Arthas was exhausted. He slumped weakly in his chair, furrowing his brow in an attempt to clear his head. Communicating with the spirits of the Restless Souls had drained him of too much energy.
"So, you knew Orgrimmar would pass through there?" Robbie asked from the side. It was definitely not a coincidence that Orgrimmar was tainted by Medivh's magical tracking beacon; rather, it was a clever arrangement and design.
Arthas nodded, then shook his head:
"He didn't want to take that path; I let the Restless Souls influence his judgment. That fawn was also something I deliberately arranged. Orgrimmar Doomhammer, that cruel executioner, his hands are stained with the blood of the people of Lordaeron. I must kill him, to avenge Lordaeron and the dead of Tirisfal Glades."
The wandering Restless Souls learned everything. Arthas recounted the conversation between Orgrimmar and Tirion Fordring, as well as the events that occurred at the Orcs internment camp, to Robbie, giving Robbie a new understanding of the situation at that time.
Robbie had to admit that he seemed to have underestimated Arthas.
The one who can become the Lich King is indeed no ordinary Prince.
Arthas was a very interesting person; his potential for both high and low was exceptionally high.
In some minor matters, he behaved remarkably naively, even less so than a fledgling adventurer.
However, when it comes to matters of principle, Arthas demonstrates considerable skill in using strategy and understanding human nature.
Arthas is the kind of person you should never make an enemy of.
The Restless Souls bid farewell to the Prince and embarked on their journey to the unknown World of the Dead. Arthas gazed in the direction of Lordaeron City and finally made up his mind. "Robbie, before leaving Lordaeron, I want to see my father."
As Orgrimmar parted ways with Tirion Fordring and embarked on its journey home, it was unaware that Arthas had sentenced it to death, and the executioner would be Thrall, the son of its most trusted junior, its carefully groomed successor, and its old friend Durotan.
The tragedies in Tirisfal Glades, similar to those in Brill, were all orchestrated and carried out by Orgrimmar. Thrall's main task at this time was to deal with humans, making him more like a diplomat or ambassador.
When Thrall awoke, he saw the Guardian's wise eyes, as if they were meeting for the first time.
"Thrall! You have disappointed me." The Guardian's voice carried a hint of magic, easily influencing hearts and minds.
"You were defeated by a Holy Light Orcs. To be honest, I'm more interested in him than in the surprise you gave me."
Thrall's heart skipped a beat. The reason he was where he was today was not because of some damned "son of Durotan," but because of the Guardian's high regard for him.
Everything he had—his undefeated championship in the Arena, his noble lineage, and his legendary origins—was bestowed upon him by the Guardian Medivh.
Once he loses Medivh's trust, he will lose everything and return to being an unknown nobody.
"But unfortunately, he was sent by Orgrimmar, and his Holy Light may originate from a human Paladin." Medivh, with a hint of testing in his eyes, asked, "Thrall, do you know what this means?"
"Simply put, Orgrimmar doesn't want to become the next Blackhand."
Blackhand Blackhand, nicknamed The Destroyer, is the chieftain of the Blackrock Clan. Orgrimmar was once his Adjutant.
Orgrimmar murdered Blackhand and ascended to the position of Warchief over his corpse.
Regardless of the seemingly noble reasons, this is blatant betrayal.
Medivh nodded and remarked:
"As people grow old and their bodies weaken, they become increasingly obsessed with power, refusing to relinquish what they hold onto. Humans are like this, and so are the Orcs. The Orcs' victory over Lordaeron is now a foregone conclusion, Thrall, you are of little use anymore. Orgrimmar's attack caught us completely off guard, even I was unprepared. You have lost your Invincible aura and are now merely a laughable loser. How do you plan to deal with the current crisis?"
Thrall lowered his head, lost in thought. This was a difficult problem. Orcs deeply respected the victors, but they were also used to trampling the losers underfoot. Thrall's defeat in the arena had caused his former glory to vanish.
"Please, Guardian, teach me."
The young Thrall lacked the wisdom to handle the current situation.
"That's certainly asking too much of you at your age." Medivh paused for a moment, then said, "Alright, there's a difficult matter right now. If you can handle it, I'll teach you how to proceed."
Jaina was filled with regret. If she had known that Orcs were such terrible archers, she wouldn't have mentioned "noble treatment." She was a full-fledged mage, and her escape speed was definitely faster than that of Mage Apprentice.
Thankfully, there is no despair in life.
When Jaina saw Thrall, she was overjoyed, thinking she had met an acquaintance and that Thrall would lend her a hand out of consideration for their past friendship.
Unfortunately, Thrall never gave her a second glance. She seemed like a completely different person—ruthless, domineering, arrogant, and wicked. This was Thrall's true nature.
Thrall was deep in thought, pondering how to deal with Jaina, wondering if it would be better to just kill her. Medivh noticed Thrall's thoughts and reminded him, "I promised this little girl I would treat her like royalty."
"Noble?"
Thrall was inspired, his eyes lighting up. "We Orcs have never recognized any human nobles. Since the Guardian has instructed us to do as the Romans do, we will follow the etiquette of our Orcs nobles."
"The etiquette of Orcs nobles?" Medivh also showed some interest.
Thrall was badly injured and struggled to his feet. Faced with the perilous situation, he had no choice but to fight desperately.
The dark underground cell was filled with a stench mixed with the smell of mold, making one want to vomit.
This place is home to many elderly, weak, sick, and disabled people. There are female Orcs holding babies, old Orcs wrapped in blankets, sickly people with limping legs, and thin, pitiful Orcs children. Jaina recognized them at a glance; every time she came to this Internment Camp, she saw this group of Orcs.
"A bunch of liars," Jaina cursed inwardly.
"We Orcs never keep useless people," Thrall shouted. "They are discarded, defective products, their only purpose being to deceive you. Now that you know everything, they have lost their reason for existence."
"You're going to kill them all?" Jaina, feigning concern as usual, was overcome with sympathy once again.
Thrall said viciously:
"According to our Orcs tradition, the only purpose of these useless things is to serve as practice for nobles, to maintain their bloodlust and cruelty. We Orcs often give such gifts to our friends. Now, they are yours, Jaina."
"No, I can't do that." Jaina shook her head repeatedly.
You have the right to refuse, ma'am.
Thrall's expression turned sinister. Orcs brought him a large arsenal of weapons, and Thrall shouted:
"Damn trash, stand up, pick up the weapons before you, kill this human mage, and I guarantee you'll live."
Reaching the dungeon entrance, before closing the door, Thrall glanced at the eager Orcs, then at Jaina, and sneered, "Enjoy your noble treatment, Jaina. Slaughter, or be killed."
"No, you can't do this to me!" Jaina cried.
The frail Orcs child struggled to lift the axe, the lame wounded man picked up a club, and the female Orcs threw the baby aside, choosing instead a rusty dagger.
"Well done, Thrall. Your performance has given me complete confidence in you once again," Medivh said, standing up and reciting a rare incantation.
A Portal opened, and out stepped an octopus-like monster with eight legs, covered in sticky, disgusting slime, and its torso covered in countless eyes, making it look rather frightening.
"Let me introduce you, this is Test Subject 012," Medivh introduced to Thrall.