Hopeless

Wherever Medivh pointed, a brilliant, pulsating purple arcane light erupted, like a very angry, very magical disco ball having an existential crisis. Along with mysterious, shimmering rays of light flowing from top to bottom, Duke, Lothar, and Garona's vision was rapidly constructing itself, like a ridiculously fast, hyper-magical 3D printer churning out reality. A force that defied all scientific understanding (and probably left several very confused theoretical physicists scratching their heads) surged outwards, and the surrounding scene peeled away like an old oil painting stripped from its canvas, revealing its true, terrifying, and utterly bonkers form.

As they braced themselves for the final, dazzling bloom of light, everything around them shifted. The empty, chaotic void outside transformed into the surprisingly mundane-looking roof of Medivh's workshop, looking remarkably less like a cosmic abyss and more like a very fancy, slightly dusty attic. Sunlight, filtered through seven-colored glazed windows, bathed the entire workshop in a holy, almost church-like atmosphere, which was, of course, hilariously ironic given the demonic squatter currently running the show. Twelve colossal marble columns stood majestically around the workshop, forming a grand, circular corridor on the outside, probably designed for maximum dramatic entrances.

In the dead center of the workshop sat a massive pool, a good sixty-five feet in diameter, filled to the brim with a shimmering blue liquid that surged and swirled slowly, like a very large, very magical washing machine doing a load of cosmic laundry. Duke knew exactly what it was at a glance, mostly because he'd seen enough of the stuff to last him several lifetimes.

Magic! Highly concentrated, high-octane magic! It had transcended its gaseous form and condensed into a potent, liquid state, like a very dangerous, very blue, very forbidden smoothie. Every time the liquid magic rolled, if you dared to focus all your attention on it, a dazzling light would explode before your eyes, as if a flower of pure energy was in a constant, frantic loop of budding, blooming, falling, and withering – a very fast, very magical time-lapse video of creation and destruction. The sheer power contained within it was so mind-boggling that Duke could easily imagine the apocalyptic consequences if this pool of magic ever got out of control. When the interwoven light energy, packing the punch of a tactical nuclear warhead, finally burst forth, it would instantly spread, turning the land within a thousand miles into a glowing, radioactive dead zone, probably leaving behind a very large, very impressive crater.

Compared to this astonishing, potentially world-ending pool of magic, the pile of metal parts Medivh had casually dumped next to it, standing three people tall, seemed utterly insignificant. It was like comparing a fully operational nuclear reactor to a pile of rusty paperclips. Seeing everything laid out before him, Duke confirmed one thing in his mind yet again – Medivh, the so-called celestial wizard, was absolutely in a league of his own when it came to manipulating the space element. He was basically the grandmaster of cosmic interior design, with a flair for the dramatic.

Time and Space were the undisputed heavyweights of the elemental world, recognized by almost everyone, probably because they were the hardest to get a handle on without your brain melting. In fact, even though Duke had successfully dragged Lothar and Garona all the way to Medivh's doorstep, he still felt a knot of nerves in his stomach. He hadn't the foggiest idea how to deal with Medivh now that Sargeras was pulling his strings. It was like bringing your friends to meet a celebrity, only to find out the celebrity was secretly a world-ending demon, and you were all about to become a very exclusive, very dead fan club. The only silver lining was that only the three of them had been teleported into the workshop; Medivh hadn't bothered with Lothar's battered troops, probably preferring a more intimate, less messy, world-ending confrontation.

At that moment, Medivh finally spoke.

"Hahaha!" Medivh's laughter echoed, laced with an indescribable, evil charm, like a particularly sinister game show host who just revealed the grand prize was eternal damnation. "Since you keep insisting we're old friends, why must you insist on pointing the blade of your sword at my chest? It's a tad impolite, wouldn't you say?"

Lothar's gaze dropped slightly, sweeping from Medivh's feet, planted firmly beside the magic pool, slowly and meticulously up to his head, like a very thorough, very suspicious security scan. When his eyes finally met Medivh's again, Lothar's voice softened, almost mournful, tinged with a deep sadness.

"You're right! I shouldn't point my sword at an old friend. I shouldn't point it at Medivh, the man I know and know well." Lothar slid his sword back into its scabbard with a decisive "swish," a sound that suggested a very important, very final decision had just been made. "We were never truly from the same world, were we? You, the Guardian, high above it all, probably with a penthouse view of the cosmos. As long as you didn't abdicate, you could have an almost endless life. And Llane and I? Just two mortals who might seem noble but are, in reality, as humble as dirt. Why did we ever become friends? It's like a cosmic mismatch, a square peg in a round hole!"

"Yeah! Why?" Medivh wore a playful smile, like a cat toying with a very confused, very doomed mouse. He even completely ignored Garona, who was stealthily creeping up behind him on the left, a master of stealth currently failing spectacularly, and Duke, who was motionless behind him on the right, probably trying to look like a very uninteresting piece of furniture.

"It was your humility and tolerance that won us over, Medivh! Remember twenty years ago, you had just defended Azeroth again, returned injured, but still managed to conjure a piece of ice to cool the forehead of a feverish child in the slums?!"

"Remember that day..."

"Remember..."

Lothar quietly recounted all the memorable past events between him and Medivh, a long, nostalgic monologue that probably made Medivh want to hit the fast-forward button. And Medivh, surprisingly, didn't interrupt him. He just listened with that same playful smile, probably enjoying the trip down memory lane, or perhaps just waiting for Lothar to run out of breath and sentimental anecdotes.

After an unknown amount of time, which felt like several geological eras had passed, Lothar finally emerged from his memories, looking slightly dazed. As the last word of Lothar's heartfelt speech faded, the playful expression finally vanished from Medivh's face, quickly replaced by something far more sinister, like a clown suddenly turning into a serial killer.

"It's a very touching story, isn't it? But... it's utterly meaningless!" Medivh's face finally darkened, like a storm cloud filled with very bad intentions, and the very next moment, the entire workshop space trembled, as if the universe itself was having a minor seizure.

"Meaningless?! No! Everything I said is meaningful! Because I still believe that the kind and benevolent Medivh I know is still alive in some form, somewhere! And you – Sargeras, I will rip you out of my old friend's body right now and send you packing back to whatever hellhole you crawled out of! You're basically a squatter in his soul, and it's eviction time!" Lothar's voice rolled like thunder in the empty workshop, echoing left and right, making the very marble columns vibrate. The sheer, righteous anger contained in his voice seemed to instantly incinerate Sargeras's filthy and sinful soul, probably leaving a faint smell of singed demon in the air.

Lothar drew out the Sword of Kings again, with a flourish that could rival a Broadway showman's grand finale. The brilliant golden light on the sword was like the light of dawn driving away the darkness along the entire horizon, splitting the entire workshop – which was filled with Medivh's terrible magic in everyone's eyes – into two, like a very precise, very magical laser beam.

Lothar's aura was undeniably impressive, radiating power and righteous indignation, but deep in Medivh's slightly playful eyes, there was a hint of pure disdain, like a Michelin-starred chef looking at a particularly bad microwave meal.

Sargeras's voice, calm and utterly indifferent, echoed through Medivh's lips: "Lothar, is this your grand finale? Your trump card? It's a shame you played it too early, otherwise, you might have given me a slight surprise. Perhaps a mild tickle."

"A true king has no need to hide himself, Sargeras! We're not playing hide-and-seek here!" Lothar declared firmly, his gaze unwavering. This was also a minor quirk of the King's Sword; the King himself followed the straight and narrow path. The will of Emperor Thoradin imbued within the blade would never allow its wielder to stoop to such tasteless tactics as shooting arrows from behind or launching surprise attacks. It was, essentially, a sword with a very strict moral code. Besides, from the very beginning, Lothar had no intention of playing sneaky; he was a human, not some back-stabbing rogue.

"Heh heh! The so-called king isn't even worth an ant in front of me, the invincible king of all realms," Medivh sneered, a truly terrifying will spreading from him like a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated evil. As the one directly facing Sargeras, Lothar was definitely the first to bear the brunt. The demon king's will wasn't merely terrifying; it was a full-blown psychological assault. Countless images, large and small, continuous and intermittent, flashed through Lothar's mind, constantly battering his will, like a very aggressive, very demonic slideshow of cosmic destruction.

That was no ordinary picture show. It was a highlight reel of worlds destroyed one after another by Sargeras's Burning Legion over the past ten thousand years, a cosmic montage of annihilation. Killing! Destruction! Annihilation! This was the main theme of the Burning Legion, their very catchy, very violent anthem. In that moment, Lothar heard the wailing of billions of lives, tasted their sorrow, their pain, and their utter despair. It was like listening to a very sad, very long, very loud symphony of suffering. Lothar had already unconsciously dropped to his knees, his face ashen, his forehead and hair plastered with cold sweat, and a kind of dizzying blackness clouding his eyes. He looked like he'd just run a marathon through a swamp of existential dread, then been hit by a truck.

Lothar felt like a lonely rowboat caught in a boundless, raging sea, desperately enduring the relentless onslaught of wind and rain under an endless black storm. The boat, and everyone aboard, felt like they could be swallowed by the waves at any moment, and he was utterly, completely kneeling under the terrifying will of Sargeras. He was basically a very small, very wet, very terrified punching bag.