Drink This Bowl of Chicken Soup, and You'll Still Be a Fierce Tiger

"My Champions served me with all their hearts, yet I failed to save them in time, leaving their souls trapped and denied their freedom." G'hnir slumped back down onto the stone, looking utterly dejected.

"You feel your honor has been insulted, and until that shame is washed away, you are unwilling—or perhaps unable—to accept any more followers." Zul'ra asked tentatively. It was no wonder the Loa was reluctant to take on new followers when his previous ones had been slaughtered and their souls imprisoned.

"Yes." G'hnir glanced up at Zul'ra, then buried his head back down in despair.

"I have a question for you." Zul'ra looked at the massive, bowed tiger, stood up, and brushed the dust from his body.

"..." G'hnir raised his head, eyeing the standing troll with a look of confusion.

"I wish to ask: do you care more about your own honor, or the souls that remain trapped?" Zul'ra held up a single index finger.

"Are you mocking me?" G'hnir pushed his body up with his forepaws, his narrowed tiger eyes peering down at Zul'ra.

"No, no, God of Tigers, King of Beasts, Bane of Prey, is there anyone you fear?" Zul'ra waved his hands repeatedly.

"As you said, I am the King of Beasts, the Bane of Prey, I am the Master of Beasts, and I fear nothing." G'hnir stood to his full height, head held high as he looked down, answering with a series of tiger roars.

"If there is nothing you fear, then why do you refuse to accept followers? Why have you hesitated within this temple for hundreds of years?" Zul'ra bowed slightly and asked.

"..." G'hnir looked at the bowing troll, his straight whiskers drooping instantly, his expression one of bewilderment.

"G'hnir, you are fierce and swift, your claws and teeth are sharp, you are skilled at lurking and even better at enduring. The prey you set your sights on has no hope of escape—that is what makes you fearsome. But I believe what makes you most worthy of reverence is your agile mind, your superior wisdom, and your righteous will. Your Champions died for you willingly; you owe it to them to ensure their deaths were not in vain." Zul'ra spoke with a rhythmic cadence, layering his flattery with persuasion.

"But their souls remain unfree, and I..." G'hnir's ears flattened, and he dared not look at Zul'ra. For hundreds of years, he had been unable to find a way to liberate his followers' souls, and so he had hidden here, too ashamed to face anyone.

"Then you should be finding a way to liberate their souls and protect your other followers. You have no reason to remain sequestered in this temple. A tiger should roam the wilds; a king should have the courage to own his mistakes." Zul'ra couldn't help but speak up. The Loa were worshipped as gods because of their human-like traits, but they were not immune to human weaknesses—pride and complacency. Time to swallow this cup of chicken soup for the soul!

"A tiger roams the wilds; a king owns his mistakes." G'hnir stood up, his ears perking back up. His previously listless gaze brightened, his tiger tail flicked back and forth, and with a sudden surge of energy, he rose from the boulder.

"I must admit, you are wise, Zul'ra. I acknowledge my faults, and I will walk out of this temple to roam the wilds as you said, but before that, I must make amends." G'hnir bowed his head slightly toward Zul'ra, then raised it high once more.

"The King of Beasts is about to return." Zul'ra smiled and bowed back to G'hnir.

"However, I need your help." G'hnir lowered his head again, watching Zul'ra's stiffening expression with a playful glint in his eyes.

"I can see you have courage. Come! This is not a dangerous task; you only need to help me enter the spirit world and kill someone." G'hnir held his head high, his whiskers twitching.

"Thank you for the compliment." Zul'ra looked at the giant tiger looming over him, whiskers vibrating, and realized he had no choice but to agree.

"Bring your weapon. In that world, you are like the spirits there. When you are ready, put on this mask." G'hnir leaped down from the boulder, and with a light swipe of his paw, a Voodoo Mask made of wood appeared before them. Zul'ra looked at the mask and quickly gripped the Zandalari Greatsword at his waist.

"Once you put on this mask, you will enter the battlefield of the past. I will guide you from there. Help me finish off the soul of that Mepgira, and the curse will be broken." G'hnir watched Zul'ra ready his sword and offered a final word of caution.

"I just want to ask one thing: if it's this simple, why don't you do it yourself?" Zul'ra held the greatsword in his right hand, took the Voodoo Mask with his left, and looked at G'hnir.

"Because I cannot enter. The curse is specifically targeted at me." G'hnir's tiger face looked slightly embarrassed.

"Thank you for the explanation." Zul'ra looked at the sheepish giant tiger and placed the Voodoo Mask over his face. The mask was painted with a simple, square tiger face in oil, which rested firmly against his tusks.

It felt as if he had put on a legendary holographic helmet. As Zul'ra looked out through the mask, the surrounding environment shifted instantly. He found himself in a world of swirling mists, where countless figures moved about—Zandalari Trolls clashing with ugly, serpentine Naga, and even the presence of Tortollan.

Zul'ra touched his face in a daze; the Voodoo Mask was gone. He had arrived in another world—or, as G'hnir put it, a spirit world, a battlefield repeating itself due to a curse!

"Do not daze off!" G'hnir's voice in his ear snapped Zul'ra back to reality, and he began to scan his surroundings.

"There!" Just as Zul'ra scanned the area, G'hnir's warning rang out. In the distance, a figure lit up, much like a boss's name highlighted in a game from his past life. It was a slender Naga.

"I'm coming." Zul'ra looked at the figure, let out a tiger roar, and charged forward. He didn't anticipate a male Naga swimming across his path, swinging a trident that looked like a massive anchor.

"Be careful. If you die here, I might be able to resurrect you, but the pain you suffer here may haunt you for a lifetime." G'hnir's warning came just as Zul'ra narrowly dodged the trident.

"Thanks for the heads-up, King of Beasts." Zul'ra sidestepped the sweeping trident, backhanded his sword into the male Naga's shoulder, and cleaved the opponent in two. He rolled his eyes, grateful for the powerful arms of his troll body and the Zandalari blade—though perhaps less grateful for the blade itself, as the Zandalari design was quite unscientific; a prettier, sharper weapon would have been better.

The greatsword Zul'ra held was a standard-issue Zandalari weapon: four feet long, six inches wide, with a thick spine. Though called a sword, it was more of a blade, with two edges angled to create a tip wider than the body, resembling the shape of the Ashbringer.

The Zandalari Greatsword was designed for the three-fingered grip of a troll, meant to be swung and hacked using the arm as an axis. Zul'ra had learned how to use this style, but it still felt uncomfortable. A sword should be straight, the gentleman of all weapons, the king of all arms—it should move like the wind, effortless and graceful, slicing off heads with a smile. That was the swordsman of his dreams, the dream itself.