Plan

Another half-year slinked by as Galen luxuriated in the sweet chaos of domestic bliss—wife, kids, and exactly three dozen toys lodged into his royal boots. But while he enjoyed family life, his desk turned into a mountain of intelligence reports, diplomatic scrolls, and one suspiciously chewed crayon drawing labeled "DADDY VS MONSTERS."

First up: Vol'dun—the land of muddy dreams and freedom-loving rogues. The core of Free Town had been completed, a rough-and-tumble paradise of drunk carpenters, retired mercenaries, and aspiring tavern tycoons. Its outer districts were still spreading like spilled grog, and the news had already started attracting all manner of South Sea pirates. You know the type: loud, smelly, and with more rum than sense. They're coming ashore, drawn by whispers of gold, glory, and absolutely no taxes.

But that was small fries. The real fireworks were happening on the troll front—Zandalar was boiling.

The border was ablaze in war. The strongholds of Nazmir? Obliterated. Flattened. Smoked like fish on troll BBQ night. Even the turtle Loa, Torga, had bitten the dust—rolled on his back and waved goodbye to the mortal coil. A real shame too; that Loa soul was juicy. Divine. Totally collectible.

Galen remembered him from the Battle for Azeroth days. The slow, wise turtle Loa with his own temple in Nazmir. Of course, in hindsight, building a temple in a swamp full of crazy blood trolls was a terrible idea. Death was basically penciled into his calendar from the start.

Nazmir had always been a cursed patch of mud. It was the ancient cradle of Zandalari civilization—until someone, in their infinite wisdom, built Uldir, a prison for the artificial Old God, G'huun. Naturally, the moment the seal started glitching, the whole zone went from "historic marvel" to "tentacled hellscape." G'huun's psychic garbage started leaking out like bad wine from a cracked barrel. And who slurped it up first?

Blood trolls.

These fanatics made the average cultist look like a tea-sipping grandma. They worshipped G'huun with all the subtlety of a machete, bringing destruction and insanity wherever they went. The Zandalari tried to fight them off—spoiler alert: they failed. Their capital was overrun, their pride shattered, and they were forced to retreat south to Zuldazar with a firm "Nope!" and a border wall.

In the original timeline, things got spicy during the Cataclysm. The Zandalari trolls tried to pull a fast one and restore their empire while the world was still recovering. The Alliance and Horde collectively said "Not today," and stuffed Zul, their charismatic cult leader, into Stormwind Prison for eight years.

But oh, how times have changed.

Zul is back. And this time, he's playing 5D chess. No more lone wolf moves. He's forged an unholy trinity with the Twilight Cult and the blood trolls—three terrifying flavors of insanity, now working together to plunge Zandalar into complete pandemonium.

With Torga dead, and the seal of Atul'Aman damaged thanks to the rise of the Unraveler, the final barrier to G'huun's release is hanging by a thread. The whispering has gotten louder. The skies over Nazmir pulse with the red hue of madness. If Galen had a gold coin for every apocalypse in progress, he'd be rich enough to retire somewhere that wasn't constantly under siege.

And if that weren't enough, the dragon situation had devolved into full-blown kaiju warfare.

The Twilight Dragon Legion had launched yet another assault on Wyrmrest Temple. Only this time, they didn't just bring energy-sucking abominations—they unleashed the whole damn rainbow. Two-headed dragons, three-headed dragons, maybe even a five-headed monstrosity someone named "Steve." The battlefield? The Dragonbone Wasteland—and let's just say it was very appropriately named now.

The conflict was so intense, the poor walruses of Moa'ki Port and the yakfolk of Icemist Village packed up their snowboots and stampeded to the Borean Tundra, mumbling about "peace" and "not being crushed by falling sky-lizards."

Despite their ancient power and shiny scales, the Guardian Dragons were getting trounced. For all their numbers and unity, the chromatic and Twilight dragons were like living cheat codes—fast, vicious, and very hard to kill. Galen was already betting that the Guardian Dragons would soon come knocking on the Alliance's door, holding out a sign that said, "HELP US, YOU'RE OUR ONLY HOPE."

Meanwhile, Enzoth was sitting somewhere deep in the Void, sipping cosmic tea, having played almost all his cards. He'd triggered a world-spanning game of madness-chess. Galen's part? Just wait. Wait for it all to unravel.

But of course, fate had a different idea.

The next piece of news didn't come from dragons. It came from Zandalar—and it hit like a hammer to the face.

God-King Rastakhan had been assassinated.

Hissssss! Galen's jaw dropped. Zul was moving fast. Too fast.

This wasn't part of the plan. Thranduil wasn't ready yet. Preparations were incomplete. Galen had expected fireworks... but not a full-blown troll civil war on speed.

Abandoning his paperwork mid-scroll and muttering a few very creative curses, Galen grabbed his gear and made for the one place where death was only the beginning: Bwonsamdi's Underworld Palace.

Because when trolls start dying in droves, and Loa gods get nervous, and ancient prisons start cracking... you don't wait. You run.