Beneath the calm surface of Azeroth, undercurrents surged. Overall, however, it remained peaceful and tranquil.
But in the Twisting Nether, where time flowed differently, the war had already dragged on for decades.
"Hold the line, warriors of the Burning Legion! We have conquered countless worlds and destroyed countless civilizations. We are the mightiest force in the universe. Wipe out those enemies!"
Archimonde stood at the rear of the Legion, his voice reaching the mind of every demon.
Then the demons' cries rose and fell across the surface of Argus.
The Maw's armies, however, were silent as black iron. Facing the Burning Legion's relentless assault, they fought without a sound, fell, and rose again.
The Jailer was very patient, but he did not commit all of The Maw's troops at once. Instead, he used the anima of dead demons to constantly resurrect his forces.
Arch-deacon Denathrius asked him in confusion, "Zovaal, exactly how long are you planning to wait? At this level of fighting, we could battle for thousands of years and still get nowhere."
"Haha, old friend, there's no need to rush. Once they've run out of tricks, we can more or less strike with our full strength." In truth, the Jailer was also admitting in a roundabout way that he feared death, which was why he kept sending his subordinate troops in batches to test the enemy.
Only now, when even his ally could no longer stand it, did he decide to increase the pressure.
And so an army several times larger than before surged through the spatial rifts toward Argus. Very soon, it overran the demons' territory.
"No!" Archimonde let out an enraged roar. The demon armies had never been a match for The Maw's forces to begin with, and before, they had only barely fought them to