So What?

"Hmph! So what if you have an endless tide of faceless and Aqir?" Galen scoffed, a casual, almost bored expression on his face. "I've got my own army! And mine doesn't smell like week-old calamari!" His relaxed demeanor, despite being trapped in a cosmic horror's personal hell, was unnerving. Velen's Holy barrier, shimmering like a very expensive, very stressed force field, was holding strong—for now. But Galen wasn't worried. He was merely pre-gaming.

He dove into his consciousness, entering the mental network of his most powerful allies. It was less a strategic meeting and more a very exclusive, very chaotic group chat.

"The Great Lord himself, gracing us with his presence?" A white-bearded wizard's teasing voice echoed, sounding suspiciously like he'd just woken up from a very good nap. "Did you finally run out of divine hair gel, Galen?"

"Gandalf, show some respect!" A golden-haired elf chimed in, though his tone was anything but serious. "I bet he's here because he's in trouble. Again. Probably forgot his keys to the universe."

A towering Titan Keeper, looking like a very annoyed mountain, rumbled, "N'Zoth may be the weakest Old God, but that doesn't make him easy to kill. He's like a particularly stubborn cosmic fungus."

Another Titan Keeper, dark-skinned and stern, added, "I was the one who imprisoned him. His prison was flawless—until the Sundering shattered it. I blame the architects."

A brass-colored gnome, clearly still holding a grudge, piped up indignantly, "My mechanisms were perfect! If anything failed, it was Loken's magic! That slacker! He always cut corners!"

Galen cleared his throat, a sound that usually meant "pay attention, I'm about to drop some wisdom." "Ahem. Yes, we've hit a snag. A rather tentacle-y snag, if you will."

"I thought 5,000 elite paladins, glowing like very angry Christmas trees, would be enough to storm Ny'alotha. Turns out, we're stuck at the gates, swarmed by faceless ones and Aqir. It's less a glorious invasion and more a very sticky traffic jam."

"Aqir?!" A mantid warrior perked up, practically vibrating with excitement. "The Klaxxi will purge them for you, master! We've been itching for a good bug hunt!"

"The nerubians stand ready!" A voice from deep underground echoed, sounding like a thousand tiny claws rubbing together.

"The Qiraji swarm hungers for battle!" A chorus of chitinous clicks joined in, clearly eager to join the buffet.

Even Hogger, the perpetually hungry gnoll, and the entire tauren federation eagerly volunteered, probably hoping for a good snack after the fighting.

But Galen wasn't satisfied. "Too weak," he muttered to himself, ignoring the mental pouts. Without the Heart of Origins' protection, most of these eager volunteers would succumb to the Void the moment they stepped into Ny'alotha. It would be less an army and more a very expensive, very squishy pile of goo.

So, Galen called in the really big guns. The ones that made cosmic horrors wet their… well, whatever cosmic horrors wet.

"Gandalf! Stop polishing that staff and bring the Tidal Legion! Tell Neptulon it's time for a deep-sea fishing trip, and the fish are evil!"

"Durin! Stop playing king in Shadowforge City—hand the throne to your very capable wife and lead the Stoneguard here! We need dwarves who can hit things really hard!"

"Thalendril! Leave Uldum and bring the Crimson Host! Tell them there's a sale on Void-infused abominations!"

"Grommash! You and Garrosh—bring the Honor Guard! And try not to argue about who gets the biggest axe this time!"

After a dramatic pause, he added, "Nefarian, Tichondrius—bring the Golden Dragons and the Lightforged Nathrezim. And try not to look too smug about it."

"As you command!" Nefarian's voice crackled with barely contained glee.

"+1!" Tichondrius added, proving that even ancient demons could be surprisingly concise.

"+1!" Sabellian chimed in, just to be part of the cool kids' club.

The Golden Dragons would secure the skies, turning the crimson heavens into a dazzling, gold-plated aerial assault zone, while the Lightforged Dreadlords, looking like very sophisticated, very glowy vampires, would track N'Zoth's soul with the precision of a bloodhound on a scent.

With his orders given, Galen returned to reality, a faint, mischievous grin on his face. "Spread out!" he commanded, and the paladins, having been mentally briefed, instantly repositioned, forming a loose, but highly effective, formation. Uther, Aragorn, and the other champions took key positions, their heads glowing with radiant sigils that probably doubled as "do not disturb" signs for cosmic corruption.

N'Zoth, whose gigantic eye was still hovering in the sky like a very angry, very judgmental moon, sensed the danger. "DROWN THEM ALL!" he shrieked, his voice laced with the desperation of a villain whose plan is rapidly unraveling. The faceless and Aqir surged forward, a black tide of madness, screaming their squelchy war cries.

BOOM!

Velen's barrier, having heroically absorbed more cosmic punishment than a celestial punching bag, shattered under the charge of a two-headed Void hound that looked like it had escaped from a very bad kennel. The paladins braced for impact—a moment of grim acceptance before the inevitable squishing.

Then—

Light erupted from the sky. Not just light, but glorious, blinding, utterly overwhelming light. Reinforcements had arrived, and they were fabulous.

Heavy infantry in gleaming, utterly impractical white-and-red armor, looking like they'd just stepped out of a divine fashion show. Elven archers in crimson cloaks, nocking arrows that shimmered with arcane energy, ready to turn tentacles into pincushions. Bare-chested orcs, their bodies etched with golden runes, looking like a cosmic boy band ready to drop the hottest new album of destruction. And finally, the Golden Dragons themselves, their colossal wings blotting out the crimson sky, turning N'Zoth's personal hell into a rather shiny, very uncomfortable disco.

"Let's see who has more minions now, N'Zoth, you overgrown squid!" Galen grinned, his voice echoing with triumphant glee.

"CRUSADE! ATTACK!"

No fancy tactics. No micro-management. No complicated battle plans. Just sheer, unadulterated, Light-infused numbers. Gold clashed with purple-black, the roar of battle shaking Ny'alotha to its very corrupted foundations. It was less a battle and more a very aggressive, very one-sided demolition derby.

N'Zoth's gigantic eye, still floating in the sky, trembled with a fury so intense it probably registered on seismic sensors across Azeroth. "FOOLS! You dare bring mortal armies into my domain?! Don't you know how much I hate glitter?!"

His whispers, usually a potent weapon that could drive mortals to madness, lashed out, trying to corrupt the invaders' minds—

But nothing happened. The paladins just kept smiting, the orcs kept roaring, the elves kept shooting, and the dragons kept breathing fire. They were utterly, gloriously, maddeningly immune.

"Impossible! Their souls… they're shielded! What kind of cosmic cheat code is this?!" For the first time in millennia, N'Zoth's most potent weapon, his insidious mind-games, had utterly, spectacularly failed. He was probably having a cosmic meltdown.

"Face your doom, N'Zoth!" Galen drew Ashbringer, its blade igniting with Holy fire, looking less like a sword and more like a very angry, very divine chainsaw. With a casual flick of his wrist, he unleashed a crescent of Holy fire that sliced the massive eye in half. Black blood rained down, empowering nearby faceless ones, turning them into slightly angrier faceless ones, but still, just faceless ones.

But Galen felt it—N'Zoth was still watching. Still lurking. Still being a general nuisance.

"Prophet, can you sense him? Is he still trying to be a creepy voyeur?"

Velen, looking slightly nauseous from the sheer amount of Void energy, pointed toward a black pyramid in the city's heart. "He's… in there. Hiding like a particularly shy snail."

"That coward's hiding in a sub-realm!" Galen scoffed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I've never seen someone this paranoid! Does he have a bunker for his bunker?!"

Velen gave him a sideways glance, clearly holding back a comment about Galen's own meticulous, bordering on obsessive, planning.

With 30,000 elite troops now flooding Ny'alotha, turning the nightmare city into a very crowded, very painful mosh pit, the tide had decisively turned.

Gandalf, looking rather pleased with himself, breached the gates, probably with a dramatic "You shall not pass... unless you're with me!" Durin and Aragorn flanked the enemy, a whirlwind of axes and swords. Thalendril and the Golden Dragons rained fire from above, turning large swathes of the city into smoking craters. Half the city had fallen, the Crusade pushing toward the pyramid with the unstoppable force of a very determined stampede.

But N'Zoth's lieutenants—Dark Inquisitor Xanesh, Ignaeus, and Drest'agath—were nowhere to be seen. "He's stalling," Galen realized, a frown creasing his brow. "He's probably trying to find his cosmic car keys."

"Lightforged Nathrezim! Find him!" The golden dreadlords, with a collective poof of glitter, dissolved into bats, scouring the city like very efficient, very shiny demonic vacuum cleaners.

Galen marched forward, his path littered with faceless corpses, each one a testament to the sheer, overwhelming power of his army. At the pyramid's base, he found Gandalf and Thalendril unleashing elemental devastation, looking like they were having the time of their lives.

Blizzards froze the flesh-mountains into grotesque ice sculptures. Infernos reduced them to ash, leaving behind only the faint smell of burnt despair.

N'Zoth's voice, now a slithering, desperate whisper, wormed its way into Galen's mind. "You… have come… to witness… your doom…"

"To kill you," Galen replied, his voice flat and unimpressed. "Get on with it."

"The Light… is not what you think… The Naaru… they… have secrets… dark secrets…" N'Zoth tried, clearly attempting to sow discord.

Galen frowned. "Get to the point. My attention span is limited when I'm fighting a god."

"The Void… can grant you power… eternal power… beyond your wildest dreams… just touch the tentacles… feel the embrace…"

"Tempting," Galen mused, wiping a bit of drool from his chin, playing along. The Necklace of Azeroth's Heart pulsed warningly, practically screaming, "Don't you dare!"

"But no," Galen said, his voice firm. "I'm good. I've got enough power, thanks." He raised Ashbringer, its blade melting into pure Holy fire, looking like a sword made of solidified sunshine.

"Your end is now, N'Zoth. And it's going to be spectacular." He hurled the flaming sword—

BOOM!

The pyramid's peak exploded in a shower of obsidian shrapnel and Void-infused smoke, billowing outwards like a very angry, very dark mushroom cloud. From the darkness, a monstrous figure emerged, looking less like a god and more like a very bad day at the seafood market.

N'Zoth's true form. A gargantuan faceless horror, its pincer claws dripping Void corruption, its body writhing with far too many eyes and tentacles. It was truly, magnificently, horrifyingly ugly.

"MORTALS… PERISH!" N'Zoth roared, sounding less like a cosmic entity and more like a very large, very angry toddler. Three Void cyclones erupted, swirling vortexes of pure annihilation, devouring entire squads of soldiers, leaving nothing but screams and a faint smell of ozone.

Gandalf and Thalendril gasped, their powerful spells shattered by the sheer backlash. The final battle had begun. And it was going to be loud.