Malfurion’s first, gut-wrenching instinct was a single, terrifying thought: trap! A malevolent snare laid by an enemy who had seen into the very heart of their strategy.
But his second thought was a furious rejection of the first: Impossible! The verdant arrow before him was a beacon of Erald Dream energy, a power born of Azeroth itself. Only the Green Dragonflight and the most skilled night elf druids had any hope of wielding it. Malfurion himself, the demigod Cenarius’s greatest student, was rely a novice, a half-baked infiltrator into the dreamscape. How could the Burning Legion, a force of alien invaders, possess such a profound, sacred knowledge?
What Malfurion could not have known was that his mysterious guide, a being from another ti, was no re apprentice. This legendary figure had witnessed a handful of dream attacks in a different ti, and his cunning system AI had already reverse-engineered the entire process. This was not a power passed down, but a power stolen and reinvented. While Duke, the guide, could not enter the Erald Dream with Malfurion’s ease, he could effortlessly project a ntal construct, a phantom guide that hovered between reality and the dream.
In this mont of profound paradox, Malfurion would have retreated. But then his eyes fell upon a sight that stole the very breath from his spectral lungs: a tiny, almost imperceptible symbol in the lower right corner of the green arrow. It was a single character from the human language: "Wu."
Nothing.
A mory flashed in his mind, the words of the human Roddick. When Malfurion and Tyrande had questioned the identity of their mysterious ally, Roddick had answered cryptically, "To protect my Master, I cannot tell you his na. But he will leave a mark to identify the enemy, and that mark is ’nothing.’"
Roddick had also said, "My Master is a legendary figure who can transform darkness into light, even when cursed by the darkest fel. You Kaldorei can choose not to trust him. But if you have no other options, you might as well consider accepting his guidance."
At that mont, the terrifying power of "Nothing" was undeniable. But more terrifying still was the realization that Malfurion had no other options. The floating, spectral demons that hovered throughout the palace radiated an aura of detection so potent it made his skin crawl.
He was the last hope for an army of 300,000 soldiers and the fate of the entire night elf race. To hesitate was to doom them. To be discovered was to fail. The very existence of a second night elf army was a desperate gamble; if Ravencrest’s forces were annihilated, their righteous anger against the Queen could turn to despair and submission. Malfurion could not let that happen.
So he gambled.
His soul, a whisper of a presence, traveled through the half-ford green dream, a ghost drifting between worlds. He moved, following the luminous green arrow, sending out ethereal tendrils of perception to scout the path. He was nearly caught in an instant. Two demonic beholders, their single eyes swiveling, almost snagged his ntal presence with their probing gazes. Malfurion recoiled, a jolt of ice-cold fear searing through his form. Reluctantly, he placed his complete trust in the guidance.
The marks were a work of breathtaking genius. They didn’t just point the way. They marked no-entry zones, warned of narrow passages, and included countdowns for demonic patrols. The vision cones of the beholders were drawn out in shimring lines, their patrol routes carefully charted.
What position does this ’Nothing’ hold in the Legion? Malfurion’s mind scread. This was not the intelligence of a scout; it was the map of a commander. He continued, awe and dread warring within him. He was forced into absurd detours, circling for two hundred ters to avoid a demon that a ten-ter straight path could have bypassed.
And then, he was there. Outside a mage tower that pulsed with corrupt, sickening power. Malfurion’s soul froze. He recognized this place; it was the lair of the traitor, Xavius. Just as he prepared to follow the mark inside, he saw three new symbols hovering above the entrance.
He had learned the marks by now. Yellow for common demons. Silver for elite. But these were different. He knew the first: the symbol of a high Kaldorei magus, for Xavius himself. But the other two... The other two were terrifying beyond belief: two slender, female demon figures, holding staffs, with two black sun-fras hovering over their heads, each framing a red-eyed, white skull.
"Two great lord-level demons? Two of them...?"
His greatest fear had co to pass. He had to go in. He drifted through the tower, a labyrinth of twisted shadows, psychedelic colors, and crushing magic seals. The space was a paradox of imnse size and claustrophobic passages. Every second he spent searching for the seal, more night elves were dying in the world outside, slaughtered by the hellhounds, their blood flowing into the moat.
Ti was an illusion in the dream, but he knew the truth of it. He had fallen into this slumber before the armies had even moved. He could only pray the battle had not already been lost.
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