Empty

But—the Titan prison, which should have been overflowing with eldritch nastiness, was as empty as a goblin's promise.

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!" Azshara's voice, usually a silken caress, became a sonic shriek of pure, unadulterated fury. She had come for vengeance, for the glorious, tentacle-shredding satisfaction of it all, only to find… nothing. Not a single squelching Old God, not even a stray eyeball. The audacity!

"Patience, Your Majesty," Galen murmured, his tone so soothing it could probably calm a rampaging kodo. And, to everyone's utter astonishment, the notoriously proud, vengeance-obsessed queen actually held her temper, waiting for his explanation. Clearly, Galen had mastered the ancient art of "flattery for the win."

"As the most powerful sorceress of Azeroth," Galen continued, laying it on thick, "surely you sense the anchored spatial node within this… rather spacious, yet utterly vacant, prison?"

N'Zoth, the cosmic equivalent of that one sneaky sibling who always cheats at board games, was indeed the weakest of the Old Gods. But also, infuriatingly, the most cunning. While C'Thun and Yogg-Saron had spent millennia senselessly, brutally assaulting their bonds like a pair of particularly dim-witted ogres, N'Zoth had been busy. Oh, so very busy. He'd crafted an entire pocket dimension within his prison—a little slice of Void-infused hell called Ny'alotha. Think of it as a cosmic panic room, but with more tentacles.

From intel gleaned from the Old God emissary (who, let's be honest, probably spilled the beans after a particularly intense tickle torture session), Galen had deduced N'Zoth's master plan. And it was chef's kiss devious:

Ny'alotha served as a Void stronghold, a grotesque breeding ground for faceless ones (because who doesn't need more horrifying, squelching minions?) and a cosmic power-up station. It was a bridge between Azeroth and the Void, allowing N'Zoth to consume the world-soul and finally fulfill the Void Lords' mandate, which, in layman's terms, was "make everything miserable and tentacle-y."

But Galen, ever the spoilsport, had systematically dismantled N'Zoth's forces, pushing them back into Ny'alotha. He'd turned the hunted into the hunter, the cosmic predator into the cosmic prey. It was like N'Zoth had meticulously built a magnificent mousetrap, only for Galen to casually walk in, eat the cheese, and then use the trap to catch N'Zoth himself.

Azshara closed her eyes, her regal brow furrowing as she sensed the spatial fluctuations. Her head tilted, a faint, almost imperceptible nod. "Clever, for an Old God," she conceded, which, coming from her, was practically a standing ovation.

Galen turned to Velen, who looked like he'd just remembered he left the oven on. "Prophet," Galen began, "can your Tracing Magic still locate the anchor? The one N'Zoth so cleverly hid?"

The Draenei's forehead glowed with a Holy sigil, radiating a faint, comforting warmth. "Yes," Velen confirmed, looking slightly pained. "But space is not precisely my expertise. I'm more of a 'divine healing and occasional prophecy' kind of guy."

"No matter," Galen declared, already anticipating the next move. "We have Her Majesty." Galen had originally planned to borrow Gandalf's spatial mastery (if he wasn't busy with hobbits) or Malygos's (if he wasn't busy being dead), but a well-placed compliment about Azshara's unparalleled sorcerous prowess had the proud queen practically preening, eager to take charge. Vanity, it turns out, is a powerful motivator, even for ancient, vengeful empresses.

"Begin, outlander," Azshara commanded, her voice now back to its usual imperious purr, as if she hadn't just thrown a cosmic tantrum.

Velen, with the precision of a celestial GPS, locked onto the coordinates, his forehead pulsing with divine light. Simultaneously, Azshara, with a dramatic flourish that would make a stage magician weep with envy, wrenched open a rift. A dark light pulsed in the air, expanding into rippling black waves—a black so deep it shimmered with impossible colors, like a void-flavored oil slick.

Then—a golden eye, impossibly vast and filled with cosmic annoyance, formed within the swirling Void. N'Zoth had noticed them. And he was clearly not happy about the unexpected houseguests.

"COME! MORTALS! FACE THE VOID!" N'Zoth's voice boomed, a mental assault that sounded suspiciously like a supervillain trying to sound menacing while simultaneously having a bad case of cosmic indigestion. It washed over them, a tide of despair and tentacles, but Galen's forces, having been thoroughly Light-bathed, were immune. They simply blinked, unfazed, as if N'Zoth was just a particularly loud, annoying gnat.

"As you wish, monster!" Galen shouted back, probably just to be contrary. With Azshara's full, terrifying power, the rift stabilized into a massive, watery portal, shimmering like a very uninviting swimming pool.

Then—a ten-meter-tall faceless one, all teeth and squelching appendages, charged through. Then another. And another. And another. A tide of Void horrors surged forth, like a particularly aggressive, tentacled flash mob.

The First Wave

Uther's eyes, usually radiating calm wisdom, now burned with a righteous fury that could melt steel. "FOR AZEROTH!" he bellowed, sounding less like a Highlord and more like a very angry, very shiny football coach. The Lightforged paladin led the charge, his hammer blazing with Holy fire, ready to smite anything that even looked vaguely squelchy.

Gavinrad followed, Truthguard—the legendary shield—ricocheting between foes with the enthusiasm of a golden pinball, scattering golden flashes and stunned faceless ones in its wake. Under Maraad's booming command, the paladins formed a wedge, a gleaming, unstoppable force that smashed through the faceless ranks like a divine bulldozer. Black tentacles and foul, iridescent blood littered the ground, turning the pristine Titan chamber into a rather disgusting abstract painting.

Azshara, who had been watching Galen and Velen hold back with an air of bored superiority, unexpectedly decided to join the fray. The Queen of the Naga strode forward, her bare feet untouched by the gore, as if walking on a red carpet made of vanquished horrors. A golden scepter—Anu-Azshara, the Eternal Staff—materialized in her grasp with a theatrical shimmer. With a flick of her wrist, Arcane missiles, each one a miniature supernova, shredded faceless ones like particularly annoying paper dolls. Her precision was terrifying; she could cast without breaking stride, a feat few mages, even the most arrogant, could match. She was basically a walking, talking, magical artillery piece.

Then—

A colossal obsidian destroyer, looking like a very angry, very large rock golem, leaped from the portal, smashing Uther and Gavinrad aside with the casual force of a child swatting flies.

"MAGIC… CONSUME!" it roared, its voice a grinding cacophony of stone and malice. The obsidian monstrosity fixated on Azshara, its jagged claws reaching for her with murderous intent.

She merely waved her staff, a gesture of utter disdain. The destroyer vanished, not with a bang, but with a pop, banished into an ancient 结界—a bubble of compressed time and space. It was like being shoved into a very small, very unpleasant cosmic microwave. The destroyer's form cracked, chunks of stone peeling away as if it were a very old, very angry onion.

Then—

A massive tentacle, thick as a redwood and smelling vaguely of despair and old socks, SLAMMED down, crushing a dozen paladins instantly. Azshara, however, blinked away, utterly unscathed, reappearing a few feet away with a look of mild annoyance.

"Betrayal?" She sneered, her voice dripping with venom. "A contract signed under duress is no true pact! And I will KILL YOU for it, you overgrown SQUID!"

Frost surged from her staff, encasing the offending tentacle in a shimmering prison of ice. "Lightforged Naga! With me!" she commanded, and a thousand gleaming naga warriors, looking like very angry, very wet, and very shiny snakes, charged, following Azshara into the portal. They were clearly ready to show N'Zoth what happens when you mess with their queen.

Galen and Velen exchanged a glance that clearly said, "Well, that escalated quickly," then stepped through the shimmering portal.

Ny'alotha—the Waking City. It was less a city and more a cosmic nightmare made manifest. Once the capital of N'Zoth's Black Empire, destroyed by the Titans (who clearly didn't finish the job), it had been painstakingly rebuilt over millennia, presumably by very patient, very tentacled architects.

The air was thick with Void energy, so palpable it felt like breathing slime. The sky was a dark crimson, pulsating like a diseased heart. Spiked tendrils coiled around obsidian spires that scraped the blood-red heavens, and countless faceless ones and Aqir swarmed the streets, looking like a particularly unpleasant rush hour.

"Foolish mortals! You dare invade my domain?" N'Zoth's voice boomed, his gigantic eye forming in the sky, looking down with the disdain of a landlord whose tenants are late on rent.

"Drown in the tide!" he roared, and more horrors poured forth, including demigod-tier faceless generals and Aqir overlords who looked like they'd just rolled out of bed, ready to conquer.

"Shield wall! NOW!" Uther bellowed, his voice still surprisingly strong despite being flattened by an obsidian golem moments before.

Maraad raised his Tome of Divinity, and Holy auras flared, bathing the army in a golden glow. Blessings cascaded over the paladins like a divine waterfall: Kings, Might, Wisdom, Devotion, Swift Retribution. The paladins held firm, a gleaming, unyielding wall against the tide, repelling wave after wave of squelching, tentacled doom.

But the numbers were staggering. It was like trying to hold back an ocean with a very enthusiastic sieve.

"A few thousand against my legions?" N'Zoth mocked, his voice echoing with cosmic amusement. "The Light cannot save you! You're outnumbered, outmatched, and frankly, a little underdressed for this apocalypse!"

A tentacle, the size of a small skyscraper, CRASHED toward them—

Velen's barrier flared, encasing the entire force in a shimmering golden dome. "Well timed, Prophet!" Galen grinned, looking far too cheerful for someone in the heart of a cosmic horror's lair.

Velen's expression was grim, however. "The Void here is… overwhelming," he admitted, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. "It's like standing in the heart of the Void Lords' realm. And it smells like regret and bad decisions."

Galen nodded. "Because Ny'alotha isn't just a city—it's a pocket dimension, like the Elemental Planes. N'Zoth didn't just build a city; he became the city. He invested his very essence into this realm, making it an extension of his will. So, to kill him, we don't just need to destroy his body; we need to obliterate his consciousness, his very cosmic Wi-Fi signal."

"We've underestimated him," Velen admitted, looking around at the endless tide of horrors. "We don't have enough forces. We needed more paladins, more priests, maybe a few dozen very angry gnomes."

Galen gripped Ashbringer, its blade igniting with Holy fire, casting a defiant glow against the crimson sky. "Then we'll just have to improvise," he said, a dangerous glint in his eye. "And by 'improvise,' I mean 'punch a god in the face until he stops being a god.'"