Zul

The self-proclaimed Dark Prophet Zul and his bedraggled cult of followers made a truly unceremonious landing on a desolate, spitting patch of rock. Most of these scrawny trolls were Zandalari, though a few scruffy, tawny-skinned desert trolls from the arid wastes mingled among them. This was it. This was the entire, pitiful remainder of Zul's grand forces.

"Prophet, are we… there yet?" chirped Amaz, a female Zandalari troll, her voice already grating on Zul's nerves, despite its supposed reverence.

"We have, Amaz. Now, for the love of the Loa, exercise some restraint! Our rebirth is nigh!" Zul snapped, barely suppressing a groan. He was already weary of Amaz's barely contained hysteria. Despite her noble lineage as a priestess, she'd been rattled by every single, insignificant skirmish with King Rastakhan's ceaseless pursuers.

"Wonderful! My thirst for… power… is absolutely unbearable!" she hissed, her face twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated greed.

"Hmph." Zul barely suppressed a sneer. If he weren't so drastically diminished in strength, he would have tossed her into the churning depths long ago. What a nuisance.

Swish—swish!

A faint, unsettling rustling slithered from the blackened, sea-worn rocks along the jagged shore. Instantly, every troll snapped to attention, tightening their grip on their crudely fashioned weapons, muscles coiled, battle-ready. Their journey had been less a pilgrimage and more a desperate, panicked flight through a meat grinder. The entire Zandalari Empire and its furious allies had hunted them like rabid beasts. Only by braving the churning, stomach-lurching horrors of the Maelstrom itself had they finally shaken their relentless pursuers.

"Ah, you've finally decided to grace us with your presence, my… friends!"

A hunched, cloaked figure emerged atop the jagged rocks, draped in a perpetually grimy gray hood and leaning on a staff adorned with far too many skulls. He looked like death's grumpy uncle.

"The Legion's envoy has been cooling his hooves. Follow me, if you please."

Zul briefly subjected the stranger to a withering stare, then, deciding the effort wasn't worth it, simply motioned his ragged followers forward.

Soon, they limped into a hidden encampment—a truly pathetic sight, home to only five or six hunched, humanoid figures.

"Orcs?" Amaz whispered, bewildered.

Green-skinned and flanked by hulking felguards and drooling felhounds, these orcs were clearly the last, most desperate survivors of Gul'dan's Shadow Council. Their leader, a particularly scrawny warlock, straightened as Zul approached, a sneer already fixed on his face.

"You're late. One more day, and we would've packed up our misery and left. Those Suramar elves have been hounding us relentlessly, like particularly annoying gnats!"

These pathetic warlocks had once sailed proudly with Gul'dan to the very Tomb of Sargeras. After Gul'dan's rather unceremonious "death" and Cho'gall's hasty retreat with his ogres, only these few had somehow managed to claw their way to escape. But survival had not been kind; had they not hidden themselves deep within this wretched rock, the various, perpetually angry factions of the Broken Isles would have gleefully exterminated them for sport.

"Where is it?" Zul demanded, cutting straight to the point. No time for pleasantries with these losers.

"Bring it out, you lazy scum!" the orc barked, not bothering to hide his disdain.

Two hulking felguards lumbered from the shadows, straining under the weight of a massive, sickly fel-green crystal. It pulsed with an unholy light, stinking faintly of brimstone and desperation.

"Our last fel core," the orc explained, waving a dismissive hand. "It can locate and tear open a dimensional rift. We give it to you now. Just tell the Legion to leave us be—we seek only solitude, or at least a quiet corner to rot in peace."

Zul gave a curt nod. These broken orcs meant less than nothing to him. If the Burning Legion took an interest in their pitiful hides later, well, that was simply beyond his control.

"Take it. We proceed."

Several of Zul's strongest trolls, looking utterly miserable, strained to heft the gargantuan crystal as Zul led them away, his eyes already gleaming with the dark promise of power.

"Zandalar shall rise again under your guidance, Prophet!" one of his remaining loyalists cried out, a fervent, desperate loyalty in his voice. It was the first sincere flicker of optimism Zul had felt in months.

"Prepare the core. We begin the ritual! No dilly-dallying!"

His surviving spellcasters—all elites, a testament to their sheer stubbornness—quickly deciphered the chaotic fel energies swirling within the crystal. After expending their last, precious reserves of arcane essence, the core finally, agonizingly, activated.

A nauseatingly green beam lanced into the sickly sky, splitting the air with a sound like torn fabric, revealing a swirling, festering wound in reality.

BOOM!

A massive, cloven hoof, steaming with fel energy, slammed through the rift, leaving a smoking impression on the barren rock.

A monstrous, six-meter-tall demon lord emerged, his eyes burning with malevolent amusement.

"Well done, little… worms," the demon rasped, inhaling deeply. He grimaced, clearly offended by the island's damp, salty air—but the sheer, unadulterated thrill of setting foot on Azeroth outweighed his distaste.

"Pathetic. You're all embarrassingly weak." With a dismissive wave of his claw, more demons surged forth—hulking felguards, sadistic wrathguards, even elegant (and utterly terrifying) eredar warlocks hauling additional, smaller fel cores, ready to keep the interdimensional party going.

"Hold this portal! NOW!" Zul barked, swallowing his pride, his voice a frantic whisper as the infernal invasion began.

The demons kept coming. The air thickened, reeking of sulfur, burnt flesh, and sheer, unadulterated malice. For thirty agonizing minutes, the rift spewed forth the Legion's vanguard, a relentless torrent of screaming, clawing abominations—until, at last, the giant fel core dimmed, its power spent.

"Hurry! It's collapsing, you imbeciles!" Zul shrieked, barely containing his panic.

As the last group of demons, dragging a fresh core, tumbled through, the portal shattered, sucking back into nothingness with a sickening pop.

The demon lord surveyed his newly disgorged forces with a satisfied, almost purring hum.

"Half of you remain to guard these precious cores. The rest—establish our foothold! And if you fail, I'll personally turn your souls into boot polish!"

He then turned his blazing gaze back to Zul, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his demonic features.

"Rejoice, worms. Kil'jaeden himself has taken notice of your… usefulness."

With a casual swipe of his wicked claws, the demon sliced his own wrist, letting thick, glowing fel blood drip onto the scorched earth.

"Now, accept the Legion's glorious gift! Don't worry, it only burns a little!"

Zul's eyes gleamed with a dark, avaricious fire. He had heard the whispers, seen the grotesque transformation of the orcs. This was it. His chance for true power.

He signaled his strongest warrior forward, a towering Zandalari with muscles like braided steel.

The troll, wide-eyed with a mixture of terror and dark anticipation, gulped down the single, pulsating drop of fel blood.

GULP.

Instantly, he clutched his throat—as if he'd just swallowed a molten cinder. His veins bulged, muscles swelling grotesquely, his skin turning a sickly green.

CRACK!

Bone spikes, sharp and obsidian-black, erupted from his shoulders, elbows, and knees with sickening pops. The troll warrior roared, a sound of agony and raw, newfound power. One drop. One half-step into becoming a living legend.

"Now, little Prophet, two tasks remain before you." The demon lord's voice dropped, laced with a chilling menace.

"First—guide these… enthusiastic… demons to Azeroth's most painfully weak points. Open beacons for the Legion's grand armada. Make it quick, make it efficient."

"Second—find the Pillars of Creation. Kil'jaeden's patience is thinner than a goblin's honor. Do not, under any circumstances, delay."

"Succeed," the demon lord concluded, his smile widening into a terrifying rictus, "and the Legion's rewards will be… boundless. Fail, and you'll merely be another charming decoration for my personal throne."