The First Newspaper

"This demon actually possessed the strength of a fifth-circle mage." Antonidas looked at Krasus, who stood solemnly before him. "My friend, do you know what this means?"

The red dragon stroked his chin before Krasus slowly spoke. "This still does not count as a demon. At most, it is a mutant corrupted by demonic power. Of course, the demon that transformed it must have been extremely high-ranking—definitely a lord-level being. Otherwise, a mere mutant could not possibly possess fifth-circle strength."

"Considering that fel energy is indeed more destructive than arcane magic, this monster is equivalent to a sixth-circle mage."

"But this also represents the Council of Tirisfal's negligence." Antonidas stared at him. His pupils dilated as though in fear, swallowing his entire eyes, and even his voice unconsciously rose several pitches. He walked up to Krasus. "If something had not happened to the Guardian, such a massive oversight would never have occurred."

Krasus pursed his lips and stared blankly ahead. A moment later, he came back to himself and nodded. "Yes."

"We need to mobilize all of Dalaran." Antonidas's voice was calm, but resolute. "Clearly, something has happened to Medivh, and a Nathrezim, an Eredar, or some other demon slipped in through the astral plane. Such a thing could easily cause the deaths of an entire city's inhabitants. If we cannot act in time..."

An indifferent voice sounded behind Antonidas. "I seem to have heard someone discussing me?"

Antonidas spun around in horror. A shadow sat in his former seat.

The shadow wore crimson and black robes, with exquisite black clasps tightly fastened around his wrists. A black mantle trimmed with raven feathers rested on his shoulders, while a dark cloak cast the entire chair into shadow. Pale, sturdy fingers tapped rhythmically against the tabletop.

He reached up and removed his hood, and a pallid face abruptly emerged into the light. His granite-hard features made both man and dragon shudder involuntarily. In his left hand, he held that famous Guardian's staff, capable of unleashing deadly spells at any moment.

This was Antonidas's first time meeting Medivh. In the original timeline, he had not even realized before his death that the prophet who had warned him was Medivh. But now, though he still did not know who the other man was, the abyss-deep and immense magical power emanating from him told Antonidas that he was Medivh.

"It is a mutated hellhound," Medivh said. His voice was gentle and steady, showing that his emotions were extremely stable. "A mutant capable of parasitizing other creatures with its own flesh and blood, then transforming and enslaving them."

"It is indeed extremely dangerous." Antonidas nodded. "I fear none of us would find it easy to deal with. Its parasites alone are already so powerful."

"Of course." Medivh coldly pulled a huge, battered monster out of the darkness, like a magician drawing back a curtain. Antonidas narrowed his eyes instinctively. It was a purple creature more than fifteen meters long and three meters tall—a whale if it were in the sea. Others of its kind looked as fragile as infants beside it. Even after suffering several lethal blows, it still clung tenaciously to life, its enormous wounds seizing every fleeting moment to heal. "The Violet Hold is useful again, Warden."

"Thank you for the joke." Antonidas glanced at the bookshelf that had been turned into a complete mess—first Alex, and now Medivh. "I will take care of it."

"I heard some little fellow received Ebony Chill's recognition." Medivh spoke as though casually. "So, you have chosen him to be my successor?"

Krasus seemed about to say something, but Medivh lightly raised a hand. To his horror, he found that he could not move. "Dragonkind? Dalaran does not belong to you! I did not drive you out because you never used your identity as a dragon to interfere with Dalaran's operations! Besides, the one in charge here is not you. It is Antonidas."

Those dark, sunken eyes turned toward Antonidas. Antonidas met his gaze without the slightest fear. "No. Every Guardian chooses his own successor. The Council of Kirin Tor will not interfere with the Council of Tirisfal's decisions. Never."

"Never?" Medivh bit his lip with a hint of frivolity. His voice became extraordinarily hoarse, like two panes of glass grinding together in dry air. "Never... will you?"

A terrifying deathly silence descended. Krasus discovered that he could not even return to his dragon form, as though he had been sealed inside an airtight box. Then, in the next instant, he suddenly let out a breath of relief, because Medivh transformed into a black raven and flew out the window.

"He left?" Krasus was drenched in sweat. This was one of the few times he had felt death from the depths of his soul.

"Krasus." Antonidas stared blankly in that direction, his voice extraordinarily faint. "He has returned."

Under Astaroth's guidance, Lister revised his article. Lor'themar and the warrior named Halduron Brightwing had already drawn up the newspaper's layout. Splendid elven patterns decorated its borders as they edited content for sections such as food and art. Uther directed farmers' children as they arranged the movable type into sentences.

"As for history, there is no rush to set the type. After all, we do not have publication rights for those history books. Those are in the publishers' hands." Astaroth stretched his tired arms and gave a satisfying yawn.

They worked in a purchased mill. The surroundings were excellent; according to Lor'themar, it was a fine place for recuperation. There was fragrant milk oatmeal, delicious roast chicken, and only one flaw—there was no fresh fruit, so they could only pass the time with fresh cheese and mint tea.

Lister arranged the movable type for the article. The pine-scented ink softened into a viscous liquid under the heat, staining his fingers black. Everyone watched. This was the fruit of all their labor. As the paper was pressed, clear writing appeared upon the page.

Smelling the newspaper, still fragrant with fresh ink, Lister broke into a happy smile. He had finally accomplished something in the truest sense, though it was only half finished for now.

"Now..." Lister put away his smile, and everyone else stopped laughing as well. "The most important thing is selling the newspapers."

Lor'themar shrugged. "We are powerless to help with that. In truth, I seriously doubt anyone will be willing to pay for it."

Lister rubbed his hair. It was all black anyway, so no one could tell. "That is indeed a problem. Uther."

"Wait, I am a priest." Uther raised both hands in refusal. "I am specifically responsible for the printing work."

"Isn't providing more people with work so they can support themselves the very duty of the Holy Light?" Lister looked at him. "Does the Holy Light permit people to have food and shelter without working? Impossible."

Uther seemed persuaded. After pondering for a moment, he nodded. "I will hire some workers to do it, but I still remain doubtful. Your idea is too fanciful. Two thousand gold coins may be a trivial matter to the prince and Kel'Thuzad, but if this fails, it will not only be a tangible loss. You will also lose their trust."

"So the most important issue right now is not external factors. It is precisely that we ourselves lack confidence." Lister took a deep breath. The heavy sense of responsibility made it hard for him to breathe. "I will do my best."

"Of course, every staff member is one of us. Besides a fixed wage, we will also share equity. Everyone will." Lister said, "If we succeed, I will not keep the results for myself."

"As for publicity, we will need to trouble the prince and Master Kel'Thuzad for help. We will also need more avenues." Lister murmured.