Xal'atath's figure wavered. She couldn't believe it.
Could it be…
Allen looked at her, unconcerned.
That day, the very first sentence he spoke after opening his eyes in this world—
He had been lying.
As he thought to himself, the young man casually told a lie as easily as drinking water: 'Uh, I came from Baldur's Gate. Just call me Allen.'
The lie he told as casually as breathing wasn't just that nonsense about "coming from Baldur's Gate"…
"Allen" was also just a name he had made up on the spot—or rather… it was merely a character sheet from a DND role-playing game.
His voice was hoarse yet sincere as he said, 'In the name of Allen, I swear to you, my lady, I am willing to offer everything that belongs to Allen to you. Please grant me power.'
"Maybe there really is some unlucky bastard named Allen out there who got offered up to you by me," Allen said calmly. "But that definitely isn't me."
He stepped forward.
"On the contrary, Xal'atath—"
The moment that name left his lips, Xal'atath's expression changed completely.
"You, on the other hand, truly did promise to grant me power."
Xal'atath stared at Allen in disbelief. She had never revealed her name.
How could this mortal possibly know my true name?!
"You're wondering right now why I know your name, aren't you?"
The ruins began to tremble. Amid the shaking, Allen's figure was changing.
He was becoming taller.
No—not taller. Xal'atath was becoming smaller.
She felt her lofty, superior position collapsing, felt as though some existence older than the Void itself was slowly opening its eyes and gazing down at her.
"Why do I know your name is Xal'atath? Why do I know you were pitifully sealed within this Blade of the Black Empire, barely clinging to existence, groveling and begging?"
Allen looked down at her, his gaze so calm it bordered on cruelty.
"Why do I know that a cunning and lowly thing like you can only tempt Gurubashi trolls, manipulate Dark Iron dwarves, and live such a pathetic, trivial, colorless existence?"
Xal'atath's body trembled violently.
"If you knew I'm not my original self—if you knew my soul actually comes from beyond the boundless cosmos—"
Allen bent down, those eyes swirling like galaxies now inches away from her.
"Then have you ever considered that I am the true god?"
Xal'atath opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
"I've always been watching you."
Allen's voice was so light it sounded like he was stating an insignificant fact.
"Little Xal'atath."
A smile curved at the corner of his lips—there was no warmth in it, only the detached gaze of a god looking down from above.
"You want to be my master?"
He paused.
"Do you even deserve it?"
Xal'atath felt her Void-born body breaking apart, collapsing, being devoured bit by bit under the pressure of that man's gaze.
"You—pathetic creature who fled the Void, who was betrayed, who was abandoned—"
Allen straightened up, his towering figure blotting out the sky.
Xal'atath could only look up at him.
"One day, I will sweep across the endless darkness and reign over Azeroth," his voice seemed to descend from the peak of the world, "but your place will always be only one—"
He raised a hand and pointed at the tiny Xal'atath.
"That is, to serve as my most lowly slave."
"Xal'atath."
...
[Deception Check: Success]
[Target Number: 30]
[Roll: 31 (19 + 2 Deception bonus + 10 Charisma bonus)]
[You speak with effortless composure, recounting everything as if it were second nature. You toy with her, interrogate her with ease. Under the gaze of those eyes that seem to pierce through all things, Xal'atath feels uncertainty for the first time. Countless questions churn in her mind—Who are you? Where do you come from? Why do you know all this? In your hands, it seems you hold some kind of authority—one that makes her tremble, an ancient taboo older than the Void itself. She is afraid. Afraid of being swallowed whole by you, reduced to a mere speck of dust on your path to godhood. And so she lowers her head, retracts her claws, and chooses to observe further before deciding her next move.]
...
Xal'atath's proud head lowered deeply.
Allen reached out and grasped her entire existence in one hand.
His thumb pressed against her chin, slowly lifting her lowered head, forcing her to tilt her neck back and look up at him.
The motion was like handling a toy.
"Now—"
His voice was calm, yet it resounded like thunder.
"Tuck in your tail and continue offering me the power you promised."
The Void trembled.
When Allen's form returned to normal, what he held in his hand had become a dagger.
The Blade of the Black Empire.
But it had changed—no longer resembling a simple ritual dagger.
The blade was a deep, purple-black, like solidified Void.
Purple flesh-like matter extended from the tip to the hilt, writhing slowly as if alive.
At the hilt sat a violet gemstone, like an opened eye.
Allen flipped the dagger, and the system interface appeared before him.
...
[Xal'atath, Blade of the Black Empire]
[Unique]
[Quality: Artifact]
[Dagger]
[Intelligence +5 – ???]
[Spirit +5 – ???]
[Equip: Increases the critical strike chance of all your spell attacks by 5% – ???]
[Equip: Increases the damage of all your spell effects, especially Shadow spells]
[Equip: Grants Void Torrent and slows your descent into madness]
[Void Torrent: Raise your dagger to the sky and call down a torrent of Void upon your enemies]
[Xal'atath whispers dark words into your ear, granting you hidden knowledge and making your spells more powerful.]
...
In reality, the battlefield was a scene of carnage.
Wren was surrounded by three death knights. Her arrows were long gone, and she could only hold them off with a short blade.
Morgan had activated Divine Shield, a golden barrier protecting him and Varian behind it.
Varian fought like a wounded lion, still struggling desperately.
The guards of Stormwind charged forward like madmen.
Blood flowed like rivers across the open square.
Stella had already thrown all her grenades.
Now she crouched among a pile of wounded soldiers, using a goblin jumper cable again and again to shock those on the brink of death.
Some came back to life. Some didn't.
Her face was smeared with blood, her eyes red, yet she clenched her teeth and continued.
Marshal Windsor was covered in blood. He held his sword, looked at King Varian, then at the rampaging Teron.
All along, he had calmly awaited the arrival of his fate.
The visions of Karazhan had shown him that he would die beneath the claws of a black dragon.
He had prepared himself, imagined that moment countless times—the dragon's claws tearing through his chest, him collapsing amid the ruins, completing his destined sacrifice with his life.
But today…
There was no black dragon.
Only death knights.
…No black dragon. Today was not the day fate had destined for his death. The day foretold by prophecy had not yet come…
So what?
Windsor tightened his grip on his sword.
Even if today was not his destined death, even if he could not die heroically in accordance with fate, even if his death might lack grand meaning—
He was still willing to die.
He was willing to sacrifice himself to save Stormwind's future, to save that young king.
He was Windsor. Marshal of Stormwind. Comrade of Sir Lothar. Guardian of the Wrynn line.
He must—
A hand suddenly landed on his shoulder.
"I'll handle this."
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