The Strongman

Malone did not truly catch the last words of that guy; yet he knew that the guy had promised to grant him power—the power to survive in such chaotic times.

Whether it was the Alliance or the Horde—of course, although both factions had their own roles in the game, judging by Malone's own aesthetic and moral standards, he naturally would not stand with the Horde.

However, Malone was currently unable to factor things like factions and stances into his considerations; he only wanted to figure out exactly what kind of "divine" power he possessed.

"What on earth could it be?" Malone muttered, unable to find an answer no matter how much he pondered.

"Ha, Maicomarlon, what are you thinking about?" That familiar, raspy voice reached Malone's ears again. A look of helplessness flashed across his face as he lifted his head to look toward the source of the sound.

Teron Gorefiend stood right before Malone. Just like yesterday, he was fully equipped—why was he dressed so decently while he himself was stark naked?

Thinking about this question with growing indignation, Malone squeezed his legs together a bit tighter—it didn't feel like much when he was alone, but in front of Teron Gorefiend, Malone didn't want to expose certain things.

"Heh heh, don't hide it; that thing is useless to a dead man anyway." Teron Gorefiend laughed—though his terrifying expression turned it into a hideous grin—and tossed a bundle of items at Malone's feet.

With a clattering sound, Malone looked at the bundle—it turned out to be a set of rusted armor.

Thank goodness, he finally had clothes to wear... otherwise, it was quite chilly. Malone hurriedly picked up the armor and, ignoring Teron Gorefiend standing to the side, quickly began to put it on.

"Where did these clothes come from?" Malone spoke his first sentence to Teron Gorefiend—because he was truly curious.

The armor Teron Gorefiend had brought, while dilapidated and showing several obvious signs of damage, was a complete set—besides the breastplate, leg guards, greaves, and leather boots, there was even a set of inner shirts and trousers.

Of course, Malone, who was accustomed to various silk and synthetic fabrics, felt as if he were being pricked by needles all over after putting on this shirt, which was likely made of linen from the world of Azeroth—but it was still better than being naked.

"Stripped off a dead man," Teron Gorefiend replied.

"Dead..." Malone's movement of pulling on the breastplate slowed, and he looked hesitantly at the large piece of iron in his hands.

A jagged, uneven hole appeared clearly in the center of the breastplate, with patches of reddish-brown, hardened stains congealed near the gap, emitting a foul stench.

Malone suppressed the discomfort in his body and tossed the armor aside—he knew those reddish-brown things were likely dried blood.

"Are you not going to wear the armor?" Teron Gorefiend looked at Malone with some concern. "Is your body still uncomfortable? You had better put on the armor, Maicomarlon. We will soon continue our march north to fight. Unlike before, we will be at the very front of the battlefield like those warriors from now on; we can't do that without armor!"

"I..." Malone looked at the shirt and trousers he had already put on—if he weren't so unwilling to be stark naked, he wouldn't even want to wear these clothes stripped from a corpse.

As expected, orcs really are barbaric creatures—Malone thought to himself, his resolve to leave this place growing firmer.

"Fine, if you don't want to wear the armor, then don't for now. I also think this stuff is quite inconvenient to move around in..." Teron Gorefiend rambled on.

Having finished dressing, Malone sat back down on the ground and began to zone out. Seeing him like this, Teron Gorefiend felt a bit worried but didn't know what to say, so he sat down not far from Malone and began fiddling with a long staff at his waist that had a gemstone at the tip.

Malone continued to ponder his future path—what kind of power had that god... actually given him?

"Hey, Teron... do me a favor," Malone said to Teron Gorefiend.

"Hm? What for?" Teron Gorefiend shuffled over to Malone's side.

Good heavens... what is that smell... Malone's sense of smell suffered a massive shock.

Only then did he have the time to carefully examine Teron Gorefiend—not his terrifying face, which made Malone want to vomit just looking at it—but his attire.

Clearly, Teron Gorefiend's clothes must have also been "stripped off a dead man," and he had been wearing them for significantly longer than Malone. More importantly, the human corpse Teron Gorefiend occupied was far more decomposed than Malone's, which resulted in the thick, pungent stench of a rotting body clinging to him.

"You stink," Malone couldn't help but complain.

"Is that so? How come I can't smell it?" Teron Gorefiend curiously placed a hand in front of his nostrils and sniffed hard, but only produced a wheezing sound—his current body's face was severely damaged, and those nostrils had clearly lost their function, emitting only the sound of a drafty wind tunnel.

A more important point, and one Malone hadn't noticed, was—how could a dead man have a sense of smell?

"Come here, do like this," Malone said, extending his hand and gesturing for Teron Gorefiend to get into an "arm-wrestling" position.

That's right, in order to test his strength, Malone intended to arm-wrestle Teron Gorefiend.

"Maicomarlon... this position is so awkward." For some reason, Teron Gorefiend's body lacked the flexibility Malone had—his wrist was stiff, and he could barely lock hands with Malone.

After much effort to get into position, Malone explained the simple rules of "arm-wrestling" to Teron Gorefiend and began the countdown.

"Three, two, one, start!" Malone began to exert force to push down Teron Gorefiend's wrist.

Perhaps the "God of Video Games" was indeed proficient at such things—Malone was referring to the act of transporting people to another world—as Malone found himself completely adept at controlling this body that did not belong to him.

"Ah!" Teron Gorefiend let out a cry of surprise.

"No way, am I really that strong?" Malone muttered to himself.

In the "arm-wrestling" contest, Malone won decisively against Teron Gorefiend.

To ensure this wasn't just a fluke, Malone tried several more times with Teron Gorefiend—he didn't even care much about the foul stench coming from the other party anymore.

The final result revealed that Malone's strength was indeed immense, at least far greater than Teron Gorefiend's—because even using both hands, the guy couldn't overcome him in a test of strength.

This meant his power was likely quite formidable among mortals—Teron Gorefiend was at least in the upper echelon of mortal-level combatants in the world of Azeroth, yet his own strength was more than double that of this death knight leader.

But what use was this?—Malone felt a sense of irony—he had never received any combat training; to think he could simply rely on brute strength to survive in this world was a true joke!