Having witnessed all of this, the Orcs knelt on the ground in awe, submitting to Med'an's feet. Overwhelmed with emotion, many Orcs shed tears.
Med'an, in his Orcs form, gave the Orcs immense confidence; the birth of a god among the Orcs meant they had a reliable protector.
The short Orcs asked reverently, "Honorable Child of Light and Darkness, may I ask your name?"
Med'an has become a god, and his name must be proclaimed; to address him by his given name would be extremely impolite. After pondering for a long while, Med'an proclaimed loudly:
"You may call me the Master of Destiny; I am omnipotent and will surely rule the entire universe."
The Orcs trembled with excitement, erupting in a thunderous roar of cheers. The name of the Master of Destiny, Med'an, would resound throughout Orgrimmar tonight.
Med'an was overjoyed, as if a little devil was hiding inside him. He knew very well that these Orcs weren't all fools; for example, this little Orcs knew exactly what was going on.
But instead of exposing Med'an, he wisely encouraged the situation.
This world belongs to the intelligent; exposing Med'an will bring no benefit.
Profits often end up in the hands of fools who believe lies. The wise thing to do is to use lies to gain benefits from fools.
Med'an proclaimed, "My people will be as numerous as the sand on the beach, as endless as the stars in the sky! Go forth, oppressed Orcs! Rise up and raise the banner of rebellion against that devil! I will be your steadfast support!"
The power of faith is terrifying. Just like the little man who knew it was a lie, but still felt a surge of fearless courage and shouted loudly for the Master of Destiny.
Med'an smiled with satisfaction. A mysterious deity should not remain hidden for long; he must maintain sufficient mystery. He nodded, then transformed into a ball of Flame and departed.
After Med'an left, the tent was restored to its original state, Orcs piled up together again.
The Orcs were amazed by the power of Med'an's magic; even space seemed to obey his commands. Unfortunately, the Orcs didn't know that Med'an had simply used a trick to teleport them to an open area outside Orgrimmar, into a larger tent.
Med'an's Mass Teleport isn't as powerful as Jaina's, but it can still teleport a short distance without any problem.
Hidden among the crowd were Garrosh's spies who secretly transmitted what they had seen and heard that night to the Great Den in the Valley of Trials. The Troll Rokhan considered this information very important and immediately reported it to Garrosh.
Garrosh was overjoyed upon hearing this and clapped his hands in praise:
"Good, that's excellent! The Orcs of Orgrimmar have finally come to their senses. They should understand that I am the Warchief of the Horde, and only I am qualified to rule Orgrimmar."
Garrosh was overjoyed, as if he could return to Orgrimmar tomorrow and kick Cho'gall off his throne.
But then Rokhan whispered, "Warchief, don't you think Med'an did an excellent job?"
Garrosh gasped slightly, immediately realizing what was happening.
By doing this, Med'an effectively seized control of the divine authority in Orgrimmar.
As Warchief, Garrosh's power would have to be divided among himself, Garrosh would never create a political enemy to restrain his own behavior.
"Damn it, this must be Medivh's plot. Sure enough, he's eager to control Orgrimmar. I will not let him succeed. Unfortunately, Med'an is Medivh's son, and I can't do anything about him."
Garrosh paced anxiously, his mood darkening.
Rokhan suggested in a low voice:
"Warchief, the new Troop Transport Ships are complete. Why not order the Bronze Dragonflight to send us some Orcs soldiers? I think 20,000 fully armed soldiers will suffice."
Garrosh's eyes lit up; he immediately understood. He grinned maliciously, "That's right, we can't handle Med'an, but a god without followers is nothing."
Twilight Highlands, Blood Gorge.
When Mogor heard Nazgrim urge him to leave, his expression changed slightly, and he asked warily, "General, what do you mean? Chief Zuluhed treated me well, marrying his daughter to me. I would never betray him."
Nazgrim's eyes darted around, and he said with a grin:
"Brother Mogor, you misunderstand. Chieftain Zuluhed is a peerless hero, absolutely one of the best among the Orcs chieftains. I have the utmost respect for him."
Mogor remained vigilant. "General, your wine is good, but please don't try to sow discord between me and the chief."
Nazgrim felt frustrated, but he wouldn't give up, and deliberately asked:
"I've heard that Chieftain Zuluhed once helped Illidan train the Void Dragons in Outland."
Mogor nodded. "Yes, that's when I served the chief."
"Do you know who Illidan lost to?" Nazgrim asked with a grave expression.
Mogor remained silent for a long while before reluctantly saying, "Thrall."
Nazgrim said with dramatic intonation, "Thrall was the Savior of Azeroth, with outstanding achievements and a illustrious reputation, unmatched by anyone. Back then, our Warchief was just a farmer in Nagrand, taken in by an old Orcs —yes, Agna's father."
Mogor was very interested in Garrosh's past and listened attentively.
Nazgrim continued:
"You should have heard that Warchief Garrosh's father was the renowned Grom Hellscream, but unfortunately, he was imprisoned at the time and treated worse than a dog by Thrall's side. When the Warchief heard about this, he was furious and vowed to rescue his father. Agna's father disagreed and tried every means to stop him, even threatening to marry Agna. The Warchief and Agna were childhood sweethearts and had long harbored feelings for each other."
"And then?" Mogor asked curiously.
Nazgrim lowered his voice and said mysteriously:
"Everyone says that Agna's father died of illness, which allowed the Warchief to escape his shackles, leave the small Nagrand, and rise rapidly to become a renowned hero of Azeroth, the Warchief of the Horde. But one night, after getting drunk, the Warchief told me himself that he was the one who killed Agna's father, and that he had no regrets. This is also the reason why the Warchief and Agna turned against each other."
Nazgrim spoke with great seriousness, while Mogor kept his head down, drinking silently, though he was already deeply moved.
Seeing that things were looking promising, Nazgrim added fuel to the fire:
"Our Orcs are short. A moment of carelessness and we grow old and frail, unable to fight. Orcs's glorious years are only a few decades long. If we don't fight, we'll never have another chance. If the Warchief doesn't take that decisive step, who will even recognize a farmer from Nagrand?"
Mogor raised his head, his face expressionless, and said, "General, please return. I need to rest."
Nazgrim got up to take his leave. Although Mogor had drunk quite a bit, he hadn't slept all night, as he had many thoughts on his mind.
Orcs's life is short; how can it be wasted like this?
Mogor has always been arrogant, believing himself to be a peerless hero who, given the chance, could enjoy the same adoration as Garrosh.
The next morning, Mogor got out of bed, his eyes bright and his spirits high; he had made up his mind.