God Slain

The golden titan, a shimmering beacon of divine retribution, stood tall amidst the black rain, its massive form utterly untouched by the writhing Void tendrils. It was like watching a very large, very angry statue ignore a very messy spaghetti fight. Galen, meanwhile, dodged the corrosive pools of N'Zoth's internal fluids with the grace of a particularly agile dancer, his Strom'kar slicing through the grasping appendages with the ease of a hot knife through… well, through squishy, evil butter.

Reaching the right side of the cavern, which now resembled a very unpleasant, very organic abattoir, he raised the Necklace of Azeroth's Heart. Its blue-gold radiance pierced the oppressive darkness, looking like a tiny, very angry sun.

"Azeroth! It's time for vengeance! And maybe a little interior decorating!" Galen bellowed, his voice echoing with righteous fury.

The world-soul, clearly having had enough of N'Zoth's shenanigans, responded. A gentle yet resolute whisper echoed in his mind: "My power… is yours. Please, make it stop smelling like that."

"HAAAH!" The Lightforged Colossus's hands blazed, the necklace's energy surging, unbearably hot, like holding a supernova in your bare hands. "FEEL AZEROTH'S WRATH, YOU OVERGROWN PIMPLE!" A golden beam, thick as a tree trunk and radiating pure, unadulterated fury, erupted, colliding with N'Zoth's own shadowy blast.

BOOM!

The two forces clashed, light and void warring for dominance in a spectacular, universe-shaking explosion. It was less a battle and more a cosmic wrestling match, with reality as the ring. But Azeroth's fury, amplified by Galen's Holy Light, overwhelmed the Old God's defenses with the force of a divine tidal wave.

"NO! AZEROTH! YOU'RE CHEATING!" N'Zoth shrieked, his voice laced with the whine of a cosmic bully finally getting his comeuppance. The golden beam tore through N'Zoth's maw, precisely where Grommash's axe had struck, turning the Old God's face into a very large, very painful donut.

"THE VOID IS ETERNAL! TWILIGHT WILL CONSUME YOU—" N'Zoth began, trying to squeeze in one last villain monologue, but Galen was having none of it. The corruptor's body exploded in a truly magnificent display of cosmic gore, black ash raining down as his heart burst in a geyser of dark, foul blood.

Silence. A glorious, blessed, squelch-free silence. The last Old God was dead. And probably very, very annoyed.

With N'Zoth's demise, the Waking City, having lost its cosmic life support, began to crumble. Obelisks shattered with the sound of a thousand breaking promises. Walls collapsed, revealing surprisingly mundane structural integrity beneath the pulsating flesh. The pyramid, N'Zoth's last hideout, dissolved into dust, as if it were made of very old, very evil sugar.

"Semi-divine soul detected. Extract?" The Heart of Origins chirped in Galen's mind, sounding like a very efficient, very polite cosmic vacuum cleaner.

"Extract," Galen confirmed, already mentally tallying his cosmic achievements. He watched as N'Zoth's spirit, a shimmering, indignant wisp, rose from the wreckage, only to be unceremoniously snatched away by the Heart of Origins. Probably for future cosmic recycling.

"The space is collapsing!" Gandalf barked, his voice cutting through the triumphant silence. "We must leave! And I left my good pipe in there!"

"What a waste," Galen muttered, eyeing the collapsing pocket dimension with the wistfulness of a real estate developer. "This could've housed an army. Or at least a very large, very secure storage unit for all my cosmic loot."

"Hela's a master of demiplanes," Gandalf said, yanking Galen back to reality with a surprisingly strong grip. "Want one? Make her build it later! We're on a collapsing floor, you dolt!"

"MOVE!"

The heroes, having learned the hard way that lingering in collapsing cosmic dimensions was generally a bad idea, activated their recall scrolls, vanishing just as the sea, which had clearly been holding its breath, came crashing in, swallowing the remains of Ny'alotha in a final, cleansing deluge.

Galen blinked, finding himself aboard the Stormbreaker, the flagship of the Kul Tiran fleet, which now looked like a very cozy, very safe haven. The crew erupted in cheers, probably having placed bets on whether he'd come back with all his limbs. N'Zoth was dead. His remaining flesh might fester for millennia, turning into some truly disgusting deep-sea coral, but without his will, it was harmless. Just a very large, very gross, very inert pile of cosmic leftovers.

"Now… who's gonna babysit the leftovers?" Galen mused, already thinking about the next logistical nightmare.

Yogg-Saron's remnants were purged by M'uru, who probably used a divine feather duster. C'Thun's corruption was being cleansed by Tyrande and Malfurion, who were probably still arguing about the proper incantations. The Sha were harvested, presumably for some very unpleasant, very powerful emotional fertilizer.

And G'huun? "That knock-off Old God still has uses… but needs supervision," Galen decided. He was probably thinking of turning G'huun into a very effective, if disgusting, garbage disposal.

A splash drew Galen's attention. Azshara emerged from the waves, flanked by naga—now freed from N'Zoth's control, looking like they'd just woken up from a very long, very bad dream.

"These are the survivors," she said, her voice dripping with disdain, as if she were presenting a particularly unappetizing dish. "Too weak-willed to join my new kingdom. Honestly, no ambition whatsoever."

"But they're still my people," she added, a hint of something resembling affection in her eyes. She gestured to the vast, shimmering sea. "Send them to Nazjatar. The depths… will need unifying soon. And I need someone to polish my new throne."

Galen nodded, a knowing smirk on his face. The ocean would be his. And Azshara, it seemed, would be his very powerful, very demanding, very stylish aquatic general.

New Year's Day, Dark Portal Year 25. The Alliance rejoiced. The Twilight's Hammer cult, having been thoroughly hammered, was eradicated. Cho'gall, Sinestra, the Void lords—all dead. N'Zoth was no more. Even G'huun was locked away, sealed beneath Zandalar, probably still complaining about the lack of proper ventilation. Azeroth was safe. For now.

To mark the occasion, Galen declared a new holiday—the Lantern Festival, fifteen days after Winter Veil. Because nothing says "we just saved the world" like a good party. Stormwind's streets blazed with light, crowds cheering as leaders from every nation, looking surprisingly clean after all the cosmic goo, gathered.

"What does 'Christmas' mean?" Sylvanas asked, sipping sweet soup, looking suspiciously like she was enjoying herself.

"Rebirth," Galen said, a profound look on his face. "Azeroth's awakening. And a good excuse for fireworks."

"Will the world-soul appear?" Alleria gasped, her eyes wide with wonder.

"Perhaps." Galen smirked, clearly enjoying the suspense. "A blessing… for the worthy. Or for those who brought the best snacks."

The palace courtyard buzzed with laughter, tables laden with enough food and drink to feed a small army (which, coincidentally, they had just done).

"To the future!" Brann Bronzebeard toasted, ale sloshing precariously, probably already planning his next archaeological dig.

"Aye! More holidays! And more ale!" Muradin agreed, clanking his mug with Brann's.

Then—

"Did I miss the fun? Is there any cake left?" A high-pitched voice chirped, cutting through the revelry.

Gelbin Mekkatorque, the perpetually tinkering gnome, entered, followed by… a mechanical gnome? It looked like a very shiny, very well-oiled toy.

"Flesh is weak. Steel is eternal," Galen mused, eyeing the cyborg prince with a mixture of amusement and concern. "Did you accidentally turn your dad into a toaster, Gelbin?"

"Prince Erazmin," the mechanized gnome introduced himself, his voice surprisingly formal for a walking automaton. "Ruler of Mechagon. And no, I did not turn my father into a toaster. Yet."

"Ah." Galen grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye. "So… you need help beating up troggs and fixing your dad? Because we're pretty good at that. We just finished punching a god in the face."

"…What?" Prince Erazmin blinked, his mechanical eye whirring in confusion.

"Don't worry," Galen clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture that probably sent a jolt through the prince's circuits. "We'll punch the crazy out of him. It's kind of our specialty."