"Do we need to find Queen Azshara?"
Sylvanas gasped, a troubled look on her face, and glanced at Antonidas beside her.
High Archmage Antonidas shrugged, indicating that he was also helpless.
Queen Azshara, the leader of the Night Elves ten thousand years ago, was an absolute protagonist of that era—a mysterious, beautiful, and powerful being, an eternal Legendary of Azeroth.
Ten thousand years have passed. Azshara and her people have become the Naga, dwelling in the depths of the ocean, a forbidden land inaccessible to creatures of the earth, the place where the Old Gods N'Zoth is sealed.
How can we summon Queen Azshara to call upon the Dark Portal? This is a difficult problem.
Understanding Sylvanas's predicament, Antonidas quickly inquired using magic, "Honorable Emissary, how can we summon Queen Azshara?"
The ornate coffin remained silent for a long while before slowly saying, "Perhaps we could try to find the Demon Hunter Illidan."
After saying this, all the Magic Gems on the coffin went out, and the Emissary fell into a deep sleep.
In the ancient Zandalari Empire, at the scenic Sweetwater Cliffs, lies a tranquil beach.
Warchief Vol'jin of the Horde lay comfortably on the warm sand, a huge banana leaf shielding him from the glaring sun. His long teeth were skewered with fragrant roasted meat, which could be tasted with just a flick of his tongue.
The roasted Tauren meat, smoked over a low flame, are delicious, juicy, and rich without being greasy.
On this bright and sunny midday, Vol'jin felt very comfortable and was about to doze off.
He held a newspaper in his hand, a creation of the Goblins of Steamwheedle Port, reporting major events happening throughout Azeroth.
The newspapers devoted huge pages to documenting the destruction of Orgrimmar. The Goblins of Gadgetzan used a scathing tone to satirize the Alliance, especially the Night Elf race, for their inaction in leaving Orgrimmar to its doom. They also gave positive coverage to the glorious and great figures of heroes such as Thrall and Saurfang, saying that they sacrificed themselves for Azeroth and would live on forever.
The article devoted considerable space to reporting the death of Warchief Vol'jin, especially a close-up photograph showing Vol'jin's airship plunging into the murky floodwaters. His spirit of vowing to live and die with the Horde will surely be remembered for eternity.
The Goblins emphasized Vol'jin's great life. To save the Azeroth Continent, Vol'jin developed extremely simple habits, using a toothpick for decades. This noble spirit of Consecration is worthy of utmost admiration.
Vol'jin found it somewhat amusing. Everything was over. The Horde leaders had actually been killed by Medivh, something Vol'jin hadn't expected. He was glad he hadn't lingered in Orgrimmar and had chosen to flee for his life.
Squinting, Vol'jin gazed at the beautiful women playing on the beach.
Warchief Vol'jin lived a life of extreme luxury, and he had a particular fondness for beautiful women. In his villa in Sweetwater Cliff, he collected beauties from all races of Azeroth.
Trolls, Orcs, Goblins, Furbolg, Murlocs, Tauren, Gnolls, Centaurs, Quilboar, Kobolds
Beautiful women from various ethnic groups, dressed in revealing clothing, frolicked on the beach, occasionally teasing and joking, filling the air with laughter. Vol'jin couldn't help but exclaim, "This is truly the most beautiful scenery in life!"
Vol'jin loved this life. What was the point of risking his Warchief to become Warchief if not for all this? Was it to save Azeroth?
Okay, that's just a bunch of lies.
Sticking out his long tongue, he put a piece of succulent roasted Tauren meat into his mouth, and then took a sip of the coconut juice brought by the mother Goblin. Vol'jin felt very satisfied, but also a little regretful.
Battle of Orgrimmar, it will be difficult to find roasted Tauren meat anymore.
Suddenly, a cool breeze swept across the warm beach, Vol'jin sensed a strong killing intent.
He quickly grabbed at the nearby sand, where a pair of sharp Warglaive were buried. With the weapons in hand, Vol'jin immediately felt full of confidence. He jumped up, bent down, and prepared for battle, cautiously looking around.
The beautiful women of various ethnicities on the beach continued to joke and play, unaware of the impending danger.
Vol'jin sniffed the air around him; he smelled the distinctive scent of moss—the scent of Forest Troll.
Finally, a shadow appeared on the beach. It was an extremely strong Troll with sharp, curved fangs, deep wrinkles on its face, and a pair of small, cruel, and cunning eyes.
"It's you, Zul'jin?"
Vol'jin held his breath, gripping his pair of sharp Warglaive tightly.
Zul'jin is an old Troll, and according to seniority, he is of the same generation as Vol'jin's father, Sen'jin. However, Vol'jin is the Warchief of the Horde, and has a noble status, so Zul'jin has to bow to Vol'jin when he sees him.
Vol'jin already knew about the destruction of Zul'Aman and guessed that Zul'jin had fled to the Zandalari Empire.
But he didn't expect Zul'jin to find him so quickly.
"Hahaha, Warchief Vol'jin of the Horde, you're enjoying such a luxurious life! Oh, what am I seeing? A pair of voluptuous Tauren sisters, how enviable! I wonder how heartbroken the Horde who thought you were dead will be when they find out all this?"
Vol'jin smiled slightly and calmly said, "Horde doesn't know about the Warchief's luxurious life? They're just envious." Looking at the newspaper at his feet, Vol'jin added, "Reporting on my simple life is just to deceive fools. How could truly intelligent people be fooled by such an illusion?"
"Well said, Vol'jin. Hypocrisy and lies are all we live for. No wonder you're the Warchief of the Horde." Zul'jin looked at the wary Vol'jin. "Don't be so tense, Warchief of the Horde. Our lives as Trolls are full of hardship. Sometimes we need to forget our hatred for each other, don't we?"
Zul'jin narrowed his eyes, a dangerous glint in them, and said in a cold voice, "Wasn't it you who offered the secret recipe to Thrall back then, resulting in me being eaten by Thrall for thirty whole days? Thirty days!"
Vol'jin did not deny it; he knew his plot could not be hidden from Vol'jin.
In the twenty-sixth year of the Dark Portal, Zul'jin's Amani Tribe attempted to join the Horde, and Vol'jin's Darkspear Tribe suffered the greatest loss of interests.
Leaving aside the generations-long feud between the Troll races, their hands are stained with each other's blood.
The ancient Amani Tribe alone, with its magical black magic, profound historical heritage, and worshipped gods, far surpasses the Darkspear Tribe, inevitably causing Zul'jin's status in the Horde to rise rapidly, leaving Vol'jin far behind.
"What, Zul'jin, are you here for revenge?"
Zul'jin took a few steps forward, coming to Vol'jin's side; this was already a dangerous distance.
Vol'jin wasn't confident he could handle Zul'jin, so he cautiously took a few steps back.
Zul'jin grabbed a piece of roasted meat from the stove and put it in his mouth, chewing it heartily.
"Delicious roasted Tauren meat, what an unparalleled pleasure. Vol'jin, your Horde is destroyed, and my Zul'Aman has been overrun by the Forsaken. We are nothing but two old dogs clinging to life. Why fight to the death over old grudges?"
Vol'jin was taken aback. Zul'jin's attitude made him breathe a slight sigh of relief, although he still couldn't let his guard down.
"So, Zul'jin, my old friend, what brings you here?" Vol'jin asked cautiously.
Zul'jin continued to chew on the roasted meat, burping contentedly.
"Vol'jin, you're in deep trouble. If God-King Rastakhan knew that Warchief Vol'jin of the Horde was living in seclusion in the Zandalar Empire, what do you think he would do?"