Chapter 1 – Yvhanar Primordia (Prologue)
Planet Azeroth, roughly twenty-five million years ago, was nothing but a burning crucible. The land as we know it did not yet exist: vast seas of magma merged with choking clouds of scalding steam, and thunderous storms of heat raged without respite. Rocky outcrops appeared only in fleeting patches—fragile islands amid rivers of fire.
On that day, in a primordial valley of ever-sputtering lava, four colossal figures emerged one by one from the depths of a cracked fissure.
Y'Shaarj, a tentacled horror veiled in purple corruption, drove its root-like limbs into the planet's molten core, emitting a violet aura that seeped into every crevice.
C'Thun, its countless eyestalks dangling from a ragged maw, wove webs of corruption through the rock, seeking to ensnare anything with breath.
Yogg-Saron, his cracked visage echoing in primordial winds, whispered madness into any ear that could still hear.
N'Zoth, slithering like a wave of living shadow, crawled along underground fissures, sewing Void-taint into the bedrock itself.
As these Old Gods took root, formless shades of Void—Faceless Ones—crawled forth from the steaming mists, born from shattered violet crystals. Not far off, swarms of Aqir (ancestors to the Nerubian and Mantid lines) emerged from subterranean vaults, establishing sprawling nests on newly formed ground. Thus was born the Black Empire: a realm of corruption that cared for nothing but dominion over all things.
Amid the roar of sulphurous magma and the stench of despair, a strange miracle unfolded on the edge of a rocky ledge—where the lava flow surprisingly stilled for a brief moment. There, a tiny green sprout broke through the fractured stone. As motes of violet corruption drifted toward it, they solidified and shattered upon touching a faint halo of emerald roots. This sprout was not of Azeroth's World Soul but held within it the consciousness of a modern human: Yvhanar Primordia.
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A Separate Awakening
Darkness. Blistering heat. The continuous rumble of molten rock. Those were the first sensations that Kenthael felt when his awareness returned. In his previous life, he was a thirty-two-year-old man—recently laid off, trapped in an empty apartment, numbing his frustration by playing Warcraft for hours. That fateful night, he had attempted to defeat Archimonde on the hardest difficulty, only to fail again and again. Frustrated, he slammed his fist onto his desk; the screen flashed a brilliant blue, and he was pulled into a darkness he assumed would never end.
Now, he was in another world—an inferno too hot for any living being. Kenthael "opened his eyes," yet all he perceived was an abyss of black. He attempted to cry out, but no sound escaped. He sensed his body turning rigid, ensnared within a living trunk anchored to cracked earth. He could not move his hands—no, not because of injury, but because he was no longer human. He was a sapling: the very first shoot to ever grow in Azeroth's history, long before any Titan had set foot there.
In that utter blackness, Kenthael's mind fractured in two: one part recognized the absurdity of his new reality, while the other surrendered to the primal instincts of a tree. He could neither open his eyes to see nor hear the distant clamor of elemental warriors. Even the word "finger," once so familiar, had been replaced by "twig." Everything felt alien, as if half his being had been severed from reality and cast into an endless void of fear.
One question pulsed inside him, echoing in that void:
> "How could I become a tree? Is this the end of my life after death—or a more dreadful beginning?"
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Traces of Humanity in Living Wood
Beneath layers of fractured rock, the Old Gods prepared their final assault. Yogg-Saron, C'Thun, N'Zoth, and Y'Shaarj had spread Void corruption, forcing the Elemental Lords into submission under the Black Empire's crushing rule. On those warped fields of fire and storm, young Elementals were bound as soldiers, shackled by fate itself. Yet Yvhanar Primordia refused to yield. The violet motes of Void magic shriveled and died the instant they touched its roots, as though consumed by some unseen flame.
Inside that tiny sprout, Kenthael's human memories surfaced in rapid flashes: parents he'd once adored, dreams of founding a company, hopes of traveling the world—all had crumbled the day he lost his job. Now, those memories collided with the raw terror of this infernal landscape:
> "If only I could move… Send money to my sister, help my family—everything now seems wasted."
"Are they even alive in that world I left behind? Have they forgotten me, assumed I'm dead?"
But there was no answer—only the searing heat of magma, the relentless press of corruption, and his wooden body slowly adjusting to the primordial energies swirling around him.
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Breathing System and Life Points
A full day passed without any change. Each second felt like an entire lifetime. Then, out of the silent haze, a soft voice resonated inside Kenthael's mind:
> "Ding. Breathing system activated.
Each breath you take grants you one point of natural energy."
Kenthael was stunned. He never imagined that, as a tree, he would hear a "system" speak to him. Summoning the last shards of his awareness, he tried to mimic inhaling and exhaling—though his wooden form had never known breath. His gentle exhale was enough to trigger the system:
> "You have breathed slowly. Gained one life point."
Instantly, a tiny spark of light flickered in his mind. He understood: every breath now counted as one day in the system's reckoning. Even though his body was immobilized, he now had a measure of time—a way to know how long he had been trapped in this ancient expanse.
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The First Breakthrough and Evolution Choices
From that moment onward, Kenthael's days came to revolve around each "ding." On the tenth day, a new announcement echoed in his consciousness:
> "Congratulations! You have reached Breakthrough Ten.
Please select your evolution path:
1. Radiant and Beautiful
2. Grand and Mighty
3. Middling and Steady"
"Radiant and Beautiful" promised a dazzling transformation—vibrant leaves, shimmering bark. "Grand and Mighty" meant his trunk would become massive, granting additional strength and resilience at the cost of greater energy expenditure. "Middling and Steady" offered basic elemental resistance, with no conspicuous physical change.
As his perception cleared—seeing not through human eyes but the "true sight" of a tree—Kenthael beheld a distant sea of lava, jagged boulders carved by ancient upheavals, and scores of Elementals locked in fierce combat: water against fire, earth against wind, all tearing at the fractured surface. He understood that, as a man, he would have chosen "Radiant and Beautiful" or "Grand and Mighty" without hesitation. But now, in his fragile wooden form, a drastic transformation would demand more energy than he could possibly muster amidst this volcanic fury. With heavy resolve, he selected:
> "Middling and Steady."
Immediately, the specks of light in his mind pulsed and spread throughout his wooden form. No visible change occurred, but Kenthael felt new resilience flood his fibers: where molten magma once would have incinerated him, he now only felt searing heat—no longer instant annihilation. He could "see" more clearly: drooping twigs, tiny leaves, slender roots weaving through rocky cracks, and timid elemental sprites flitting about.
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Elemental Sprites and a First Taste of Freedom
A few days after his evolution, Kenthael began noticing "elemental sprites" alighting on his delicate branches and leaves:
Tiny creatures of living flame, burning miniature hollows into his bark.
Water essences clinging to his trunk, tickling him like ripples on a stream.
Clumps of earth that crawled along his roots in search of residual energy.
Wisps of breeze dancing on the tips of his twigs, whispering secrets of the air.
One by one, these sprites carved tiny wounds: scorching burns, vapid chills, stinging shards. Kenthael could not move to ward them off—their presence became both torment and strange solace:
> "Just you wait, little creatures… If I could move, I'd cut myself free just to rid me of you…!"
Yet his only outlet was internal rage; his wooden body remained immobile, and only his mind could rebel.
Then, on the twentieth day, the dark sky above the magma fissure burst open, and rain fell upon the sea of fire. For most trees, rain is a blessing. For Kenthael, the first drops felt like icy lashes—he felt the urge to shrink away, but how? Gradually, he discovered he could flex his leaves, creating a tiny "umbrella" to protect himself. The first time a branch budged, he experienced an astonishing sensation:
> "I can still move…"
As rain pounded his leaves, a shiver of delight ran through him, however odd it felt. He sensed each drop percolating into his wood, infusing him with a relief far sweeter than flame. A new feeling blossomed: freedom. He could not relocate, but at least he controlled his twigs. The rain transformed from merciless punishment into a friend, cooling his bark and allowing elemental energy to flow in him—each drop tasting like salvation instead of scorch:
> "Though I am a tree, life goes on. To flex my twigs alone brings joy. Even if great evolution is far off, I still breathe… and that means I live."
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A Hundred Days and Growing Hope
A hundred days slipped by in a flash. Kenthael's life points had swelled into the hundreds, though their full significance remained veiled. His trunk thickened—not from "Grand and Mighty" evolution, but from gradual adaptation to this magma-scarred world. He felt subtle shifts in pressure whenever squadrons of flame danced too near, or when flocks of water sprites flowed by and soothed his burns. Sometimes, flocks of "elemental songbirds" chirped imperceptibly to human ears, dancing atop his branches. To them, Kenthael was a tiny grove cradling life itself.
Then, one moment—be it dawn or dusk, since day and night now blurred—Kenthael realized something profound: the heart that had nearly snapped from isolation now felt lighter. He sensed the pulse of life around him: the rustle of moss, the whisper of twig and leaf, the gentle murmur of forest creatures. Though he stood as a mere sapling amid oceans of magma, he felt a miracle sprout within: hope that one day Yvhanar Primordia would blossom, her power enough to alter the tides of war among the Elemental Lords and to quell the darkness of the Old Gods.
> "Someday, I will be more than just a survivor—I will be a protector. The world of Warcraft does not yet know, but here begins a far greater tale."
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The Clash of the Elemental Lords
The sun had yet to rise, but the thunder of battle echoed across the fissure—four mighty Elemental Lords still clashing on the far side, their war reshaping the very bones of Azeroth. In that arena of fractured earth and burning magma, the armies of the Old Gods surged forth: Aqir advancing in disciplined ranks, Faceless Ones slipping through swirling mists, and malformed shadows of Void erupting in savage frenzy.
At the center of it all, Ragnaros roared, hurling torrents of molten flame. His inferno incinerated anything in its path, forging rivers of scorching lava that carved channels through the landscape. Neptulon countered with boiling steam tsunamis, smashing against the rivers of magma, forging pockets of deadly scalding mists. Where water and fire collided, the fiercest skirmishes erupted, spawning colossal plumes of vapor that seared flesh. Beneath the surface, Therazane the Stonemother worked the stone like living clay, creating vast fortress-like walls that held back the magma's surge. Overhead, Al'Akir the Windlord roared in towering storms, hurling superheated sand and jagged stones in blistering gales that shredded anything caught unprotected.
Amid that elemental cataclysm, Yvhanar Primordia stood unwavering—its trunk and roots coiled like a fortress, warding off every tendril of Void. It absorbed stray bursts of elemental energy: shards of cooled lava solidified into protective stone, scalding steam condensed into gentle mist, tremors distilled into fertile soil, and raging gusts softened into playful breezes. Every conscious "breath" granted it a life point, fueling its resistance against the endless corruption.
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The Arrival of the Titan-forged
Deep tremors shook the planet, as though Azeroth itself cried out for salvation. Far beyond the mortal plane, the Titans—colossal cosmic architects—sensed the weakening heartbeat of the World Soul. They did not descend in physical form; instead, they sent forth their champions: the Titan-forged, legendary beings designed to re-establish order.
From the dark heavens, titanic figures of amber stone and cobalt crystal descended to the scarred surface:
Highkeeper Khaz'goroth touched down with earth-shaking footsteps, his massive arms crushing the fiery ground to forge hills of solid rock that could hold back the magma's flow.
Freya, crowned in living wood and moss, exhaled the breath of renewal, coaxing new roots and flora to sprout in alliance with her Vanir entourage.
Mimiron, radiant with starlight, erected towering cosmic spires whose radiant beams shattered the latticework of Void corruption.
Tyr, Paragon of Justice, brandished a shaft of pure light that burned away the taint, imprisoning Yogg-Saron in an infernal cage.
Hodir, King of Frost, conjured bone-chilling winds that froze the most lethal torrents of lava into crystalline catacombs.
And the Vanir, elemental avatars, wove their essences—water, earth, and wind—into sealing wards to bind their foes.
To these Keepers, the fissures of magma and steamy haze appeared as unimaginable aberrations. Yet when Khaz'goroth's massive gaze fell upon the small "isle" of stone where Yvhanar Primordia had rooted, he detected an otherworldly resonance—a defiance of corruption. Without realizing it, his colossal foot pressed upon its roots, and with a single, thunderous blow of his hand, he reshaped the fractured bedrock into a broad, sturdy platform. What had been unstable ledge above molten rock was now an unbreakable bastion.
Freya scattered seeds of grass and luminescent moss into every crack, transforming scalding steam into warm pools of life-giving water. Mimiron erected crystalline towers that pulsed with arcane energy, unraveling the last tendrils of Void. Tyr's beam of honest light immolated the creeping webs of C'Thun, leaving nothing but ash. Hodir's chill blast iced over the remaining rivers of lava, freezing them solid. The Vanir merged with the earth itself, calming quakes and transmuting stray steam into gentle dews.
By these herculean efforts, Yvhanar Primordia found itself at the center of a newly shaped sanctuary—an island of impermeable stone where its roots could finally anchor. Its once-humble trunk had grown to the height of a man's knee, and its tender leaves glowed faintly under the dim radiance of Mimiron's spires. Though still vulnerable, the sapling's aura of life now sufficed to repel Y'Shaarj's desperate tendrils. Any mote of violet corruption that dared approach was consumed by the living pulse of the sprout.
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Remolding Azeroth's Surface
Once the Old Gods were seized in primordia prisons, the final clash with the Elemental Lords began in earnest:
Ragnaros was cast into the elemental plane of Firelands, an eternal realm of fire and brimstone.
Neptulon was bound within the Abyssal Maw, an oceanic void of freezing tides.
Therazane was sealed in Deepholm, the core of the earth encased in stone.
Al'Akir was imprisoned in Skywall, the indefinable windswept realm above the clouds.
The Keepers—Freya, Khaz'goroth, Mimiron, Tyr, and Hodir—working alongside their Vanir allies, set about re-forging the world's surface:
The once-raging magma was corralled into vast, solidified basins of obsidian, hidden deep beneath the crust.
The scalding steam was dispersed, allowing the atmosphere to thicken with cloud cover that trapped residual heat, while remaining vapors coalesced into lakes and rivers.
The shattered earth was compacted into plateaus and plains sturdy enough to bear the first footsteps of mortal creatures.
The howling winds dulled into gentle breezes, birthing a nascent weather cycle that would nurture emerging life.
Amid these vast changes, Yvhanar Primordia remained steadfast—no longer a sapling, but a small tree several meters wide. Its roots threaded deeper, anchoring the newly formed land. It drifted back into slumber, eyes of living wood closing in peace after witnessing both elemental chaos and cosmic intervention. Yet its roots continued drawing in the slow flow of elemental energy, sowing seeds of hope for ages to come.
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The Dawn of Mortal Life and the Tree's Mystery
As centuries turned to millennia, this reshaped world began blossoming with mortal life:
Primeval dinosaurs grazed the newly forged plains, whose soil had been tempered by geothermal quiescence.
Reptiles and mammals emerged and diversified, weaving simple food chains across the land.
First avian creatures took to the skies above luminous lakes formed from cooled lava.
Throughout it all, Yvhanar Primordia—now standing as a broad-trunked tree of several meters—served as a silent sentinel. Its emerald canopy reflected the silver glow of distant moons, and its roots enriched the surrounding soil with fertile humus. It remained in deep slumber, preserving memories of the modern world it once knew, ever aware that one day it would awaken.