Truth

The Warchief of the Horde, Orgrim Doomhammer, had actually come to ask whether the deputy commander of the Alliance was colluding with the Horde's strongest, most treacherous warlock? What in the name of the ancestors was this, a bad joke or a fever dream?!

Most orcs couldn't understand the common tongue, their brains more suited for smashing than linguistics, but the elves? Oh, the elves could understand every single word! For a moment, every elf on the battlefield pricked up their long, sensitive ears, their eyes wide with disbelief and morbid curiosity.

The two sides, as if by unspoken agreement, stopped fighting, pulling away from each other, creating a bizarre, temporary truce. They stood there, poised, listening intently to the utterly surreal conversation unfolding between their two leaders. The few orcs who did know the common tongue were already scrambling, ready to act as impromptu translators, their faces a mix of confusion and anticipation.

As a big shot in the Alliance, Duke could have simply ignored Orgrim's brain-bending, utterly ridiculous call. He could have just let the Warchief yell himself hoarse.

But Duke didn't dare not answer. Colluding with the Horde? That was definitely a capital crime, a one-way ticket to the gallows. Just think about the grim fate that Alterac was about to face; King Aiden would probably be cursed for all eternity, even after his miserable death.

So, Duke answered, his voice booming across the battlefield, amplified by his trusty PA magic.

"Collusion? Poor, deluded Orc King Orgrim!" Duke's voice dripped with mock pity. "Don't you know you're being played for a fool by Gul'dan, hook, line, and sinker? No, wait, I should say, you really don't know that our Alliance and your Horde are both nothing but pawns in the grand, demonic conspiracy of the Burning Legion's infernal giants?!"

"What!?" Orgrim roared, his surprise genuine, his massive jaw dropping. He truly, honestly, had no idea about the sinister motives behind Gul'dan, or the real, corrupted source of his power.

"The very soul of the evil god Sargeras, the big boss of the Burning Legion, controlled our world protector Medivh," Duke explained, his voice laced with chilling truth. "He cooked up a deal with your warlock Gul'dan, who, in turn, was seduced by the demon commander Kil'jaeden. That's how the Dark Portal came into being, and that's how your Horde invaded the world of Azeroth. To put it bluntly, you orcs are just pathfinders, a bunch of unwitting scouts for the demons to invade this world!"

"No! That's because our world was on the verge of destruction..." Orgrim stammered, trying to argue, his voice tinged with desperation.

"Yes, it is because of the power of the devil that your world was heading for destruction!" Duke sneered mercilessly, twisting the knife. "They poisoned it!"

Orgrim was startled, a cold dread washing over him. He had to recall the haunting complaint of his late friend, Durotan: 'I think it was Gul'dan and his warlocks who destroyed our world. Look, wherever they go, they use their fel energy. The land is drying up, the trees are withering, there is no grass, and there is no prey. Without prey, the orcs will have to starve to death.'

He would never forget how many of his clan members had died on the brutal journey when they migrated to the Dark Portal. The weak, the sick, and those who were seriously injured and died after being attacked by their prey. Once upon a time, the survival rule of the orcs, the brutal survival of the fittest, ingrained for thousands of years, had made him think it was natural, just the way things were. Now that he thought about it, whether it was Durotan or Duke, what they said was undoubtedly the cold, hard truth.

When Orgrim had first seen the Dark Portal open, it was still a swamp, dirty but teeming with life. But what about now? He'd gone back to the Dark Portal in winter. It had become a dead place, a barren wasteland where no grass grew, a truly blighted land. Gray hills and red earth, stretching as far as the eye could see. There were no ordinary beasts, only grotesque monsters mutated by evil energy, twisted parodies of life. Now that he thought about it, that had to have been the demonic power of the warlocks, poisoning their very home.

"Hahaha! Have you finally put two and two together, Orgrim?!" Duke's voice boomed, dripping with venomous, merciless words. "You orcs are nothing but a bunch of poor, pathetic creatures being toyed with by the devil! All your so-called 'glory' is just a cosmic joke, a fancy bow to embellish the devil's grand conspiracy! And the one who really pulled your strings, who really played you like a fiddle, is Gul'dan! Have you thought it through? If so, get out! Orcs, go back to your dying world!"

"Gul'dan!" Orgrim roared, raising his Doomhammer and swinging it wildly, a primal scream of rage directed at the sky. "I will use this to kill you! I will see you pay the full price for your betrayal, you snake in the grass!"

When Orgrim shouted this, a few wide-eyed optimists on the Alliance side actually thought that perhaps they wouldn't have to fight anymore. They were, bless their naive hearts, too green behind the ears.

"However, the Horde has no choice!" Orgrim countered, his voice raw with a desperate resolve. "We will punish the traitors! But the orcs must continue to reproduce! So – your world is ours! We're taking it!"

Duke's expression suddenly changed, his playful smirk vanishing, replaced by a cold, hard glare.

Orgrim took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm the storm raging within him. "I will lead my clan southward," he declared, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands. "We will clear all obstacles along the way. We must keep this road open. After dealing with Gul'dan, we will come back again. By then, this will be the end of your Alliance!" Although he himself doubted whether what he said could truly be realized – they were lucky enough to catch Lordaeron off guard this time, but such a thing wouldn't happen a second time – Orgrim had to say it. He had to save face. Lose the battle but not the man. They couldn't be weak in momentum. Since the goal was always to annihilate the other side, there was no such thing as peace, and there was certainly no need to show weakness.

Duke narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping to an icy, dangerous whisper. "No need to wait until later, Orgrim. Today, I want all of you to die right here!"

Duke raised his hand, a silent command, and the Alliance forces attacked again, led by the self-destructing demon spirits, a wave of glowing red death.

However, at this moment, the Horde had a clear goal etched in their minds: to break through. To punch a hole and run for it. Even though rangers like Alleria madly rained arrows at the Horde, turning them into pincushions, and mages like Marian kept unleashing magical attacks, the effects were very limited. They were like trying to stop a charging kodo with a handful of pebbles.

Whenever they almost caught up with the rear of the Horde, there would always be a small, desperate clan, a few hundred strong, turning back to fight to the death, buying time for their brethren. After all, the Silver Hand, led by Tirion Fordring, only had a group of city guards who could barely ride on horses, their combat power basically scum, a joke on the battlefield.

After the Horde lost more than 5,000 lives, a truly staggering butcher's bill, Orgrim successfully led his army back into the Alterac Mountains, a grim, bloody retreat.

Orgrim withdrew, but Duke was not happy at all, not even a little bit. He knew, with a sickening certainty, what the Horde had come to rescue.

The fierce fighting continued, a bloody, grinding war on the western battlefield.

At this moment, Kurdran Wildhammer, perched high above the fray on his trusty griffin, suddenly felt that something else was flying from the sky, something massive. He looked up, squinting, and saw a black shadow soaring down from the clouds just south of his head. At first, he thought it was a warrior who came to report battlefield information to him, but he immediately felt that the way this guy was flying was not like a griffin. It was too big, too graceful, too... ancient.

And then, more dark shadows followed from the southeast, a terrifying procession. It seemed that they were coming from Lake Lordamere and were probably flying at a higher altitude than them. But what on earth were these things? His heart hammered against his ribs.

However, as these dark shadows approached at high speed, they became larger and larger, growing so massive that they completely blotted out his vision, swallowing the very sky!

"In the name of Aerie Peak!" Kurdran muttered to himself, his voice a choked whisper, completely intimidated by the largest one among them. He was frozen, utterly awestruck.

A lanky, serpentine body, a long, sinuous tail and neck, huge, leathery wings that occasionally flapped and stretched high into the sky – only one flying creature could be this big, this ancient, this utterly terrifying.

As the last of the dark clouds dispersed and the sun shone upon them, the creature was glowing red, a fiery beacon against the sky, covered with crimson scales. Kurdran knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that his judgment was correct.

This was a dragon. Not just any dragon.

Red dragons and the like, Kurdran's kill count had reached double digits; he'd faced them before, seen them fall. But this one was completely different, because if he wasn't seeing things, if his eyes weren't playing tricks on him, this was an ancient dragon whose size was almost as big as the five Dragon Aspects themselves, and was definitely more than ten thousand years old! This was a living legend, a force of nature, and it was heading straight for the battlefield.