"Ugh!"
This time, Saurfang's axe blade didn't miss, accurately hacking into Kil'jaeden's abdomen. Kil'jaeden let out a low growl of pain, his palm pressing firmly against the edge of the axe blade.
Saurfang and Kil'jaeden began a struggle of strength. Although an Orc's strength could never surpass that of the towering Eredar Lord, the blessings and magic on him had already stacked countless layers. These magical energies continuously reinforced his stamina and power, allowing him to temporarily stalemate Kil'jaeden in this pure test of strength.
Kil'jaeden pressed against the axe blade, a fierce expression on his face. He managed to free one hand, intending to twist Saurfang's neck.
But just as his hand was about to reach out, a great sense of crisis rose from behind him. He quickly shifted his neck and head, but a sharp pain shot through his shoulder blade. Two green blade tips pierced through flesh and bone, stabbing from behind all the way through to Kil'jaeden's front.
Illidan grinned savagely, twisting the War Glaives in his hands. He actually stepped directly onto Kil'jaeden's back, pressing Kil'jaeden's body down further. Saurfang's Crystal Battle Axe also plunged deeper into Kil'jaeden's abdominal cavity.
Some internal organs had already been pulverized by the dangerous force field emanating from the Crystal Battle Axe. That was the essence of ancient Eredar civilization's craftsmanship. The intelligent Eredar had pushed crystal magic to its peak, and countless advanced techniques and technologies had derived from this magic. Even today, ten thousand years later, it was still enough to threaten an immensely powerful Demon Lord.
As a leader of the Eredar civilization, and one who had once abandoned it, Kil'jaeden never imagined that one day he would be forced to such a desperate situation by these "outdated" relics he had personally cast aside.
The Demon Hunter and the Orc veteran's expressions became distorted. Every muscle in their bodies strained, attempting to utterly finish Kil'jaeden here. But the Demon Lord had not given up his struggle, still resisting with all his might.
Blazing fel flames erupted from Kil'jaeden's body. These flames coiled around Illidan and Saurfang like venomous snakes, branding their skin and flesh with charred black marks, while bringing extreme pain and torment to their souls.
However, even soul-piercing pain, pain enough to cause shock and unconsciousness from sheer agony, could not stop Saurfang and Illidan's actions. The Demon Hunter's smile grew more savage, but the War Glaives in his hands remained firmly gripped.
Saurfang's body was far less robust than Illidan's. Logically, his body should have long since convulsed uncontrollably under such torment, causing him to lose control of his axe. But Kil'jaeden had greatly underestimated the will of a veteran who had made his resolve. Saurfang nearly fainted from the pain that could not be resisted by blessings or protective magic, but his body pressed the axe down with even greater force. The pain indeed tormented him, but it also made his strength even greater.
Kil'jaeden could not understand why this was happening. "Damn… these mortals, can't they just die obediently?!"
He lost his composure for the first time, roaring almost madly. He didn't understand why these seemingly fragile mortals, who could be destroyed by the simplest annihilation spell, always erupted with strength he couldn't comprehend, why they always stood in his way?!
"Pah!"
Saurfang spat out a mouthful of blood with disdain, the veins on his face twitching and trembling like worms. His already ferocious face became even more terrifying and inhuman, yet his eyes held contempt.
He had nothing to say to Kil'jaeden. All he wanted to do was avenge Draenor and all the innocent people who had died. Even if his hands were already stained with the blood of innocents, Saurfang had long been prepared to atone for it, even if it meant sacrificing his life.
So when Kil'jaeden's soul-burning flames touched him, Saurfang did not waver in the slightest. He still held his axe steadily, just as he had when he was first taught how to grip a weapon—simple yet stable.
Kil'jaeden could not escape the control of Illidan and Saurfang, but he knew that Saurfang in front of him was far more vulnerable than the Demon Hunter behind him. Thus, the most lethal fel light was already flashing on his chest. In the skull-like artifact, the vibrating magical energy almost dyed Saurfang's vision orange-yellow.
That was the most terrifying destructive spell. Even if Saurfang knew nothing about magic, he understood that if he took that blow, his flesh and soul would instantly turn to ash.
But so what?
Saurfang sneered, and while Kil'jaeden was casting the spell, he tried again to plunge the axe into Kil'jaeden's chest.
"Bang!"
However, Kil'jaeden's desperate strike ultimately failed to be unleashed, because a holy light, like a sword of judgment, pierced through Kil'jaeden's chest, annihilating both his artifact and his wicked heart.
Kil'jaeden's movements instantly froze as he lost one of his sources of power. He laboriously turned his head to look at Velen, who stood in the distance. The former Eredar leader, now the Draenei Prophet, held a crown, and several crystals emitting different magnificent lights floated behind him.
Velen was also breathing heavily at this time; using these holy relics also came with a great cost. Moreover, he didn't just use one; to ensure his attack would be enough to utterly defeat Kil'jaeden, he chose to use all the holy relics he could control simultaneously.
And these ancient relics did not disappoint Velen. Even after being buried under ruins and dust for ten thousand years, when someone who truly knew how to wield them appeared, these holy relics still unleashed incredible power.
Like a miracle, these powers were infused by Velen into his spell. The holy light transformed into a blade that condemned evil, and at this moment, it utterly ended Kil'jaeden's wickedness.
The once invincible Demon Lord finally fell. When his massive body tumbled, the tremor generated knocked both Illidan and Saurfang flying.
Illidan flipped in the air, stabilizing himself with his wings, a smile on his face. Dranosh and Maraad simultaneously caught the exhausted Saurfang.
Only Kil'jaeden alone fell helplessly to the ground, seemingly devoid of life.
Velen exhaled, the holy relics around him one by one losing their luster and falling back down. The surrounding Wardens swiftly caught these holy relics. Although their sturdiness made it unlikely they would be damaged by such a height, these items represented the lost Eredar civilization, and every Warden who caught a holy relic had a solemn and reverent expression.
The Prophet, looking a little tired, smiled at his brethren. The holy light that had enveloped him had also dimmed considerably.
Cheers erupted on the ship. After Kil'jaeden fell, the Khorne Demons lost their source of power and had been banished back to their original planes. The soldiers could finally briefly relax their tense nerves.
Velen, however, did not participate in the celebration. He sighed and walked towards Kil'jaeden with a solemn expression.
As if sensing something, Kil'jaeden, with one breath left, laboriously propped up his upper body and looked at Velen. Only this time, his scarred and blistered face no longer held its previous ferocity and cruelty, only the calm before death.
"Velen… I never thought… you would still win…"
"..."
Velen remained silent, not answering Kil'jaeden's words. Kil'jaeden, however, gave a self-deprecating laugh, "Did you… already see this outcome, which is why you dared to challenge me here? Ha… how truly… enviable…"
"You yourself gave up victory, old friend." Velen slowly spoke. He watched his dearest friend and enemy's life force gradually wane, but could only sigh helplessly. "We had a chance—"
"A chance? Heh heh… if such a thing truly exists."
Kil'jaeden interrupted Velen's words. His gaze passed over Velen's body, looking at the massive, familiar, yet scarred planet, and let out his last sigh in life.
"Argus…"
The massive fel energy within Kil'jaeden's body could no longer be controlled after his life ended. Beams of energy pierced his flesh and skin from the inside out, transforming him into a super fel bomb that, after a brief accumulation, instantly exploded.
Its terrifying power instantly tore apart the entire Legion warship, and then these energies caused secondary explosions of other unstable substances within the ship. The fully armed warship erupted into a green fel void above Argus.
The extremely unstable fel, after its violent expansion, caused intense spatial fluctuations. Soon, these scattered fel energies tore through space, forming a gaping maw at the center of the explosion, where space first shattered. The fel fire then violently collapsed inwards until everything returned to nothingness; both Kil'jaeden and the warship completely vanished from the skies above Argus.
Almost all the allied forces, who had already been teleported back to their own ship, witnessed the final moments of Kil'jaeden's demise. The overwhelming green light reflected on each of their faces, turning them green. Maraad, supported by his teammates, glanced back once and then no longer cared.
For most, Kil'jaeden was the beginning of nightmares in their fate, the origin of all misfortune. After witnessing the Demon Commander's death, many Draenei and orcs had tears streaming down their faces.
Velen, however, was not among them. The Prophet, who harbored a deep-seated hatred for Kil'jaeden, suddenly felt a surge of bewilderment and helplessness in his heart.
Fate seemed to constantly toy with Velen; even though he could foresee the future, he could change nothing. His son died before his eyes, and he was powerless. His planet was gradually withering, dilapidated, yet he still had no way to restore Argus to its former state.
Vaguely, he seemed to hear his homeworld beneath his feet wailing and screaming, much like the tormented Draenei, with surging fury smoldering in pain and hatred.
"Old Prophet."
A call interrupted Velen's contemplation. Velen turned to look and saw the unconventional Demon Hunter, Illidan.
Illidan had simply treated his injuries. The battle with Kil'jaeden had inevitably left him with some wounds. Although these minor injuries were nothing to this Demon Hunter, the ship's physician still insisted on treating him.
"Illidan, thank you. Without you, we might not have been able to defeat Kil'jaeden." Velen expressed his gratitude, bowing slightly to Illidan.
Illidan, however, waved his hand dismissively. "I only went to Eredath to try my luck, to see if I could find Kil'jaeden's weakness. I didn't expect to only get a pile of relics I couldn't use. Fortunately, the outcome was good."
He hadn't expected those Eredar relics to be one more troublesome than the last. While it wasn't impossible to use them by force, his body, filled with fel energy, was clearly not "favored" by these relics. If he were to forcibly activate them, the relics' power would likely be reduced to less than a tenth.
And to defeat Kil'jaeden, a tenth of their power would clearly be far from enough.
So Illidan had only made the most appropriate judgment—if he had a few decades, he wouldn't mind thoroughly researching the origins of these Eredar relics. Although he had become a Demon Hunter who utilized fel, Illidan's inherent desire for the path of magic hadn't changed much; he simply always believed that practicality outweighed everything.
"Besides, even if I hadn't come, nothing major would have happened to you." Illidan pouted. Although he certainly seemed to have arrived just in time, like a godsend, he knew one thing: "That cunning human King must have been observing all of this in secret. Haven't you noticed that from the start of the battle until now, he hasn't shown any movement?"
"Arthas..." Velen, of course, knew who Illidan was referring to. "Your Majesty has done enough for us, for Azeroth. We cannot place all the burdens on his shoulders. If we cannot rise up and resist ourselves, then even gods cannot save us."
Velen's words made Illidan chuckle twice. "That's right, Prophet, we have to rely on ourselves for everything—although you seem like an old stubborn man, I didn't expect you to be quite to my liking."
"I've just lived a little longer, that's all." Velen shook his head, but did not directly reveal the confusion in his heart.
Suddenly, the Prophet seemed to remember something. He looked at Illidan and asked about a matter, "Many of those relics, I recall, should have been stored in the Seat of the Triumvirate... So, did you see that sacred being?"
"Sacred?" Illidan was first startled, then laughed, "There's nothing sacred there, only a dark, despairing soul."
Velen silently accepted this answer. Although he had long guessed the fate of Naaru L'ura, when the truth was presented before him, the heavy sorrow was still disheartening.
"I understand. Thank you again, Illidan Stormrage. If you and I are still alive after the war, I hope to host a banquet for you in Exodar to express my and my people's gratitude to you."
"That won't be necessary, old man," Illidan waved his hand, refusing Velen's invitation. "Let's talk about future matters later. I'm leaving."
"Won't you stay on the ship a little longer? The great battle has just ended, even you should need to recover your strength."
Illidan laughed, "I'd rather go back to my own ship; it's more comfortable there. Anyway, the communication channel is already open, just tell me if anything comes up—ah, that troublesome doctor is here again. Please don't tell her I was here."
My lord, there's more to this chapter, please click next page to continue reading, it gets more exciting!
A rare look of panic appeared on the Demon Hunter's face. His figure quickly vanished into the shadows of the ship. Despite his tall stature, this hunter seemed capable of appearing and disappearing without a trace.
Velen shook his head and smiled. Ten thousand years ago, he wouldn't have believed he would chat so calmly with someone like Illidan. Back then, he held immense prejudice against all manipulators of fel.
Perhaps time truly changes everything.
"Ah! Prophet, hello!"
This time, it was a clear yet crisp voice. The Prophet looked in the direction of the sound and saw a white-haired human girl in a white doctor's robe looking around for something.
"Hmm... I remember you. Your name is Sally, Sally Whitemane, right?"
The girl clearly hadn't expected the Draenei Prophet to remember the name of such a small physician. She nodded, somewhat anxious yet pleasantly surprised, "Yes, Prophet! It's an honor to see you! I once heard the Archpriest say that your insights into the Light are extraordinary, but unfortunately, I never had the chance to—ah, I'm sorry, I wanted to ask if you've seen a very tall and strong Night Elf, though he looks a lot like a demon..."
After rattling on for a long string of words, the girl suddenly realized something. Her pretty face flushed, "I apologize, Prophet, I seem to have talked a bit too much."
"Are you looking for him for something, child?" Velen asked with a gentle smile.
"Uh, he ran out of the treatment room while I was preparing medicine for him—because Light magic can't directly heal his injuries, but he wants to continue fighting with those injuries. Shouldn't he at least put on some ointment and get bandaged up first?"
Sally seemed a bit indignant. Calia told her to treat every patient well, but how did one account for those who snuck out of the medical room?
Velen smiled as he listened to Sally's complaints. The brief, warm moment diluted much of the confusion and sorrow in his heart, making him feel as if he had returned to those peaceful afternoons on Argus, then Draenor, listening to the children's chatter and watching them play in the square.
Time, it seemed, changed nothing at all.