hear a word. Like a mime in a pitch-black cave.

Regardless, their awkward one-sided conversation brought them to the deepest chamber of the underground ruin—a cavern so steeped in Void magic it practically reeked of ancient evil and questionable life choices.

Following Xal'atath's instructions, Galen solemnly placed the three sacred artifacts in their marked positions like he was setting the table for the worst dinner party in history.

Then, with dramatic flair only an ancient eldritch being could summon, Xal'atath raised her voice:"Lord of the Abyss! Hear me! I bring you the Opener… He shall blaze the path of truth… the torch in the dark, the spoon in the soup!"(Okay, she didn't say the spoon part, but her tone screamed it.)

Her voice echoed as if the cavern itself held its breath. "Our pact is fulfilled! Now grant me my freedom, so I may finally begin my fabulous post-dagger era!"

Galen, still calm as ever under his Judgment hood, nodded. He understood the dagger's history—a sacrificial blade from the old Black Empire, likely seeded with Xal'atath's consciousness by N'Zoth himself. A clever failsafe. Ancient gods always loved their drama.

As the ritual crescendoed, a huge, horrifying, blood-red eye blossomed like a wound in the wall. It blinked once, slowly, taking in both Galen and the now-manifest Xal'atath.

Void-choked whispers slithered through the air:"You are free... but the dagger remains. It still has... purpose."

"A fair trade," Xal'atath purred, with a flick of her shadowy hand as the Blade of the Dark Empire floated toward the monstrous eye.

She then turned to Galen with a sly smile. "May the shadows guide you, dearest mortal. We will meet again. Maybe next time, you'll buy dinner."

Before Galen could respond or roll his eyes, she snapped open a void rift and yeeted herself into the abyss at a speed that would make a Hearthstone blush.

Galen just stood there, bemused. "No goodbye hug? Rude."

But under the mask, he smiled.

She could run. But as long as she was in Azeroth, she'd never escape The Hidden Blade.

And then... silence.

Until it wasn't.

N'Zoth's eye didn't vanish. Instead, it pivoted its baleful gaze fully onto Galen, a predator noticing its next chew toy."I saw your purpose in dreams, mortal... Receive my gift, and the truth shall be unveiled."

Before Galen could sass back, the world around him shattered like glass. A whirl of shadows, light, and metaphysical nausea later, he was no longer in the cave.

And there, right on his forehead, pulsing with eldritch smugness, was an eyeball-shaped diadem—N'Zoth's parting gift. The world's creepiest party favor.

Naturally, Galen didn't panic.

He tore open a teleportation scroll like it was a bad birthday card and instantly reappeared in Azshara, Kalimdor, in the newly constructed Draenei city of New Shattrath.

The Draenei had been busy. With the Genedar still gleaming in Desolace's peaks, they'd turned Storm Bay into a gleaming port city. Hope shimmered in the air. Perhaps one day, a new Karabor would rise.

When Galen appeared in the Aldor Temple, he barely had time to adjust his hood before a Draenei priest scurried off to alert Prophet Velen.

The old seer didn't waste time. He approached with gravitas and beard flowing like a shampoo commercial."Galen, I sense something foul clinging to you—an ancient will watches me through you."

Galen didn't blink. "Don't worry."

He plucked the Void-eye diadem from his head like it was a leech and zapped it with the Light. The eye twitched once, whimpered, and went dormant like a scolded puppy.

Then he extended it toward the Prophet.

"Brother Velen, your prophecies are second to none. Can you trace the source of this thing's power from its lingering connection?"

Velen stroked his beard like a philosopher-king about to drop a mixtape."Perhaps... With the Eye as a conduit, and the Soul Song as amplification, I may peer into the dark beyond."

This was exactly what Galen had hoped for.

Jaina had been scouring the seas for months looking for Nazjatar and Ny'alotha with all the success of a gnome in a foot race. If this worked, Galen would finally have a real lead.

Velen was nothing if not efficient. He gestured, muttered a word of power, and golden light cascaded over the temple walls. Holy images formed like animated tapestries.

Galen watched as a glowing map of Azeroth unfurled before him, detailed and pulsing with Light. Kalimdor, Eastern Kingdoms, Northrend, Pandaria, Zandalar, Kul Tiras—all familiar territory.

But then...

A shadow flickered.

First in the north of the Eastern Continent, then the east of Northrend.

What the...?

Galen narrowed his eyes.

Before he could question it, the map zoomed in with a divine whoosh—lock-on style—onto a seemingly unremarkable section of ocean in the east of the Endless Sea.

Then it pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

"Got you," Galen whispered, fists clenching with grim satisfaction.

N'Zoth and Azshara weren't hiding anymore.

Now the hunter knew exactly where to strike.