After the old wizard's dramatic explanation, complete with flailing arms and overly theatrical pauses, Llane and the others finally pieced together the truth: who — or rather what — Alodi truly was.
Alodi wasn't just some dusty footnote in magical history. No, this guy was the first Guardian of the Council of Tirisfal — the magical Avengers before it was cool. But the Council's story didn't start with capes and solo missions. Oh no. Back in the ancient mess of arcane addiction, they were a desperate squad of powerful wizards who banded together not for glory, but because humans had once again royally screwed up.
After swiping magical secrets from the high elves like overconfident toddlers with matches, humanity promptly did what it does best: went full maniac with the magic. The epicenter of this magical dumpster fire? The freshly minted city-state of Dalaran, which decided that responsible spellcasting was for chumps. Their magical recklessness didn't just cause concern — it basically put a "DEMONS WELCOME" sign in the sky.
Cue the inevitable invasion.
In a panic (read: screaming, running, setting things on fire), humanity crawled to the high elves of Quel'Thalas, begging for help like arcane junkies hitting rock bottom. The high elves, equal parts smug and horrified, struck a deal with Dalaran's ruling Magocrats: form a top-secret order of über-powerful spell-slingers to watch over Azeroth and slap humanity's fingers whenever they reached for the arcane cookie jar again.
And thus, the Council of Tirisfal was born. Babysitters of magic. Watchers in the arcane dark.
Alodi, being the first Guardian, was so powerful and mysterious that even his lingering magical voicemail carried enough weight to cause political unrest. So when the old wizard suggested this whole mess might have originated from him, no one blinked.
But Khadgar? Oh, Khadgar was another story.
Even though the guy was dead and buried, the eerie mark of the Council still glowed on the inside of his left forearm like a cursed tattoo that wouldn't quit. It made Llane's stomach churn. Medivh had once been a noble Guardian too, but Khadgar? A glorified spy. A snitch in wizard robes. Sure, his suspicions about Medivh were spot on, but that didn't mean Llane had to like the guy. At least now he was a corpse.
And not an entirely useless one.
Because under the old court wizard's spellwork, the real show began.
With a dramatic flourish (because wizards are contractually obligated to be dramatic), the mage activated Alodi's ancient tome, flooding the air with a swirling, spectral light. A projection shimmered into being — not just an image, but a full-blown magical movie night, complete with surround sound and soul-chilling foreboding.
First came two colossal planets, joined by a long, snake-like line of writhing black energy. Everyone squinted.
Then — zoom, zoom, zoom — the view dove inward, rocketing toward the smaller sphere with breathtaking speed. Clouds whipped by. Landscapes blurred. Trees popped into view. Suddenly, a swamp.
And then Lothar broke the silence with a shout:"The Swamp of Sorrows?! What the hell happened to it!?"
What they saw next twisted their stomachs. The swamp was dying — fast. Once murky waters drained like someone had pulled the cosmic plug. Colorful, confused bugs fled in a mass exodus. The ground cracked. The swamp's trademark greens and blacks gave way to a hellish crimson, like the earth itself was bleeding out.
It wasn't just dying.
Even through the projection, they could feel it — like their lungs were being wrung dry and their bones whispered "get out" in languages older than time. Whatever was coming... was here.
It was wrong. Evil. The kind of evil that didn't creep — it marched. It didn't whisper — it laughed.
Then Bolvar pointed. "What the—what's that?!"
On the bleeding land stood something impossible. A gargantuan structure, looming like a forgotten god: a door. A massive, ominous gate pulsing with black-green energy, like a wound in the world. Orcs poured through in chaos, screaming, snarling, herded by warlords with bigger muscles than patience.
The door's design was alien — part fortress, part temple, part nightmare. At its crown loomed a monstrous stone snake, mouth agape. Flanking the sides were twin reliefs of hooded human mages, swords drawn, stoic and silent.
But then — shock hit like a hammer.
Both reliefs bore the face of Medivh.
And just as the stunned silence settled... the face moved.
Stone cracked and crumbled. Shadow peeled back. The relief turned, stared straight into their souls.
It wasn't just a statue. It was him.
A massive, spectral head — Medivh's head — materialized above the table. His expression? Smiling. Almost warm. Except for the twin infernos of black flame blazing in his eyes.
That... was no longer Medivh.
"Oh, brilliant," the demon purred through Medivh's mouth. "You've tracked this far. I'm genuinely impressed. No, really."
Llane's guards — trained soldiers, seasoned veterans — collapsed like dominoes, overtaken by the sheer malevolence radiating from the demon's gaze. Those still standing looked like they wanted to reconsider their career choices.
"Medivh! No — demon, thing! What are you?! What do you want!?" King Llane's voice wavered, but he stepped forward, sword drawn, flanked by Anduin and Bolvar like true heroes who had absolutely no idea what they were doing.
"Oh, me? I've already won," Sargeras cooed. "The Dark Portal is open. I'll just be watching from my cozy little haunted tower as the orcs trample your cities, burn your forests, and grind your bones into soup. Using your own Guardian's power, no less! How deliciously ironic!"
It started low. Grew louder. Shook the walls. Birds three districts away probably died from the sound. It was the laugh of someone who didn't just win — he was enjoying the encore.
Suddenly, the projection expanded, Medivh's ghostly form now full-bodied, arms wide like a preacher at the end of the world.
"The end has already begun!" he bellowed. "Cry, whimper, beg! You ants! Kneel at my feet and maybe, just maybe— nah, you'll still die! Hahahahahaha!"
And just when things couldn't get more intense, a young voice — clear, defiant, and utterly fed up — cut through the madness:
"Bullshit. We'll kill you and slam that door shut ourselves."
Silence. Pure silence.
Then came the flicker of hope, glowing like a spark in the ash-choked wind.