Chapter 40: The True God and the Chosen One |
Stormwind Prison, contraband storage.
Right now, a portly guard was bent over, rummaging through rows of wooden shelves.
His name was Makur. He had worked in this sunless dungeon for ten years, and his greatest pleasure was rifling through prisoners’ belongings. Of course, every now and then a few silver coins would “accidentally” slip into his pockets.
That was his side income, and nobody cared.
The prisoners? Who would bother about a bunch of criminals.
“Let’s see… that pretty boy who came in today…” Makur mumbled, opening a wooden chest that had just arrived.
Inside the box were a few disheveled clothes, a short sword, a cloak, a ring, and some miscellaneous items.
His hand reached in and felt a heavy coin pouch.
He opened it and found two gleaming gold coins and seventy-six silver coins, sparkling enticingly in the dim oil lamp light.
“Ha! This clueless kid has this kind of money and doesn’t even think to share?” he clicked his tongue in amazement, stuffing the pouch into his vest. “Serves you right for ending up in prison.”
He rummaged further and pulled out a shriveled ration bag and…
a dagger.
It looked like a fairly ordinary ceremonial dagger.
Makur casually picked it up, about to toss it back into the chest—
but his gaze suddenly froze.
The engraved patterns on the sheath seemed to writhe slowly, as if alive.
Makur stared at it without blinking, as if he’d been rooted to the spot.
“Pick me up.”
A voice sounded inside his head.
It was soft and alluring, like a lover’s whisper, yet like a call from an abyss.
Makur shivered, but did not snap out of it. Instead, he stared at the dagger with deepening infatuation.
“Pick me up… I am yours…”
His hand tightened around the hilt involuntarily.
A cold sensation crept across his palm, but it brought him a strange pleasure.
Makur grinned, a wicked purple light flashing across his eyes.
He slipped the dagger into his waist, staggered to his feet, and shuffled out of the storeroom.
As for what he had intended to do before—he had already forgotten.
At the same time, deep in the dungeon.
Allen sat on damp straw, leaning against the cold stone wall, his mood heavy.
The bully who had come to stir up trouble had shrunk into a corner and dared not make a sound after Allen gave him a glare.
Now the bully was curled up in the far corner of the cell, sneaking glances at him from time to time, then quickly looking away.
Allen had no time to pay him any attention. Thoughts churned through his mind.
Onyxia had said she would leave Stormwind for Lordaeron tomorrow.
Of course—she would not remain in Stormwind permanently.
Allen now vaguely remembered that reopening the Dark Portal required a few treasures, most likely the usual three: Medivh’s book, the Eye of Dalaran, and Sargeras’s scepter.
Gorefiend’s infiltration into Azeroth was probably aimed at retrieving those three items. Could one of them be hidden in Stormwind?
Very possible.
It now seemed likely that Teron Gorefiend had reached some agreement with the black dragons; Onyxia had assisted Gorefiend’s operations in Stormwind, but that assistance stopped there.
Without Onyxia, Gorefiend was not invincible.
What Allen had to do now was leave this prison, rendezvous with Wen Lei and the others, confirm Varian’s current situation, and then kill Teron Gorefiend.
A mouse crawled out from the wall corner, squeaking, sniffing through the straw.
Allen instinctively patted his pockets—empty. His belongings had been taken.
Not the dagger he had long treated as a wand.
He lifted his hand, and a faint glow appeared at his fingertips.
Speak with Animals.
In an instant, the world sharpened. Tiny noises became clear, vague sensations grew acute.
The mouse’s squeaks turned into words in his ears:
“Hungry… hungry…”
Allen squatted down and looked at the little gray creature.
“You lead me to a way out of here, and I’ll give you something tasty.”
The mouse tilted its head, its black eyes staring at him.
“Hungry… hungry… hungry…”
Allen: “…”
This mouse probably only knew that one word.
He sighed and stood up.
He tapped the chain on his right wrist with his left hand.
Knock.
Clack.
The chain snapped, falling to the ground with a crisp sound.
The bully in the corner widened his eyes, stunned.
Allen flexed his wrist, then turned his head toward the gobsmacked thug.
“Where can I get food around here?”
The thug trembled. His name was Pete. He had been arrested three months ago for theft and had been bullied here regularly. Seeing a fresh pretty face like Allen’s had made him think he could pick on someone new.
Pete shivered all over and stammered:
“Th-this… this is a prison. The guards only issue food once a day, not now…”
Seeing the deep, sinister look in Allen’s eyes, Pete shivered and hurriedly corrected himself:
“There is… there is! Collin! Collin is the boss among the prisoners here. He definitely has food! Even right now he must have some!”
“Where is he?”
Pete pointed, trembling, then hesitated before clenching his teeth and saying:
“Brother, I—I’ll show you the way!”
Allen raised an eyebrow.
Pete immediately regretted his words, pulling a long face at the iron bars. “But… but we can’t get out either, right?”
Allen walked up to the door of his cell and tapped once.
Clack.
The lock opened.
The thug’s eyes bulged—my god, this big shot must be a mage; that’s a big deal in his world.
By the way, how did you end up in here?
Allen swaggered out and glanced back at the thug.
Pete gritted his teeth and forced himself to follow.
They walked through dim corridors, winding and turning, until they arrived at a relatively spacious cell.
The scene there was starkly different from the rest.
Clean straw covered the floor, a few wine bottles were piled in the corner, and even half a roasted chicken was stuck on a makeshift wooden rack.
Several burly prisoners sat together, drinking and tearing into meat.
The bald, burly man at the head should be Collin.
His face was full of coarse flesh, and a snarling gray wolf tattooed on his chest. He was gnawing at a drumstick, mouth greasy with juices.
Pete cowered behind Allen and whispered, “That… that’s him…”
Allen strode up to the cell door.
The prisoners looked up, paused, then burst into derisive laughter.
“Well well? Where did this pretty boy come from?” a thin-faced fellow jeered.
Collin put down his drumstick, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and sized Allen up with contempt and mockery.
“New here? Know the rules?” he grinned, showing yellow teeth. “If you want to survive here, you better pay your respects to me first.”
Allen looked at him calmly and said, “I want a piece of bread.”
“Bread?” Collin laughed as if he’d heard the world’s funniest joke, tilting his head back.
The lackeys laughed uproariously too.
“Where the hell do you think you are? A charity home?” Collin rose, shook his thick neck, clenched his fist, and walked toward Allen.
The lackeys rose with him, grinning viciously as they closed in.
Pete’s legs went weak with fear, but he dared not run, trembling behind Allen.
Allen stayed perfectly still, simply watching Collin.
“Before you move, I have one last question.” His voice was terrifying in its calmness. “What crimes did you all commit to end up here?”
Collin paused, then sneered. His grin was overflowing with pride and recklessness.
“You little bastard, I killed eleven people and ended up here.” He leaned close to Allen, his breath smelling of wine, and spoke each word slowly. “Even so, I escaped the death sentence. Don’t you get it?”
Allen watched him. His lips barely moved as he mouthed a few silent syllables.
Mind Blast!
Collin’s body stiffened suddenly.
He froze where he stood, the feral grin on his face solidifying like a clay statue.
“Boss?” a lackey prodded him in puzzlement. “Boss, what’s wrong with you?”
Collin didn’t respond.
He stood rigid as dark red fluid slowly seeped from his orifices.
The lackey pushed again.
Thud.
Collin’s body collapsed, kicking up a cloud of dust.
The cell fell into deadly silence in an instant.
The lackeys stared at Collin’s fallen body, then looked up at Allen. Their expressions shifted from confusion to alarm, and alarm to sheer terror.
“Black… black wizard!”
“He’s a warlock!”
“Help—!”
They screamed, scrambling backward as if they wanted to crawl into the walls.
Allen looked at his hands and sighed.
Without Xal’atath, even the power of Mind Blast was greatly reduced.
A spell that could have obliterated a head could now only crudely shatter a brain.
Just then, a clamor of footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor.
“The guards! The guards are coming!”
Someone shouted.
Everyone turned.
A figure emerged from the dim end of the corridor.
He wore a guard’s uniform, but his gait was unsteady, his posture odd as if sleepwalking.
Clutched to his chest was a dagger, held like something priceless.
It was that guard.
He cradled the dagger and walked with slow, deliberate steps.
The yellow light fell across his face, revealing an obsessed, intoxicated expression, as if lost in the sweetest dream.
The lackeys saw the guard and instantly treated him like a savior.
“Guard! Captain! Quick! This warlock killed Collin the boss!”
“He used evil sorcery! He’s a warlock! Arrest him!”
“You must stand up for us!”
They cried out excitedly, eyes lighting with the hope of revenge.
Collin had killed someone for some noble; that noble’s influence had greased the wheels. The guards usually turned a blind eye to Collin, but now Collin was dead and the guards would surely avenge him!
The pretty boy is finished!