The shadow of death looms over the Zandalari Empire.
Thrall hid in a low, dark hut, chewing on a Tough Jerky, his brow furrowed, and swallowed it with difficulty.
In this chaotic world, guards in the streets fight fiercely amidst piles of corpses, just to turn each other into Tough Jerky. The chaos in the Zandalari Empire has spiraled out of control.
Order is broken, and the law is no longer in effect.
No one paid any attention to the noble outsider. Thrall faced danger more than once, and the guards saw his longing for food in their eyes.
Fortunately, Thrall's strength far surpassed that of the Zandalari Trolls of this era, thus preventing him from becoming food.
Lying opposite him was a Zandalari Trolls with white hair and beard, his forehead lined with deep wrinkles, he was terminally ill, his skin was red and burning hot, and he was skin and bones.
This was a stubborn Troll who refused Thrall's offer to heal him.
"Cough! Cough! The Zandalari Trolls have created a glorious history; no race in Azeroth can compare to us. If you're not convinced, then build a City of the Sky."
The Troll's eyes widened, his pupils gleaming with smugness:
"Thirty-two thousand meters high, hundreds of thousands of years of effort—even gods couldn't do that."
"Stupid, stubborn, an old fogey, an idiot," Thrall muttered to himself. Facing the dying man, Thrall was too lazy to argue with him and simply rolled his eyes.
"Hey, how old are you this year?" Thrall asked.
The Troll shook its head, revealing a set of worn-out, yellowish-black teeth. The food of the Troll commoners was coarse, always containing endless grains of sand.
"I am twenty-nine years old this year. My life has been incredibly wonderful; I have not lived in vain."
"I thought he was ninety-two," Thrall muttered to himself. Years of strenuous labor beyond his physical limits had aged the Zandalari Trolls very quickly.
"I have no regrets in this life, and in the next life I will still be Zandalar, praising the great Emperor Ata."
The old Troll let out a few desperate howls before finally breathing his last. He twitched a few times before falling silent.
Thrall kicked the corpse dismissively.
"Hypocrite, you only say that to my face. Who knows how many times you've cursed me behind my back? You've told so many lies that you've even started to believe them yourself."
Thrall hated this era; even he couldn't persuade a stubborn Zandalari Trolls to learn magic. By Thrall's standards, the Zandalar were utterly useless.
"But I can't go back, what should I do?" Thrall said dejectedly.
A beam of light shot from the depths of the universe toward Azeroth, passing through the Titans shield that enveloped Azeroth and shining upon Thrall.
Thrall felt excruciating pain all over his body, as if his bones were being torn apart, and then everything went black.
When Thrall awoke, he couldn't see his own body; his consciousness seemed to float in the universe, where he saw a glimmer of light in the endless darkness.
Deep within a silvery-white nebula, a palace-like building looms in the distance, its walls seemingly constructed of countless suns, radiating Fervor light. Wisps of white energy form Passageways, and the palace is vast and boundless, with a towering throne at its very center.
Stars form the bricks, flowing light paves the ground, and time is the decoration.
A thought lingered in Thrall's mind, as if someone were speaking to him from within.
"This is the realm of the Titans, the Pantheon."
Thrall couldn't help but look towards the throne.
Countless years flowed by, surrounding a tall figure with white hair and beard reaching his waist, exuding an imposing aura without anger, holding a massive staff crackling with Lightning.
The Highfather, Aman'Thul.
The gates of the Pantheon opened, and a figure clad in thick crimson armor, with eyes blazing with fire and wielding a burning greatsword entered the Pantheon, kneeling before the throne.
"Greetings from you, the ruler of time, the god of gods, the sovereign of the universe, the omnipotent supreme father, who is older than this universe, the master of endless time, the omnipotent Highfather, the humble Aggramar."
Thrall was secretly surprised. Aggramar the Avenger was Sargeras's second-in-command, a powerful Titans, a terrifying creature whose body was even larger than Azeroth.
Before Aman'Thul, he was as lowly as an Orcs laborer.
Aman'Thul opened his eyes, his golden gaze fixed on what was behind Aggramar:
Why is Sargeras not here?
Aggramar prostrated himself on the ground. "Sargeras, he betrayed the Pantheon."
Aman'Thul snorted coldly, his gaze deep and penetrating, as if piercing through endless time:
"I foresaw Sargeras' tragic end. When the Titans Power within him was exhausted, he would become a speck of dust floating in the universe, countless Void Creatures parasitizing and multiplying within him. He could only watch helplessly as he tore himself apart, suffering endless torment until his death. Betraying me has never ended well; he is certainly not the first, nor will he be the last."
Aggramar hurriedly said:
"Praise be to the great Aman'Thul, whose wisdom is unmatched and whose power is invincible. The ignorant Sargeras will surely pay the price for his foolishness."
Aman'Thul raised his hand and said, "Put down your weapons, remove your armor, and return to your positions."
Before the towering throne appeared a constantly spinning silver vortex, resembling a vast galaxy composed of countless stars.
Aggramar removed his armor and placed it, along with his weapon, into the silver vortex, slowly sinking into it.
The silver vortex spun rapidly, drawing silver light from his body.
Aggramar gritted his teeth to keep from making a sound of pain. As the silver light dissipated, his body shrank from the size of a planet to that of a tall tower, like a tiny ant at Aman'Thul's feet.
After everything was over, Aggramar once again knelt before Aman'Thul.
Aman'Thul stood on a black footstool. In the dark space beneath his feet were 108 coffin-like creations, each inscribed with a name.
The illustrious names of Norgannon Dreamweaver, Khaz'goroth the Sculptor, Aggramar the Avenger, and Sargeras the Protector resonated deeply within Thrall, while the names on the other coffins were indistinct and difficult to discern.
Aggramar found the coffin with his name engraved on it, opened the lid, and lay down inside.
"What do you think of this, mortal?" a voice echoed in Thrall's mind.
The voice was very familiar; it was the very entity behind Thrall's attacks. With the help of this mysterious being, Thrall fought Garrosh, triggering the Cataclysm.
Thrall chuckled, "So the noble Titans are nothing more than slaves of Aman'Thul."
After a long Anjing, the voice replied:
"In fact, they are worse than slaves, or more accurately, livestock and food. Aman'Thul has the power of life and death over all Titans. The noble Titans are, in reality, less than pigs and dogs."
After a pause, the voice continued:
"There are trillions of planets like Azeroth that could have given birth to the Titans, but the universe is vast and boundless. The Pantheon, as its name suggests, was once home to tens of thousands of Titans."
"Tens of thousands of Titans." Thrall's voice trembled as he considered a possibility and asked, "Where did all those Titans go?"
"They were stripped of their bones and had their souls shattered by Aman'Thul, becoming materials for building the Pantheon. Others were made into weapons and medicines, each serving a purpose."
The voice voiced Thrall's horrifying guess:
"When Sargeras destroyed the Pantheon, only 108 Titans remained under Aman'Thul 'Aman'Thul command, slumbering beneath his feet, living a life of humiliation."