Kil'jaeden

A light-year away from Azeroth, a truly colossal, obsidian-green warship hung in the silent void like a cosmic bad omen—Kil'jaeden's flagship, the throbbing, malevolent heart of the Burning Legion's invasion force.

Seated upon his throne, a grotesque fusion of bone and shadow, the Deceiver exuded an air of dark, smug satisfaction. Unlike his fallen comrade, Archimonde, Kil'jaeden's crimson skin stretched over a sinewy, almost athletic frame, his draconic wings folded behind him like a conqueror's cape. He looked less like a demon and more like a perpetually angry, impossibly ripped lizard-king.

"Report," Kil'jaeden rumbled, his voice a low, guttural growl that vibrated the very essence of the ship. "How fares our little… campaign?"

An eredar warlock, sweating profusely despite the chilling void, shuffled forward, bowing so deeply his forehead nearly scraped the demonic floor.

"Lord Kil'jaeden, our fleets have struck multiple key locations across Azeroth through numerous, spectacular dimensional rifts! And the good news, my lord, is that Prince Malchezaar's vanguard has already located the Sacred Corpse of Sargeras! He's preparing a beachhead for our main force as we speak, my lord!"

This time, the Legion wasn't messing around. This time, they would utterly erase Azeroth—that infuriating, stubborn little world that had thwarted them at every single turn. Kil'jaeden had designed this invasion personally, with the meticulous precision of a cosmic butcher.

To ensure victory, he had orchestrated a twofold strategy, cunning in its simplicity:

The dreadnaughts served as a glorious, loud, very fiery distraction, drawing the pathetic defenders' focus like moths to a demonic flame.

The true prize lay in Sargeras' Tomb, where the Dark Titan's fallen avatar awaited—a weapon capable of sundering the world itself. Because why use a scalpel when you can use a planet-sized sledgehammer?

And then, there were the Pillars of Creation—those annoying Titan relics that would fuel Kil'jaeden's own glorious ascension to cosmic godhood. Because being a demon lord was so last millennium.

"Wild gods… night elves… humans… and VELEN!" The Deceiver's voice dripped with pure, unadulterated venom, every syllable laced with millennia of bitter resentment. "How long can you possibly last against my full might, you pathetic, irritating insects?!"

His clawed finger tapped the armrest of his throne, each click echoing through the vast chamber like a personalized death knell for every soul on Azeroth.

"The Legion will NOT tolerate another failure! These insects will drown in my wrath! And if they don't, I'll make them drown!"

Before him, a terrified coterie of eredar sorcerers and the very last remaining dreadlord of any consequence—Kathra'natir—scrambled to appease their master, practically tripping over each other in their desperation.

Kil'jaeden's blazing gaze lingered on Kathra'natir. Once, the nathrezim had been a proud, cunning caste, masters of manipulation and terror. Now? Reduced to mid-ranking commanders, barely glorified couriers. Pathetic. They had fallen so far, it was almost embarrassing.

"Kathra'natir," Kil'jaeden's voice turned icy, a whisper that could freeze fel fire. "Prove your worth. Lead the assault personally. Show me the dreadlords still deserve a place in my glorious Legion. Or I'll melt you down and use you as a footstool."

The dreadlord prostrated himself, trembling so violently he nearly knocked over a terrified eredar. "Y-yes, my lord! Immediately, my lord! Your will be done!"

"Go. Reinforce the frontlines. And do NOT disappoint me—or Sargeras—again. I highly recommend against it."

Across Azeroth, the Legion's brutal, soul-crushing tactics unfolded with terrifying, almost mechanical precision:

First, the infernal bombardment to shatter defenses and morale.

Then, the relentless tide of felguards, drooling felhounds, and unsettling observers to grind down any remaining resistance.

Finally, the elite reinforcements, massive and terrifying, to crush what remained. And if that didn't work, more elites.

In the Golden Plains of Kalimdor, the battle had just entered its third, most agonizing phase.

Gandalf stood alone.

The thousand-strong heavy cavalry he had led, those brave souls who rode with him, were gone—annihilated, though not without exacting a truly spectacular cost. Their sacrifice had thinned the demonic horde, leaving behind a scorched, broken landscape littered with infernal guts and shattered demon corpses.

Now, the old mage, looking a little rumpled but still defiantly un-dead, faced two colossal fel lords, their massive axes gleaming with cursed, malevolent energy, ready to turn him into a very old, very dead puddle.

Aegwynn watched from the fortress walls, her grip tightening on her staff, her knuckles white. Her face was a mask of grim determination.

"Grand Marshal," she said, her voice edged with a desperate urgency that cut through the cacophony of battle. "It's time. Time to close the net, or he's going to become a very pretty, very dead wizard-shaped stain."