Universe, Argus, Antorus—the Burning Throne.
Ever since the dark Titan Sargeras returned, the demon brothers of the Burning Legion had finally found their backbone again. They united once more and tirelessly strove for the great cause of burning the entire universe.
Kil'jaeden the Deceiver had prospered even more. Sargeras did not care at all about Archimonde's death, barely even asking about it, and he was likewise too lazy to concern himself with the Burning Legion's internal power struggles. Thus, all military and political authority within the Legion was currently in Kil'jaeden's hands. The Deceiver had finally gotten his wish and taken that glorious position beneath one man and above all others.
By all rights, life should have been quite pleasant now—a comfortably prosperous existence. Drinking tea, reading newspapers, having succubus girls massage his legs and shoulders, and occasionally destroying a few planetary worlds. Everything should have been perfectly delightful.
But as it went, eight or nine things out of ten in this world never went as one wished. Kil'jaeden was currently mired in profound helplessness—or, more accurately, severe frustration.
He had suddenly received a summons, and its source was not surprising in the slightest: a harassing call from Gul'dan.
Gul'dan! Gul'dan! Gul'dan again! Was there no end to this? How many fucking Gul'dans were there? Why couldn't they ever just stay dead?!
One came today, another tomorrow. Today it was from the main timeline, tomorrow from a parallel timeline. Endless Gul'dans, endless demands, work reports, and requests for guidance—annoying as nonstop spam calls.
If there had been a blacklist system, Kil'jaeden would have blocked that bastard old orc Gul'dan immediately.
Still, he had to take the call. After all, he could not dampen the enthusiasm of local officials. Once he examined it carefully, he discovered some different information. Ah... this