Chapter 78: Why Has Master Ner'zhul Not Arrived? (1) |
The cheers rose like a tide, echoing beneath the hall's vaulted ceiling.
Those who had been neglected for too long, suppressed for too long, people who had nowhere in this city to belong, were clapping fanatically; some even shed tears.
They finally had a name.
The Cult of the Damned.
A name that belonged to them.
Kel'Thuzad in the crowd heard that name and froze for a moment.
Nice name.
Allen stood before the stone platform, waiting for the cheers to subside slightly before speaking again.
“In times of crisis, no one can shrink back.” His gaze swept slowly across them, “Then I will be the one to lead. I volunteer—I'm willing to be the leader of this Cult of the Damned.”
She looked at the man standing on the platform, smiling; that smile was gentle and composed, as if he was born to stand there.
She felt her heart sinking. Was this infiltration, or was she leading a lamb straight into a tiger's den?
Stella leapt from Allen's shoulder and flapped her wings, circling above the hall.
“Leader! Leader!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, her voice sharp and clear as it rang through the hall.
“I propose,” Allen's voice sounded again, carrying an unquestionable certainty, “we first eliminate every member of the Council of Six. Then lock up any mages who disagree with our ideals in one place and manage them together. And then—”
“Wait, wait.” The man in the dark red robe finally interrupted, unable to hold back. A smile remained on his face, but it had grown a little stiff. “Brother or sister, may I ask your name?”
Allen turned his head and focused on him. “My name is Ner'zhul.”
“All right, Ner'zhul.” The man coughed, trying to soften his tone, “I think you're a bit excited. You just joined us; it's better if you—”
“Fine!” Allen's voice shot up sharply, drowning out the man's words. “To show my sincerity, I'd like to demonstrate an interesting spell. I think we should all share with each other…by the way, do you have a corpse?”
The man in the dark red robe looked to Kel'Thuzad, who nodded slightly. The man then sent someone away for a short while.
After a moment, a few people returned carrying the corpse of a middle-aged man and placed it on the dais.
“We pursue truth, yet we are told certain domains are untouchable. We yearn for power, yet we're taught some powers must not be used.” Allen raised his hand, necromantic energy coiling at his fingertips like black flames. “Death is merely another form of life. And we—are entitled to understand it.”
He bent down and laid his palm on the corpse's forehead.
Necromantic power surged from his palm like a black tide, enveloping the entire body.
The wall lamps in the hall dimmed at once, and a cold wind blew in from nowhere, brushing every face.
Then the corpse opened its eyes.
He sat up slowly, like someone waking from a long sleep.
Allen straightened, spread his arms, and his voice rang through the hall: “This is our potential! Death cannot refuse us!”
Silence held for less than three seconds. Then applause and cheers exploded.
“The dead hold no secrets from us!” Allen's voice rose above the clamor.
Great!
The crowd cheered wildly!
Amy's face was ghastly pale, full of despair.
This was over—there was no mistaking it, he was an evil necromancer.
Allen turned to face the sitting corpse.
“What is your name?”
“Edwin Moore.”
“How did you die?”
The corpse was silent for a moment. “I...accidentally fell to my death.”
Allen nodded. So the corpse had been stolen. He asked a few more irrelevant questions, then waved his hand and the corpse slowly lay back down, returning to stillness.
The atmosphere in the hall was fully ignited. Dozens of people crowded forward, clamoring with questions, their eyes fanatically reverent like pilgrims.
“What kind of magic is this?!” “What’s the principle? Could you show it again?!” “I’ve never seen necromancy this powerful...”
Allen raised a hand to quiet them.
The noise gradually subsided, dozens of eager eyes fixed on him.
“Calm down, everyone, please calm down. I never hoard knowledge. Once I am one of the Cult of the Damned, I will share everything I know with all of you.”
The man in the dark red robe squeezed in beside Allen, his smile now much more sincere than before.
He put an arm around Allen’s shoulder and turned to everyone present.
“Brothers and sisters!” his voice thrilled, “I have one more announcement! In three days, a major event will occur in Dalaran—our chance to prove ourselves has come!”
The crowd fell silent, all eyes focused on him.
“With some luck,” he lowered his voice but could not hide his excitement, “we will be able to overturn this rotten order.”
He released Allen's shoulder and began assigning tasks.
Something big would happen in Dalaran three days from now, but the specifics were withheld for the moment.
The newly formed Cult of the Damned would act at that moment.
“Many people haven’t come today,” he said finally, eyes blazing, “but on that day, I hope everyone can take part.”
Watching the heated discussion, Allen nodded frequently—excellent, simply excellent. Keep debating, keep planning the subversion, gather them all together, and then wipe them out at once.
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Three days passed in a blur.
By day, Allen took direct instruction from Krasus, laboring desperately to master a single spell—Arcane Intellect.
By night, he showed up on time in the sewer hall.
He lectured on the stone platform, sharing “insights” into necromantic spells.
Most of those insights were fabrications—trickery to get them to obsess over things they couldn't reproduce, so he could blame lack of talent, accents in their incantations, insincerity, or improper posture when it failed.
But Allen did not expect that, the next day, the man in the red robe would excitedly find him and say he had spent the whole night trying Allen's method and had at last succeeded in drawing faint life energy from a rose.
Allen was stunned.
“What’s your name?”
“Arthas,” the man answered, his tone a humbled pride.
Allen was silent for a moment. Arthas. The name sounded familiar. In the Western Plaguelands, there was a lich named Arthas, he thought.
He looked at the man before him and sighed silently. Kid, no wonder you'll become a lich someday.
From then on, his status in the Cult of the Damned rose by leaps and bounds.
More and more people began calling him “Master Ner'zhul.” His suggestions were adopted, his opinions valued; he even began to help decide times and locations for actions.
Only Kel'Thuzad, who had initially admired and been excited, gradually turned calm, then taciturn, and eventually just watched them silently, coming late, leaving early, and then not coming at all.
But Allen’s rise in the Cult of the Damned had become unstoppable.
If Allen hadn't secretly taken Amy Marlin to meet with the Council of Six, she feared she would not have been able to restrain herself from bringing him to justice.
On the final day before the action, Allen even sent a letter to Wen Laisa, thinking maybe they didn't have to wait for her to come to Dalaran; they could muster directly in Stormwind.
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The three days had arrived.
The sewer hall was packed. There were more than twice as many people as three days before; black heads pressed from the platform all the way back to the tunnel entrance.
They had named the operation “Day of Renewal.”
It was Master Ner'zhul’s suggestion—Dalaran would be reborn today.
This was the final mobilization meeting. Also Ner'zhul’s suggestion.
Yet when the meeting began, someone noticed, “Huh? Why isn't Master Ner'zhul here?”