As they watched the city they had deemed doomed rise visibly before their eyes, all contempt and smugness vanished.
A heavy pressure began to hang around Archimonde.
The Dreadlords and the other demons fell silent once more.
This was already the second time Dalaran had defused a crisis, leaving them helpless.
It felt as though every one of their reactions had been anticipated, as if they had been led around by the nose from beginning to end.
They were clearly the attacking side, while the other side was supposed to be the one passively defending.
The frustration was like a mouthful of old blood lodged in their throats, impossible to spit out or swallow.
Even worse was Archimonde's presence.
Who knew how this terrifying commander would vent his fury after suffering such a setback?
Yet, to their surprise, after staring intently at Dalaran for several seconds, the Defiler—renowned for his cruelty—did not fly into a rage. Instead, he burst into laughter.
"Hahahaha, I truly never expected this," the Defiler's booming laughter echoed around them. "The Legion was actually played by a tiny little Dalaran."
"A floating city—truly an excellent idea. So all their responses were meant to buy time and prepare for takeoff.
"Looks like I was too careless. I underestimated this planet's natives.
"Dalaran, I'll remember you!"
Seeing that Archimonde was not as furious as they had imagined, the demons finally breathed a sigh of relief.
Then they could not help feeling sorry for Dalaran.
Being remembered by Archimonde was no good thing for those mages.
Over the tens of thousands of years, the Burning Legion had destroyed countless worlds and slaughtered countless races, and Archimonde had played a major role in much of it.
Once the brutal and cunning Defiler set his sights on someone, their fate was