Martial Arts Tournament

Blackhand strode over to Durotan and the others in a few steps, then laughed heartily. "Looks like I'm the last one. Sorry about that—I wasted some time taming this herd of Komodo Dragons."

The chieftains laughed it off. "It's fine, Blackhand. We only arrived a short while ago ourselves. Now that you're here, we can start building the arena for the martial tournament."

Ner'zhul said, "This time, my disciple Gul'dan has prepared several hundred bottles of Fervent Blood that can enhance one's strength. I intend to give them all to the winners of the martial tournament."

Kilrogg said in his hoarse voice, "Ner'zhul, it seems you can already produce Fervent Blood in large quantities. Aside from the rewards for the tournament winners, do you have any extra for trade? I can exchange Arakkoa slaves for it."

Kargath waved his left arm. "Kilrogg, what use are Arakkoa slaves? I have strong Ogre slaves here. Ner'zhul, do you want them?"

"Ner'zhul, I have..."

"Theirs aren't as good as mine."

Other than Bladefist and Dead Eye, who were arguing, Grommash's eyes burned with fervor, but he did not step forward to join the commotion. Only Durotan and Blackhand remained calm.

Durotan felt that Gul'dan's Fervent Blood was no good thing. It had to be said, someone who spent all day with wolves truly had instincts unlike anyone else's. As for Blackhand, having just tamed the Komodo Dragons, he believed his own strength was the greatest. Relying on external things to increase one's power was not the proper path.

Amid Bladefist and Dead Eye's bickering, the group arrived at the center of the market. When the orcs of the other clans saw several major figures walking together, they knew something must be happening and gathered around. The chieftains exchanged glances, and in the end, Ner'zhul, the organizer of the martial tournament, stepped forward and addressed the orcs. "Orc brethren, countless clans exist on this land, some strong and some weak. Whenever your clan is enslaved or slaughtered by Ogres or Arakkoa because it lacks strength, do you hate it? Do you hate your own weakness?"

As Ner'zhul's aged voice spread through the crowd, the orcs were all plunged into sorrow. Countless orc clans on this land had vanished into the river of time beneath Ogre or Arakkoa attacks. Many of the clans that still existed today had been re-formed from survivors of those vanished clans gathering together.

Take the Shattered Hand Clan, for example—they were made up of Ogre slaves. And if not for Dead Eye, the Blood Ring Clan would have long since been exterminated by the Arakkoa. Thus, all the orcs could feel the pain Ner'zhul spoke of.

Seeing the sorrow on the orcs' faces, Ner'zhul continued his speech. "Have you ever envied the Shattered Hand and the Blood Ring? Envied them for producing heroes capable of saving and strengthening their clans? If you have, then if you were now given the power to save and strengthen your clan, would you want it?!"

At Ner'zhul's words, the orcs were swept into a frenzy. Who had never imagined gaining power one day and becoming the hero who saved their clan? The orcs roared, "We want it! We want it!"

"My most prized disciple, Gul'dan, has invented a potion that can enhance your strength. There is a great quantity of it, enough to make your entire clans stronger. Do you want it? If you do, then a martial tournament will be held here tomorrow. Every clan that has come to the trade gathering may send participants. The winner of the tournament will receive this potion, which can strengthen themselves and their clan. By orc tradition, the victor shall possess all of the potions!" Ner'zhul's words were like a drop of water falling into a pan of hot oil, and all the orcs erupted.