The Hand Behind It

"May the Moon Goddess light our way!"

Garrosh had been prepared to die, but when he saw the reinforcements, he let out a shout. No longer conserving his strength, he led his warriors straight at the warlocks under Gul'dan's command. There was no choice—the warlocks who could summon demons stood out like fireflies in the dark, bright and unmistakable.

Garrosh and his men shifted from the circular formation they had just been using into a wedge as they advanced. They had no horses, but they could still break through the Undead ranks effectively. With Garrosh himself at the tip of the wedge, his sword was so quick that no one could withstand even a single exchange with him.

The Undead had no morale, but without Gul'dan controlling them, Rek'tar wouldn't launch a suicidal attack on the Horde and Night Elves under such unfavorable conditions. He didn't even intend to cast a single spell. Like Gul'dan, he planned to disappear into the crowd and slip away. What he had to do was even simpler than Gul'dan's plan: take off his robes, and he would look like an ordinary skeleton. Judging by his frail appearance, he might not even pass for a Skeleton Warrior.

The leaderless Undead began to retreat, and the powerful demons were driven off by the dryads. It seemed the tide of battle was turning in favor of the Horde and the Night Elves. But let's not forget: Archimonde was still absorbing Nordrassil's power.

"My loyal followers! Tear my enemies to pieces!"

Archimonde had recovered some of his strength. Freeing one hand, he cast a spell toward the sky. He was summoning reinforcements to help him gain even more power. The portal he had opened with Nordrassil's power was just like the one from ten thousand years ago: it