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Rastakhan had officially joined the Heart of Origin—and like all the card-carrying members of a secret society with too much free time and way too many visions, he now saw way too much. The veil had been lifted. The shadows behind the shadows were now glaringly obvious. Zul's betrayal? Please. Obvious in hindsight.

Yamaz, that oh-so-pious Shadrad priestess, hadn't just "lost her way"—she'd hopped on the crazy train headed straight for Zul because her Loa, the spider goddess she worshipped, had already changed divine allegiances and gone full Amani-Holy-Spirit-Sect. The poor woman didn't hear voices anymore, so naturally, she chose power over prayer and joined Team Betrayal to stay relevant.

But the real kicker? Rastakhan, through the Heart of Origin's spiritual Wi-Fi, had seen the end credits of his own movie in the original timeline. Spoiler alert: It sucked.

Just like this moment, Zul stuck the knife in his back—metaphorically and probably literally. Rezan, his noble Loa, kicked the bucket thanks to some conveniently timed "conspiracy." Rastakhan, desperate and depowered, ended up shaking hands (and signing contracts) with that ever-slimy Bwonsamdi just to get back on his feet—only to get gang-beaten into troll paste by the Alliance at the Battle of Darosa. Glorious, right?

But lo and behold, the Great Overlord came in like a cosmic screenwriter, did a rewrite on the timeline—and suddenly Zandalar was spiraling into drama ten years early. Butterflies flapped somewhere, and Zul stabbed him faster this time. Talk about premature betrayal.

Rastakhan couldn't help but roast his own people. "Trolls, man," he thought. "We've got sky-ships and god-blood, but no one thought to update the prophecy department?" The Zanchuli Council still treated Zul's prophecies like holy scripture. Problem was—Zul wasn't even seeing the new script. He was playing 4D chess with last season's rulebook.

Following the prophecy of a man who can't see the future is like using a royal decree from the last dynasty to fire people from the new one. Ludicrous. Doomed. And if Rastakhan didn't rewrite this story, who would?

He was confident now. He'd seen the script. He was the script. He had plot armor!

Then Zolani returned, stomping in with her trademark hurricane-of-seriousness expression and a captured warship to match. "Your Majesty! We searched the captain's room and found confidential scrolls. That snake Zul plans to sacrifice the gods! His target is His Majesty Loa Rezan, Guardian of Kings!"

Rastakhan didn't even flinch. Of course that was the plan. He waved off the drama like he'd heard someone whine about taxes. "Let's go. Gather everyone. We're storming the temple."

But just as they rallied their troops—AWWOOOOOO!

A soul-piercing, bone-rattling howl ripped through the fishing village like a banshee on fire. Rastakhan's eyes widened. He knew that voice. Rezan. His Loa was wailing.

"MY GOD IS CRYING!" he shouted, fire roaring in his chest. "ZUL, YOU TREASONOUS TOAD, YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS IN SOULS!"

He had just finished imagining a diplomatic balance between the three troll powers, and now some upstart was sacrificing his top god? This was an assassination of his divine roots. Rezan might not have been the smartest loa—probably couldn't solve a crossword puzzle if it were written in roars—but he was loyal, generous, and gave Rastakhan more divine perks than a platinum-tier subscriber.

No way was he going to let Zul rip that away. Not again. He knew what came next: a deal with Bwonsamdi, the creepiest deity with the smoothest tongue. But Bwonsamdi was like a cat—you never really owned him. At the worst moment, he'd vanish and leave you with nothing but debt and regret.

So Rastakhan did what any self-respecting undead-bound king would do—he rushed with a thousand golden guards, covering a day's march in half the time, fueled by divine rage and dramatic urgency.

When they arrived at Rezan's temple, the sight was a nightmare—priests nailed to the marble like grim decorations, spears through their chests, standard issue Zandalari weapons turned traitorous.

"The temple has fallen!" someone cried.

Rastakhan felt his blood boil. Through the faint link of his Loa-bond, Rezan called out to him with desperate energy.

"Zolani!" Rastakhan bellowed. "My blade in the dark! Slaughter these heretics and reclaim our temple!"

He unsheathed a dagger from his waist—Rezan's Final Fang. It gleamed with a light that whispered murder and vengeance. This wasn't just a weapon; this was the soul of a god made sharp.

The golden guards charged like they had demon-blood in their veins. Their king was watching, and Zul's army folded faster than bad origami.

Inside, the temple—well, "temple" was generous. It was more like a dinosaur Loa zoo, or a breeding ground for hell-lizards. Rezan's kin, the Devil's Rexes, had once stomped their enemies in Pandaria with names like Thok and Udasta. Today, however, the younger beasts were just scratching posts without daddy's divine juju.

The statue of Rezan—once majestic—was defiled, corrupted by Zul's blasphemous magic. Zul knew exactly what he was doing. Troll gods needed worship to survive. And idols were like power banks. Corrupt one, and the god weakens.

Rastakhan commanded the guards to smash the heretic totems, cleanse the rot, and followed the trail left by Zolani deeper into the sanctuary.

What he found made his royal jaw drop: Mogu. Mogu! The stone-fisted tyrants of Pandaria. Except these weren't the ones that had surrendered to Qingyu. No, these were leftovers, zealots still swearing loyalty to the Thundergod.

Their barriers could bounce back spells, but Zolani and the guards didn't bring spells—they brought swords. The Mogu were cleared out like yesterday's garbage.

Leaving the guards behind, Rastakhan marched alone to the heart of the lair.

There he saw him—Rezan. Shackled by four dark, enchanted chains. In the center of the chamber lay a Zandalari corpse—Zul's handpicked lackey—chosen as the "vessel" to absorb Rezan's divine mojo. The audacity!

If Rastakhan had been even a few minutes later, Rezan would've been turned into a divine smoothie and chugged by that corpse like a Loa protein shake.

"Little king..." came a voice, weak but furious.

Rezan's massive head lifted. "You finally made it. Untie me so I can rip these heretics into troll kibble with my own teeth!"

Rastakhan didn't answer. He just reached into his robe, pulled out a glowing scroll—a return spell to Minas Tirith—and muttered under his breath:

"Y'all didn't think I came here without a backup plan, did you?"