At these words, everyone's attention snapped to the riezeb crystal like iron filings to a lodestone. The crystalline formation pulsed with an otherworldly radiance, its faceted surface catching and refracting the ambient light into prismatic patterns that danced across their weathered faces. Their gazes burned with barely contained excitement at the thought of possessing a demigod-level Holy Light core, a treasure beyond the dreams of most mortals.
"Alexandros," Kael'thas said, his melodic elven voice carrying the weight of ceremony, "this crystal is your spoil of war, won through blood and valor. Its disposal rests entirely in your hands."
The prince's emerald eyes fixed upon Old Mograine with the intensity of ancient wisdom. "Whether to purify it or leave it tainted by shadow, you decide. But choose wisely, for such opportunities come but once in a lifetime."
"By the Light, yes! Of course we must purify it!" Old Mograine's weathered features lit up with fervent determination, his scarred hands trembling slightly as he gazed upon the crystal.
Kael'thas nodded approvingly, his golden hair catching the crystal's ethereal glow. "This crystal contains shadow energy of demigod proportions, corruption so deep it has festered for eons. To cleanse such darkness requires Holy Light energy of at least equal magnitude, perhaps more."
Uther stepped forward with characteristic resolve, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the gathered warriors. The Silver Hand tabard across his broad chest seemed to gleam with inner light. "I'll do it, Prince Kael'thas. Let me bear this burden."
But Kael'thas shook his head, a sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Noble Uther, your courage knows no bounds, and the Silver Hand War Hammer you bear does indeed contain demigod-level Holy Light energy, power enough to shatter mountains or heal the gravest wounds. Yet you haven't progressed far enough on the sacred path of Holy Light to unleash even a tenth of its true potential. The hammer's power would consume you before you could channel it properly."
His gaze swept across the assembled heroes and soldiers, taking in each face marked by battle and hardship. "But together, just as we purified the cursed grounds of Thoradin's Tomb in days past, we can combine all our strength and accomplish what no single paladin could achieve alone!"
"For the Alliance! For the Light!" Uther's voice boomed across the battlefield.
"Aye!" came the thunderous response from hundreds of throats.
Liadrin stepped forward, her crimson hair flowing like liquid fire, flanked by Tirion Fordring whose weathered face bore the marks of countless battles fought in righteousness's name. Behind them, Alexandros Mograine raised his sword skyward, and as one, five hundred paladins and over two hundred priests began their sacred invocation.
The air itself seemed to thicken with divine energy as they simultaneously summoned the Holy Light. What began as individual sparks of golden radiance quickly merged into torrents of pure, cleansing power.
Seven hundred rays of Holy Light, each one a pillar of condensed divine energy, crashed down upon the riezeb crystal like a celestial waterfall. The shadow within the crystal writhed and shrieked in soundless agony as the darkness was systematically purged from every molecular bond, every crystalline lattice. The resulting radiance was so brilliant it transformed the crystal into what appeared to be a fragment of captured sunlight, a miniature star burning with the fury of righteous purpose.
The light erupted outward in waves, washing over the dim battlefield like dawn breaking after the longest night. Ancient scars in the earth began to heal, withered grass sprouted green, and the very air tasted cleaner. Every warrior present felt the touch of that sacred radiance, cuts sealed themselves, broken bones mended, and the crushing weight of exhaustion that had plagued them for days simply evaporated like morning mist.
After enduring weeks of bitter fighting against seemingly endless hordes of orcs and their demonic allies, everyone had been pushed beyond the limits of physical and mental endurance. But now, nourished by the pure light emanating from the purified crystal, they felt reborn. Muscles that had ached with fatigue now thrummed with renewed vigor. Minds clouded by despair cleared like skies after a storm. It was as if each person had been touched by the most powerful healing spell ever conceived.
"Alexandros!" Kael'thas's voice rang out above the diminishing chorus of divine energy. "Take hold of your destiny!"
Old Mograine moved as if in a trance, his battle-scarred hands reaching toward the now-purified crystal. The moment his twisted, corruption-marked arm made contact with its surface, brilliant Holy Light erupted around the limb like liquid starlight. The gathered crowd held their breath as the radiance intensified, becoming almost too bright to observe directly.
When the light finally dissipated like fading embers, gasps of amazement echoed across the battlefield. Mograine's arm, which had been gnarled and blackened by shadow magic, bearing the permanent marks of demonic corruption, had been completely restored. The flesh was whole and healthy, the muscles strong, the skin unmarked by any trace of the darkness that had plagued him for months.
"It seems the crystal has chosen you, Alexandros," Kael'thas observed with genuine warmth, his lips curving into a smile of satisfaction. "The Light recognizes a worthy champion when it finds one."
He paused, studying the way the crystal seemed to pulse in harmony with Mograine's heartbeat. "Are you interested in having it forged into a weapon? A demigod-level blade would place you among the legendary heroes of old, on par with Uther's Silver Hand War Hammer or the truthguard itself. With such a weapon at your side, you'd cut down orcs and ogres as easily as a farmer harvests wheat."
"By the Light, yes!" Old Mograine's eyes blazed with fierce joy, his voice cracking with emotion. "A sword, I want it forged into the finest sword ever created! A blade worthy of the Alliance's greatest champions!"
Anduin Lothar, his weathered features thoughtful, stroked his graying beard. "For materials of demigod caliber, there are precious few smiths in all the world capable of such work. But King Magni Bronzebeard of Ironforge, now there's a master craftsman who could do justice to such a treasure."
Brann Bronzebeard practically bounced with excitement, his explorer's pack jingling with every movement. "Exactly! My big brother isn't just the strongest blacksmith in recorded history, he's got the touch of the Titans themselves in his hands! If anyone can forge a blade worthy of that crystal, it's Magni!"
Kael'thas nodded decisively. "Then we waste no more time with idle talk. All of you should rest and recover from this ordeal, you've earned it tenfold. I'll escort Alexandros to Ironforge immediately."
With a gesture both graceful and precise, Kael'thas began weaving the complex patterns of a teleportation spell. Arcane energy crackled around both figures as reality bent to his will, and in a flash of purple light, they vanished from the battlefield.
---
They materialized in the Arcane District of Ironforge, where the air thrummed with magical energy and the scent of ozone. The sudden transition from battlefield to the bustling dwarven city should have been jarring, but Old Mograine found himself frozen in place, uncertainty written across his features.
"What troubles you, my friend?" Kael'thas asked, noting the paladin's hesitation.
Mograine's weathered cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I, I don't have the coin for this," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "My family's wealth is considerable, true enough. My armor and weapons alone are worth perhaps thirty thousand gold pieces..."
He gestured helplessly at his equipment, each piece a masterwork of craftsmanship that had served him well in countless battles.
"But King Magni Bronzebeard isn't just a legendary blacksmith, he's the sovereign ruler of an entire kingdom! The commission for such work... it would be more than a hundred thousand gold coins, perhaps twice that. I could sell everything I own, indenture myself for a lifetime, and still fall short of such a sum."
Kael'thas threw back his head and laughed, a sound like silver bells in a summer breeze. "Is that all that concerns you? My dear Alexandros, you worry over nothing! King Magni won't charge you a single copper piece for this work."
Seeing Mograine's confused expression, the prince explained with a grin. "You forget what he is at heart, before king, before legend, Magni Bronzebeard is first and always a smith. The opportunity to personally forge a divine artifact, to work with materials that exist perhaps nowhere else in Azeroth? He'd pay YOU for the privilege! And if by some miracle he does request payment..." Kael'thas waved dismissively. "Consider it my contribution to the Alliance's cause."
---
They made their way through Ironforge's winding passages, past the Great Forge where lesser smiths worked at their anvils, and into the Military District. The sound of hammers on metal created a rhythmic symphony that seemed to echo the very heartbeat of the mountain city.
King Magni Bronzebeard stood before his private forge, a figure carved from the living rock of Khaz Modan itself. His massive frame was draped in leather aprons stained with the honest sweat of countless hours at the anvil. When he turned to examine the crystal, his eyes, sharp as cut gems, widened with genuine wonder.
"By my beard," he breathed, his voice carrying the rumble of distant avalanches. "A Holy Light demigod core... this is naaru essence, crystallized and purified beyond anything I've seen in three centuries of smithing."
He lifted the crystal with hands that could crush stone or craft the most delicate jewelry with equal skill, turning it toward the forge-light to study its internal structure.
"Its essence resonates with the Eternal Flame, the Eternal Earth, the very elemental cores that power the great beings of the elemental planes, but refined, elevated to heights that dwarf even those ancient powers. What could compare to this would be the flame-heart of Ragnaros himself, torn from the Fire Lord's burning breast."
Magni's expression grew thoughtful as he continued his examination. "However, magnificent though it is, the crystal alone won't be sufficient. To forge a proper sword, other materials of appropriate quality must be added, a framework worthy of housing such divine essence."
Old Mograine listened with growing bewilderment as the king continued.
"Only the rarest materials could complement such perfection, arcanite, Mithril from the world's heart, or titansteel forged in the depths of Ulduar itself. Common metals would crumble to ash in the presence of such power!"
The paladin's confusion was evident on his face. Arcanite? Mithril? Titansteel? These were names from legends, materials he'd only heard whispered about in the most ancient texts. His experience with metallurgy extended to gold, silver, adamantite, and the occasional piece of blessed mithril.
"Does Ironforge possess such materials?" Kael'thas inquired, though he suspected the answer already.
Magni stroked his magnificent braided beard, his expression thoughtful. "Titansteel and Mithril ore... those are treasures beyond our current reach. Titansteel can only be forged in places of incredible elemental power, Ulduar, perhaps, or the deepest chambers beneath Uldaman. Mithril ore flows in the very veins of our world, most abundant near the planet's molten heart or in realms touched by the Earth Warder's ancient power."
His eyes brightened slightly. "But arcanite, now that we have in abundance! It's an alloy of thorium and concentrated arcane crystals, neither component particularly rare, though the synthesis requires considerable skill. Perhaps fifty times more valuable than gold, but well within our stores."
Kael'thas considered this carefully. "Then let us begin with arcanite for the foundation. Should we later acquire titansteel or Mithril ore, the blade can be reforged and enhanced. Does this seem acceptable to you, Alexandros?"
"More than acceptable!" Mograine's enthusiasm was infectious. "Any weapon forged by King Magni would be beyond my wildest dreams!"
"Excellent." Kael'thas turned back to the dwarven king. "How long might such a masterwork require?"
Magni's expression grew weary as he considered the question. "A year, perhaps longer. My schedule is beyond overwhelming at present, I haven't enjoyed a full night's rest since the Horde's cursed invasion began."
The weight of leadership showed in every line of his face as he continued. "The pursuit of their fleeing armies continues, we must root out every last orc and ogre from the Kingdom of Khaz Modan's tunnels and caverns, and I'm simultaneously researching artifacts like the Titanstrike for our war effort. Even forging divine artifacts must wait its turn in such times."
He gestured toward his cluttered workbench, covered with half-finished projects and tactical maps. "Let's determine the blade's design first, weight, balance, edge geometry, all the crucial details. I'll study the crystal's properties in my spare moments, and when time permits, I'll dedicate myself fully to creating your masterpiece."
"Very well then." Kael'thas placed a comforting hand on Mograine's armored shoulder. "Alexandros, remain here and work closely with His Majesty. Discuss every detail, every preference you have for your future weapon."
"But the Horde pursuit, I should be with my men, hunting down the remaining orcs, "
Kael'thas shook his head firmly. "The Alliance doesn't lack for one paladin in the short term, valiant though you are. But once you wield a divine artifact? The opportunities to serve will be beyond counting, and your effectiveness will increase tenfold."
With a final encouraging nod to both men, Kael'thas gathered arcane energy around himself and vanished in a swirl of purple light, teleporting back to rejoin Anduin Lothar and the pursuit forces in the Burning Steppes.
---
Throughout that night and into the early morning hours, Kael'thas worked alongside Lothar in the commander's field tent. Maps covered every available surface, marked with troop movements, supply lines, and intelligence reports from their scouts. Oil lamps flickered as they formulated pursuit strategies, coordinated with allied forces, and planned for the battles yet to come.
When dawn broke over the Burning Steppes, painting the jagged peaks in shades of gold and crimson, the Alliance forces resumed their relentless southward pursuit. Dragonhawk Riders from Quel'Thalas soared alongside dwarven Gryphon Riders in perfect formation, their keen eyes scanning the scarred landscape for any sign of the retreating Horde.
The main army followed in disciplined columns, battle-hardened soldiers who had learned to march efficiently across the most hostile terrain imaginable. In just half a month of determined pursuit, they crossed the fire-blasted Burning Steppes, navigated the treacherous passes of the Redridge Mountains, and slogged through the pestilent Swamp of Sorrows.
Finally, they crested the last ridge and beheld their destination: the Black Morass.
What greeted them defied description and challenged their understanding of how the world should appear.
As far as the eye could see in any direction, everything had been transformed into varying shades of crimson. The very rocks appeared to bleed, their surfaces stained the color of dried blood. The soil beneath their feet was rust-red and granular, as if the earth itself had been drained of all life and moisture. Even the air seemed tinted with an ominous reddish haze that made breathing feel laborious.
There was no vegetation anywhere, no grass, no trees, no shrubs, not even the hardiest weeds that might normally sprout in such desolate places. No streams or rivers cut through the landscape, no pools of standing water reflected the alien sky. The silence was broken only by the distant howls of dire wolves and the deeper roars of two-headed dragons circling overhead like vultures.
Apart from the occasional band of orcs or hulking ogres moving through the wasteland, no living creatures stirred in this accursed realm. It had clearly become a zone forbidden to life itself, a place where the very concept of growth and prosperity had been systematically purged.
"Is this truly the Black Morass we've heard about in the old stories?" Kurdran Wildhammer grumbled, his gryphon shifting uneasily beneath him as it sensed the wrongness of the place. "This looks more like the Red Desert of nightmares!"
"This," Kael'thas said with grim authority, his melodic voice carrying undertones of ancient sorrow, "is what we now call the Blasted Lands. The name Black Morass belongs to history."
He gestured toward the crimson wasteland spread before them, his expression heavy with knowledge that weighed upon his soul.
"That portal you see in the distance, the Dark Portal, serves as a bridge connecting our world with the orc homeworld of Draenor. But Draenor itself has been utterly destroyed by orc warlocks drunk on demonic power and the corrupting magic of the Burning Legion. The entire planet has lost its vitality and lies dying, a world-corpse floating in the void, essentially cursed beyond any hope of redemption."
His green eyes reflected the hellish glow of the landscape as he continued his explanation.
"And now, through that accursed portal, Draenor's magical corruption seeps into our world like poison through an open wound. Every day that it remains open, more of Azeroth's life force is drained away, more of our sacred earth is transformed into this lifeless mockery of what nature intended."
The weight of this revelation settled over the assembled forces like a funeral shroud.
"If the Dark Portal isn't sealed, and sealed soon, then sooner or later, our entire planet will become another Draenor. Another dead world, another monument to the Burning Legion's insatiable hunger for destruction."
The implications hung in the air like a death sentence, and every warrior present understood that they weren't just pursuing a fleeing army anymore. They were racing against time itself to prevent the corruption of everything they held dear.