Archbishop News

The defense of Lordaeron City was finally over. It ended with the Alliance's victory, a hard-won, blood-soaked triumph.

However, this result was about as satisfying as a goblin's promise for both parties involved. The wins that should have been slam dunks turned into nail-biters, and the losses that should have been total wipeouts ended up being messy, partial retreats. It was a victory, but it felt like they'd won the battle and lost a limb.

Orgrim Doomhammer, looking like he'd been dragged through a thorn bush backward, retreated to the Alterac Mountains. It was clear as day that his plan was to cut through Alterac, make a beeline for the Hinterlands, and then, by hook or by crook, board a ship at Seawatch to return to the southern continent. He had a date with destiny, and it involved settling a very personal score with Gul'dan.

As for Grom Hellscream and his Warsong Clan orcs? Their whereabouts became as clear as mud. Grom, contrary to his usual bombastic, charge-head-first fighting style, deliberately avoided all human towns. He reined in his subordinates, a feat in itself, and vanished into the vast, boundless forests, becoming a ghost in the trees.

Everyone knew what kind of damage 30,000 orcs, especially the Warsong Clan, could inflict. If left unchecked, they were enough to chew through the remaining core area of the Kingdom of Lordaeron like a hungry gronn through a goblin village. It was definitely not a pleasant feeling to have an enemy hiding right under your nose, like a festering boil you couldn't quite lance.

Almost as soon as the last orcish grunt had vanished into the woods, King Terenas, looking like he'd aged a decade in a day, came practically sprinting to Duke, his regal robes flapping like a panicked pigeon.

"Please! We simply must not let these damn green-skinned beasts go!" Terenas pleaded, his voice raw with desperation. "I need the support of the elven rangers! All of them! Including those from Quel'Thalas and your own rangers! If it's at all possible, I implore you, lead the suppression of these tribes personally!"

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but I have bigger fish to fry," Duke replied, holding up a hand. "We need to arrange a rescue mission for the Red Dragon Queen Alexstrasza, pronto. Otherwise, when Taranis comes back, and believe me, he will come back, no one, not even Antonidas, will be his opponent. Your Majesty, that is a real ancient red dragon, a creature that can level an entire kingdom by itself. It's not a pet, it's a force of nature!"

Terenas's jaw dropped so fast it practically hit the floor. "Didn't you and Lord Antonidas team up to take care of that giant lizard? I thought you put him in a time-out!"

"No! He obviously held back," Antonidas's voice boomed, chiming in from a nearby magic mirror, rescuing Duke from having to explain the finer points of dragon psychology. "I could feel it; he truly didn't want to fight the Alliance."

Duke then dropped the real bombshell, leaning in conspiratorially. "In fact," he said, his voice a low, almost mischievous whisper, "I used Alleria's voice of the wind to tell Taranis that the Alliance would rescue the Red Dragon Queen as soon as humanly possible. I hoped he would try not to attack us with all his strength, and it seems he took the hint."

"A real dragon!" Lothar muttered, stroking his magnificent beard, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and terror. To maintain morale and, let's be honest, to pull the wool over the eyes of the common folk, they could, of course, spin a tale about how the great Alliance heroes Antonidas and Edmund Duke had teamed up to heroically repel the red dragon. But after hearing this inside story, this truly explosive revelation, every king and general's face sank faster than a goblin's airship. That was a foul, a cosmic cheat code that could make all their carefully crafted strategies and tactics utterly useless, turning them into so much kindling.

The petty squabbles between humans and orcs were nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to this level of power. Ever since Duke had crash-landed in Azeroth as a poor, bewildered college student, he'd been preparing for the inevitable, for the day he'd have to face all sorts of unscientific, inhuman monsters.

Giant dragons, elemental kings, ancient gods... you name it, he'd mentally prepped for it. Unfortunately, when the time actually came, Duke still felt like he was running on fumes, completely unprepared. After all, in the game before his time travel, any dragon would have been a perfect game template, a boss fight with clear mechanics. The problem was, now he was flying solo. It wasn't like in the game, where he could just round up 25 invincible friends who could be resurrected infinitely and fight the boss together! No, this was real life, and real life had permadeath.

The only thing that could make Duke feel even a sliver of ease was that he now had heavy hitters like Alleria, who had entered the realm of heroes, to help him. She was a force of nature in her own right.

Kurdran Wildhammer, ever the optimist, stroked his orange-red, impeccably combed beard. "In fact," he rumbled, "we can also look at the bright side. If we can really rescue Alexstrasza, maybe the Red Dragonflight will turn to the Alliance. After all, these big lizards were practically forced to fight against the Alliance before, weren't they? They were just following orders."

King Thoras of Stromgarde sighed, a heavy sound. "The problem is, Kurdran, we don't even know where the Red Dragon Queen is."

"Well..." King Llane of Stormwind raised a hand, a thoughtful expression on his face. "According to the information from my men, she is most likely in the Wetlands, in Grim Batol, the fortress that used to belong to the dwarves."

Duke had been hesitating whether to reveal the news himself, but when he saw how powerful the "thieves" from Stormwind Kingdom's Military Intelligence Department were, digging up such precise information, he felt a wave of relief. They were surprisingly good at their job.

Thoras was instantly excited, his eyes lighting up. If the red dragon problem could be dealt with, the pressure on Stromgarde would definitely be greatly reduced. "Really?!" he exclaimed. "Can the special operations team of Stormwind Kingdom..."

Llane smiled bitterly and shook his head. "My people are short on funds, Thoras. We've done our absolute best just to get this much news. We're running on fumes."

"Then let our elite secret forces of Lordaeron do this!" King Terenas declared, puffing out his chest, seemingly full of confidence.

Duke really didn't want to burst Terenas's bubble. He truly didn't. Regardless of whether Terenas's "thieves" could actually deal with the mysterious Demon Soul, according to the original history, the one who truly trapped Alexstrasza and handed her over to the Horde was the infamous black dragon king Neltharion, now known as 'Deathwing'! Before achieving his ultimate goal, would Deathwing really let Terenas's funny little band of thieves rescue the Red Dragon Queen? Duke could almost imagine the tragic, utterly predictable fate that would befall the elite thieves of Lordaeron. It would be a bloodbath. Unfortunately, he couldn't expose the matter; the truth was too dangerous, too mind-bending for them to handle.

After the Alliance leaders, in their blissful ignorance, thought they had dealt with the Red Dragonflight problem, the meeting finally got down to business: how to wipe out the Horde once and for all. Under the premise of a common, burning hatred of the enemy, the meeting went surprisingly smoothly. There was none of the usual wrangling, the petty squabbles, the endless pushing and shoving that had plagued the early days of the Alliance. Everyone was on the same page.

The general goal was as follows: to push the front line all the way to the dwarf kingdom of Khaz Modan before the arrival of winter this year, and to rescue the besieged Ironforge, freeing their dwarven allies.

At this moment, the hundreds of thousands of Alliance troops gathered in Lordaeron City were divided into three main fronts:

First, with the direct help of Quel'Thalas and Duke's own elven rangers, nearly 200,000 Lordaeron troops would try their absolute best to wipe out the Hordes that had fled into Tirisfal Glades. Even if they couldn't wipe out every last one, they had to reduce the number of tribes in the area to an acceptable range, such as less than 3,000. Terenas planned to use a massive army to encircle and kill these orcs, sweetening the pot with a hefty reward for every green skin brought down.

The second front consisted of the Griffin Legion, fresh out of the Hinterlands, and the Griffin Riders of the Wildhammer Dwarves, a total of 50,000 troops. Their mission: to chase after Orgrim's remnants, ensuring the annihilation of this elite tribe, or at the very least, driving them off the continent of Lordaeron forever, sending them packing. This journey wasn't expected to be difficult. Unless Orgrim suddenly gave up his personal vendetta against Gul'dan, this journey would basically be an armed parade, a grand send-off for the Horde.

The third front comprised the armies of the other Alliance nations. Under the seasoned leadership of Lothar, they would rush back to Wall Thoradin, hoping to recover the fallen Arathi Highlands within two months and drive the Horde back to the south bank of the Thandol Bridge, reclaiming what was lost.

After the meeting, Duke rubbed his brow, a weary sigh escaping his lips. The Second Dark Portal War, this brutal, grinding conflict, was finally showing signs of ending, a light at the end of a very long, bloody tunnel.

Back at the State Guesthouse, Alleria, in a rare display of domesticity, helped Duke massage his shoulders, trying to ease the tension from his weary frame. Duke couldn't help but wonder, how did elves do it? After being a bow and arrow for so long, after all those years of pulling strings and nocking arrows, Alleria didn't even have a single callus on her fingers? It was truly baffling.

Just when Duke was about to say something, perhaps a compliment on her surprisingly strong hands, a shocking piece of news came, shattering the peaceful moment: Archbishop Alonsus Faol of Holy Light was critically ill. The old lion was fading.