The Cycle of Hatred

Late at night, on a small island not far from Azshara's coastline.

Daelin, commander of the Kul Tiras Fleet, had gathered there with a group of captains, officers, and sailors.

The clearing near the beach was filled with densely packed bonfires. People sat around them eating, drinking, and chatting, while coarse curses and loud laughter rang out from time to time.

Clearly, after patrolling the coastline all day, they were resting there for the night.

The hammocks in the cabins were not unusable, but those dark, cramped spaces filled with all sorts of indescribable smells were obviously far less comfortable than camping out on open land.

Besides, no one could endure eating preserved food for long periods at sea.

At times like this, going ashore to get some fresh meat, vegetables, and fruit to improve their meals became especially important.

Therefore, Daelin docked the fleet near the island's bay every night and let his men take turns going ashore to relax and rest, easing the strain that years of dull life at sea placed on their minds and spirits.

Of course, the main reason he dared to do this was that the Orcs had no respectable naval or air forces at all.

Those bathtub-like fishing boats of miserable quality, along with the airships hired from the Goblins, had all sunk to the bottom of the sea and become playgrounds for fish.

The entire Azshara coastline was now firmly under the control of the Kul Tiras naval fleet.

Unless the enemy could grow wings and fly over, the vast sea was the best barrier imaginable.

At that moment, the Alliance's most legendary fleet commander sat beside a huge bonfire, gnawing on a roasted seabird shot down by his men while drinking his favorite strong liquor. His eyes were filled with the