Invasion

Since the Hero-King Galen led the Alliance and the Dragonflights to put the smackdown on those pesky Hellfire Drakes, ending that whole "apocalyptic disaster" kerfuffle, the peoples of Azeroth had actually enjoyed a few glorious years of peace. Pure, unadulterated, boring peace. And among the human kingdoms, Stormwind—blessed by its ridiculously strategic location—had absolutely exploded, trailing only Stromgarde in sheer awesomeness.

Free from the ravages of war (and the pesky chore of dodging fiery dragon breath), Stormwind's population had gone absolutely bonkers. After the Second War, the kingdom was practically a ghost town, limping along with fewer than a million souls. By the time the Scourge Invasion rolled around, refugees from Lordaeron had swarmed south, swelling its numbers back to a respectable 1.5 million—matching its pre-Dark Portal strength.

Now, as the golden fields of Westfall swayed lazily under the harvest sun, the human population south of the Redridge Mountains had surged to nearly five million. They were practically tripping over each other.

Across Jansen Stead, Furlbrow's Farm, Sander's Farm, Molsen Farm, Alexston Farmstead, and the ever-so-quaint Moonbrook State Farm, countless laborers toiled under the oppressive sun. These sprawling estates formed the literal backbone of Stormwind's granary, their overflowing wheat silos feeding a solid half of the kingdom. It was a picture of serene, carb-heavy bliss.

BOOM!

A searing, malevolent green beam lanced from the very edge of Elwynn Forest, ripping across the sky like a poisoned arrow and slamming directly into the heavens above Sentinel Hill—the central fortress of Westfall.

"CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!"

The alarm bells, clearly designed for maximum auditory panic, shrieked instantly. Farmers, surprisingly well-drilled for these sorts of unexpected, sky-ripping emergencies, dropped their pitchforks and sprinted for the nearest guard towers, tripping over chickens and small children in their haste.

"Enemy attack?!" "ENEMY ATTACK! AND IT LOOKS ANGRY!"

Marshal Gryan Stoutmantle, the perpetually grim Governor of Westfall, stomped from the fortress in full, clanking battle regalia, his gaze locked on the unnatural, horrifying phenomenon unfolding above. His jaw, usually a granite slab, tightened into something even harder.

"Dispatch gryphon riders to Stormwind! And for the Light's sake, make it fast! Alert Duke Ebonlocke of Duskwood—tell him to ready the Night Watch for immediate reinforcements! Move it, you milk-drinkers!"

He then pointed a finger, thick as a sausage, toward the murky border between Westfall and Duskwood.

"Send Captain Danuvin to scour that area! Arrest any and all unidentified individuals! And if they so much as twitch a muscle, meet resistance with extreme, lethal prejudice! Understood?!"

The common folk might be blissfully unaware, lost in their simple dreams of bigger wheat harvests, but the Alliance's high command had been preparing for this precise, horrifying moment for years.

The Burning Legion was coming. And they clearly weren't bringing pastries.

The Legion's Grand Entrance (and Lack of Manners)

CRACK!

Sickly green lightning tore through the clouds, sizzling the very air as a massive, swirling vortex ripped open overhead, a wound in the sky. Then—

A jagged, obsidian-hulled warship, impossibly vast and bristling with demonic weaponry, lurched forth from the gaping rift, like some monstrous, angry whale.

"By the Light! It's a demonic dreadnaught! And it's not even polite enough to knock!"

One. Two. Three—

Within a single, terrifying minute, an entire Legion fleet, grotesque and menacing, blotted out the sun, casting a sickly green pall over the once-golden fields of Westfall.

"OPEN FIRE! FOR AZEROTH, YOU COWARDS!"

Before Gryan's order fully left his lips, the sky filled with swarming black dots, plummeting towards the fortress like vengeful, flaming hail.

"INFERNALS! THEY'RE FALLING FROM THE SKY!" "ANTI-AIR BATTERIES—INTERCEPT! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, INTERCEPT!"

Sentinel Hill, a key component of the Alliance's ambitious Second Five-Year Plan, was no ordinary fortress. It was a gleaming, heavily armed testament to paranoia.

Hundreds of gun emplacements bristled along its formidable walls—grumpy Gnomish flak cannons, crackling High Elven arcane turrets, and Dalaran's newest, most ridiculously expensive spell-artillery.

"BRRRRT! ZZZAP! CRACKLE! BANG!"

A blinding storm of bullets, arcane energy, and sheer magical malice shredded the sky, weaving a deadly, shimmering net that annihilated most of the falling infernals in mid-air.

But some, of course, got through. Because the Legion always cheats.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The fortress groaned, concrete cracking, but it held. For now. The dreadnaughts, however, now descended, their massive frames casting apocalyptic shadows, preparing for a full, very personal assault.

"Activate the Stormbreaker Cannon! NOW, YOU LAZY WHELPS!"

With Gryan's frantic authorization, Sentinel Hill's ultimate weapon, a thing of horrifying beauty, awoke with a low, hungry hum.

The barracks' roof slid open with a grinding roar, revealing a monstrous barrel—a colossal, thirty-meter-long tube with a one-thousand-millimeter bore, its surface etched with glowing, power-hungry arcane runes. It looked less like a weapon and more like a disgruntled titan's personal finger.

At its base, a team of wide-eyed Draenei magi worked with frantic, sweating precision.

"Target acquired—first dreadnaught! Right in its ugly face!" "Power core engaged! For the Light! And for not dying!"

Two towering draenei, muscles straining, slotted a pulsing, cerulean core into the cannon's gaping chamber—the condensed, highly volatile essence of a slain Windlord, savagely harvested from the elemental plane of Skywall itself.

"Stormbreaker ready! Requesting fire authorization, Marshal!" "FIRE! AND MAKE IT HURT!"

The magi's robes billowed wildly as the arcane runes flared to blinding life, screaming with raw power.

KABOOOOOM!

A cataclysmic beam of concentrated storm energy, a roaring, sapphire comet, lanced upward with the force of a thousand thunderclaps—

King Varian Wrynn himself burst through the Stormwind portal, blades already in hand, just in time to witness the shocking blue comet strike the lead dreadnaught. He might have yelped. Just a little.

The ship's fel barrier, a shimmering shield of demonic defiance, shattered instantly, like brittle glass.

Then its bow disintegrated, the entire colossal vessel lurching uncontrollably, shedding molten slag and screaming demons, before crashing in a fiery, apocalyptic explosion directly into Sander's Farm.

BOOM!

Homes and carefully cultivated wheat fields erupted in a geyser of flames and debris, raining down on the bewildered farmers.

"By the Titans…," Varian breathed, a genuine tremor in his voice. "This… this is the power of a demigod's strike?"

When Galen had so calmly handed him these Windlord cores, he'd neglected to mention they could deliver this level of utterly delightful devastation.

"The times have changed, father," Varian murmured, his gaze sweeping over the infernal chaos, a distant thought of Anduin Lothar and his own father, now presumably swapping heroic tales in the Hall of Valor.

Perhaps they had already grasped this transcendent power, this new level of cosmic smackdown.

Perhaps… when his own son, Anduin, came of age, he too could pass the crown and embark on his own quest for greater, utterly destructive strength. The thought was rather appealing.

His grip tightened on Shalamayne, the twin blades humming in anticipation. The thirst for battle, ancient and primal, sang in his blood.

But first—

Azeroth had to survive the Legion's incredibly rude invasion.

"Signal Highlord Bolvar! Deploy the Sixth Legion and every last man of the Night Watch!" Varian roared, his voice cutting through the din of battle. "I will hold these walls myself—we feast on demon flesh tonight! And I'm buying!"

"YES, YOUR MAJESTY! DEMON FLESH IT IS!" The roar of the soldiers was less disciplined cheer and more rabid hunger.