Hagara the Stormbinder, observes an infected person and carefully records the course of the illness.
This was a young Zandalar woman, emaciated, her forehead burning hot, large beads of sweat dripping from her, the Corrupted Blood rotting from her body, draining the last of its nutrients.
The Corrupted Blood is extremely infectious; Thrall and Hagara were infected one after the other, but they were easily cured. Unfortunately, this Zandalar woman refused treatment.
The woman's lips were cracked, a mouthful of teeth had fallen out, and she spoke in a trembling voice:
"The great Emperor Zandalar said that magic will corrupt us. We always remember the teachings of our ancestors; this is the pride of being Zandalar. You will never understand."
Hagara sighed, put down his pen and paper, shrugged, and said to Thrall:
"The Corrupted Blood is extremely powerful. All you need to do is tell your enemies not to use magic, and they will all die. Not a single one will survive."
Thrall scoffed, "Do you think there are fools like the Zandalar in our time?"
The Zandalar woman was very displeased and struggled to retort, "We Zandalar are not foolish. We created a great civilization, and the splendor of the City of the Sky is unmatched."
Thrall chuckled coldly, "The City of the Sky has collapsed."
"What? You lied to me?"
The woman raised her arm, breathed her last, and stared wide-eyed, unable to close her eyes in peace.
Hagara the Stormbinder, shook his head, a sense of powerlessness washing over him.
Thrall and his companions entered a large house in search of food.
On the street, a squad of guards searched house to house for survivors, cursing and brandishing various terrifying weapons, claiming to be carrying out the orders of a Priest.
The few survivors were driven into the streets, weeping and wailing, and executed for disobeying their ancestors; their bodies were taken away and made into Tough Jerky.
How did these guards survive?
A survivor hiding in the closet peeked out and asked.
Thrall glanced at him, grabbed a handful of food, and put it in his mouth:
"Like you, I used magic."
The survivors huddled together, muttering, "Since we all violated the ancestral teachings, why should we die? This isn't fair."
Thrall remained silent.
Hagara the Stormbinder, suddenly said:
"I remember Garrosh championed ruthless violence and aspired to build an Iron Horde, showing little interest in magic. What would happen if he used Corrupted Blood on the Orcs of Orgrimmar?"
Thrall's expression hardened, his eyes darted around, and after thinking for a moment, he said:
"Heh heh, even though the Antidote is right in front of us, that idiot Garrosh would never guess that this is indeed a useful superweapon."
Thrall held a bottle in his hand, filled with ominous Corrupted Blood.
He seemed to see it all: Garrosh, emaciated and dead from the Corrupted Blood, and corpses everywhere in Orgrimmar.
Hagara the Stormbinder, stood up and began packing her things, utterly disappointed.
The spread of Corrupted Blood will not only kill Orcs; races without magical talent will likely face extinction.
Mulgore Goldenhoof and Elemental Lords Morchok also packed their belongings.
Thrall looked at him strangely. "What are you doing?"
Hagara said unhurriedly, "There's nothing worth staying for in this era; we should go back."
"Go back?" Thrall thought he had misheard.
Morchok said in a muffled voice, "The Ancient Zandalari Empire has fallen; it's time to go back."
Thrall grinned wickedly. "Have you all forgotten? The Time Beacon is in my hands."
Morchok stepped forward, pulled the Time Beacon from Thrall's arms, crushed it into pieces right in front of him, and shrugged, saying, "Now your Time Beacon is gone."
"You?"
Morchok's eyes were full of mockery. Thrall sensed something was wrong; the Enslavement Scroll seemed to have failed.
Hagara looked at Thrall Anjing: "All magic has flaws, even the magic of Elune, is not without its weaknesses."
"Without the Time Beacon, how will you get back?" Thrall's words trailed off as he watched Mulgore pull a black Time Beacon from his robes.
"The Infinite Dragonflight?" Thrall asked bitterly.
Mulgore shook his head, offering no further explanation.
"What good will it do to go back? You've lost the great Savior Thrall. The Bronze Dragonflight won't let you get away with this. You plotted to destroy Azeroth, and you all must die."
Thrall made his final stand.
Hagara smiled and said, "So we're ready to pledge allegiance to the Black Dragonflight. Goodbye, Thrall."
Mulgore chuckled and said, "Thrall, make the tomb beautiful, and fill it with plenty of burial goods. I really hope to dig up your tomb; perhaps there'll be a chance to resurrect you as Undead."
Thrall felt a wave of dizziness wash over him, realizing he had been abandoned.
Mulgore, Hagara, and Morchok stood together. Mulgore inverted the black Hourglass, and the three figures slowly disappeared.
Thrall sat in the chair, remaining silent for a long time.
The guards on the street had gone far away. The Zandalar hidden in the closet peeked cautiously out the window and asked, "Are they all gone?"
"Yes, they've all left," Thrall said blankly.
The Zandalar climbed out of the cupboard, grabbed the food in front of Thrall, and put it in his mouth:
"You say this world is like this, everyone who believed in our ancestors is dead, huh? The great Emperor Zandalar, I think he's just a murderous demon king. Anyone who believes him is a fool. Are you listening to me?"
Thrall's eyes flashed with a fierce light, startling the Zandalar who hurriedly put down his food. He wasn't the owner of the house; he was just like Thrall, searching for food.
"What's your name?" Thrall asked.
"Gurubashi!" the Zandalar stammered.
Thrall was slightly taken aback upon hearing this. According to the ancient Troll custom, empires were usually named after their founding emperor, such as the Emperor Zandalar.
Could this Troll be the creator of the Gurubashi Empire?
"Hey, can you read? Do you know magic?" Thrall asked.
The young Gurubashi was bewildered and stammered, "I used to be a slave in a Priest's household, helping to organize the library. I know a few words and some magic."
"Very well, I will teach you some ways of being an emperor. It's actually very simple: it's all about killing. Killing one person is a capital offense, killing ten thousand makes you a king, and killing millions makes you the Emperor Zandalar."
A small fishing village on the riverbank in Zandalar.
The young tax collector straightened his clothes and went into a small thatched hut.
The Corrupted Blood raged, and almost the entire village was wiped out; this family had undoubtedly used magic.
"In the name of the great Emperor Ata, collect the taxes." The tax collector looked around the dilapidated hut, where only two old Trolls remained.
"Our children have all died of illness, and we cannot pay the taxes," the old Troll pleaded, trembling.
The tax collector's lips curled into a cruel smile, "You can also be used as taxes."
Emerging from the thatched hut, the tax collector carried a sack, finally solving his problem of provisions.
The Zandalari Empire was in chaos, with guards searching everywhere for survivors; only by leaving the country could they survive.
On the riverbank, a Murloc boatman took a small amount of Tough Jerky, weighed it in his hand, nodded, and said, "Get on the boat."
The Murloc strained to propel the boat, creating a splash, while the young tax collector stared blankly at the water.
"I haven't seen many Zandalar lately. What's your name? What race are you?" the Murloc asked.
"Amani, Troll."
The tax collector looked up at the opposite bank of the river, his eyes brimming with hope.