Argus, Gathering of Betrayers

Some nightmares were destined to be remembered.

Argus, once the home of the Draenei, where the Holy Light and Arcane had prospered for endless ages until the end of the world.

If one cast their gaze into the distant cosmos, they might see memories of that disaster.

The gray-black planet, dotted with scattered points of light, slowly flickered beneath the night sky.

They were not marks of civilization.

Across its surface, countless volcanic fissures endlessly spewed flames like ever-burning torches.

At the very center of the planet, a terrifying rift stretched across it, as though some dreadful colossal sword had once cleaved down upon it.

This dying planet drifted alone through the cosmos, quietly marching toward extinction.

Few still remembered that this ash-covered world had once possessed beautiful blue skies. Those precious memories remained in every wanderer's heart, and whenever they dreamed, that shared dream would begin anew.

That had been long, long ago, before the great dark titan Sargeras had set foot there.

Upon that paradise, the Eredar had once toiled diligently. They poured forth sweat and wisdom, carried lofty dreams in their hearts, and created an unprecedented marvel of civilization.

Thus, a wondrous nation rose from the ground, vast and solemn, its flourishing destiny ascending like the morning sun.

Light and hope dwelled together upon that beautiful planet until the arrival of the dark titan.

It had been a dark day.

Burning armies, green flames, fel... Fire rained from the sky, the earth burned, and people fled in every direction before dying.

The horrific legion wiped out all brilliance and glory overnight, bringing endless ruin.

What it brought was not merely pain and torment, but betrayal from those closest to them.

Three betrayers emerged amid that tragic slaughter.

Archimonde and Kil'jaeden had once been the leaders of the noble Eredar, great figures who had guided their people toward a bright future.

Yet under the dark titan's temptation, they abandoned their race and slaughtered their own people. That shameful crime would never be forgiven.

As for the third betrayer, the final member of the triumvirate, the spokesperson of the Holy Light, Prophet Velen.

On that burning night, when the people had needed him most, he abandoned them. He even discarded his former name, leading those traitors who called themselves "Draenei" to cowardly flee this world through ancient inherited power.

Rumor had it that the prophet had left his own son behind in hell.

Antorus, the Burning Throne.

This dreadful fortress stood upon the Antoran Wastes. Compared to its terrifying grandeur, mere size was an insignificant embellishment.

Legend said that within the belly of this steel-forged behemoth, countless worlds connected to one another.

Sharp whistling sounds repeatedly came from deep within the gloomy hall, accompanied by delighted, manic laughter.

At the center of the Torture Chamber, the Shivarra Coven was completing their work. As the most fanatical followers of the fallen titan Sargeras, their duty was to make their victims' screams resound through the halls of Antorus.

The Mother's six arms swayed gently as she vigorously cracked her long whip. Every movement radiated soul-snaring allure.

Though she bore the name of flames, her movements lacked none of their elegance. Her seductive face exuded ultimate temptation, and her alluring body traced nearly perfect lines. She was truly a beautiful yet deadly creature.

Yet that deadly beauty was like a venomous spider, whose vivid colors often concealed fangs eager to devour.

There were three other stars of this feast of torment: Osara, Mother of Night; Diima, Mother of Shadows; and Suraya, Mother of the Cosmos.

Together with Noura, Mother of Flames, they formed the Burning Legion's finest torturers. They were born masters of interrogation; within this foul hall, none could keep their secrets.

The Mothers had paved their glorious path of advancement with cruel methods and the blood of countless victims, earning themselves exceptional status and unshakable reverence within the Burning Legion.

Yet they cared little for status or reputation. Compared to such tedious reverence, they preferred serving the dark titan, offering their loyalty while indulging their twisted pleasures.

After all, nothing excited them more than the agonized screams of their victims.

"Mmm... ah! Blood! Sweet blood!"

A twisted smile appeared on Mother Noura's face. She extended her crimson tongue and blissfully licked the blood splashed across the corner of her mouth, releasing wave after wave of seductive moans.

"The blood of sinners, scarlet wine dripping along the path to redemption, condensed with the essence of remorse, is... mmm... simply irresistible!"

She savored the fruits of her interrogation, lashing out again and again, each blow striking the victim's body and spraying more bloody froth into the air.

"Come on! Hahahaha! This is nowhere near enough! Bleed! Suffer! I need more!"

Only after the blood gradually stained the ground red, and the sound of whipping became dull and sticky, did Mother Noura contentedly put away her dripping whip.

She praised, "Look at this beautiful pattern, this brilliant red. How utterly delightful!"

"You have pleased the Mother of Flames..." She leaned close to the victim's scar-covered face, tenderly running a finger over those hideous wounds. "Then what kind of mercy should I use to repay such kindness?"

She contentedly admired the beautiful pattern woven from blood and sighed with emotion, but no one answered her mad words, for the only victim was already too weak to remain conscious.

Seeing this, Noura grew dissatisfied. "Look at you, such a frail little thing. You remind me of that pitiful wild demigod."

"It was just like you, tail tucked between its legs as it begged for mercy. It truly made one feel pity..."

The Mother licked the corner of her mouth as though savoring that extraordinary game. A bloodthirsty smile appeared on her face as she leaned against the victim's ear and whispered softly, "So I sewed a full thousand void tentacles into its belly, then injected the flame essence of a hundred thousand wild imps into its heart..."

"That had truly been exhausting work. It took ten whole days and nine nights."

"In the end, the poor little bear stopped moving, so we skinned it and made a lovely starlight dress. Its screams had simply been too irritating. How dare it disturb a lady's precious sleep?"

"So, my child, would you like to experience that feeling?"

Without waiting for an answer, Noura lightly snapped her fingers, instantly igniting every drop of blood in the victim's body.

Screams—endless, piercing screams.

Mother Noura laughed wildly in triumph, crazily tearing at her own hair as she vented indescribable excitement and madness. "Ah! That's it! Such wonderful sounds, so pleasing to the ear! I feel like my whole being has come alive! Hahaha!"

Legend said that the abyss lord Mannoroth had boiling blood flowing through his entire body, subjecting him to dreadful torture at every moment. Now, that same punishment had descended upon a child.

"Still, I am merciful. Because you were born noble, utterly unlike those lowly mongrels, you deserve gentler treatment."

"But that is merely my opinion. After all, little darling, three other noble ladies here hold your ownership! I cannot spoil their fun!"

The Mother of Flames arrogantly raised her head. "So pray, little one! Pray that the Mother of Flames' mercy brings you good fortune, and pray that endless night and boundless cosmos can tolerate your arrogance!"

In the darkness, the three observing Mothers wore impatiently mad smiles.

Whipping and felfire burning were merely appetizers. Countless more torments awaited this young Eredar prisoner.

Looking over, a young Eredar hung suspended in the air, bound by fel chains. He was covered in wounds and struggled violently through unbearable pain. The injuries forcibly healed by fel energy split open once more, gathering into a scarlet stream beneath his bare hooves.

Fel energy had soaked his skin into a deep reddish brown, almost completely remaking him into a demon, no different from the crazed Eredar outside.

Except for his eyes.

Unlike true demons, his eyes still gave off a weak blue-white radiance. The Mothers knew what that signified—the unprecedented failure of their devoted work.

They were masters of interrogation and disdained to abuse such cheap, tasteless tools as pain. When pain became the only effective tool, it merely made them appear incompetent.

How long had this torment continued?

A hundred years? A thousand?

Yet their most practiced techniques repeatedly failed against this child, leaving even the Mothers somewhat frustrated.

Clearly, their professionalism had been thoroughly challenged, and that only stirred their competitive spirits further.

However, just as they were preparing to treat this endeavor as a long-term challenge, a turning point arrived.

"Give up, my dear sister. You know this is useless. These dull appetizers are getting tiresome, aren't they?"

The Mother of Night shook her head, though the corners of her mouth she could not suppress showed that she had long since been enjoying herself.

The Mother of Shadows agreed. "Indeed, ladies. We have sampled appetizers for centuries. No matter how delicious they are, one eventually grows sick of them."

"It is all right, dear Noura. Our chef has just prepared an exquisite main course. I believe the honor of presenting this feast is best entrusted to you. Please use the passion of flames to delight our guest and fulfill the duties of a gracious host!"

The Mother of the Cosmos was the most tolerant. She assumed an impeccably polite posture, bent toward the Mother of Flames, and made a gesture of invitation that looked rather absurd.

"What rare humility, my dear sisters. Is our patience truly so fragile?"

The Mother of Flames smiled enchantingly. "Or has the arrival of that great being disturbed your pitiful minds, causing my fearless peers to grow timid?"

The expressions of the other Mothers gradually darkened. Noura revealed a mocking smile and stepped forward once more amid their surrounding company.

She lovingly stroked the Eredar's face. She looked like a true mother indulging her child, yet the gentleness she practiced was enough to chill the soul.

"My little darling, it is time for a bedtime story again." Noura spoke gently. "Today's tale is... a betrayer."

The remaining three Mothers smiled excitedly as well. They had all noticed the prisoner's body tremble slightly, making them somewhat impatient. They had just heard this story too, after all, and it truly was an excellent tale—at least, to demons.

"A betrayer..."

"A demon..."

"A criminal who abandoned his race and family..."

With every sentence spoken by the Mother of Flames, the prisoner's reaction grew more intense.

The Eredar struggled desperately, as though trying to break free of his chains, but this only drove the stakes of flesh deeper and intensified his pain.

His every movement pleased the Mothers, for their interrogation had finally begun to show results.

"That person's name was..."

The Mother of Flames leaned close to the prisoner's ear and uttered a bewitching whisper. "Prophet—Velen!"

As the demon whispered, a heart-rending wail rang out from the Hall of Devotion, like the cry of a lioness on the plains witnessing her cubs being devoured.

Despair, agony, hatred, sorrow.

Those trembling notes battered the shattered heart of the despairing one. At last, he was about to sink into his nightmare!

The Mothers did not burst into laughter, though this pleasure was worthy of being savored.

Pain was not something best enjoyed while hot. It was more like fine wine—the longer it aged, the richer it became.

And the story... had only just begun.

The screams carried far, wave after wave, passing through the hall and reaching the distant outside.

Everything had returned to normal. This was what the Temple of Torment was meant to be: identical screams, unchanged in flavor.

The felguard on watch secretly rubbed his ears, then jolted and resumed a perfectly standard stance.

Demons could get bored too, especially with such absurd work as standing guard. In the past, these dull-witted fools would have thrown their duties aside and lazed about, but today they all stood straight and worked diligently, models of the Legion.

Because they particularly did not wish to anger the towering giant before them.

The visitor's status stood immensely high. His nobility surpassed even the Mothers, second only to the dark titan.

Such nobility allowed no lapse in etiquette, not even from dim-witted felguards.

The guards gripped their fel spears, awkwardly tilting their oversized heads toward the crimson giant outside the hall in salute. They slammed their spear hafts heavily against the ground, making a grand show to express their respect for the arrival.

The earth trembled, shattered fissures spewing flames of wailing. This was the symbol of endless power—the ruined nature's utmost bow after submitting to the Deceiver, the humiliated response of a dying planet, enough to become a symbol of boundless strength.

Liquid magma seemed to flow across the giant's crimson skin, but it was actually solidified fel energy. Such density made even felguards, themselves demons, restless and uneasy. No wonder the mere act of standing there seemed capable of shattering the earth.

Rumor said it was the prize he had won by selling out his own kin. Though that was praise in the Legion's terms, no demon dared discuss it, because those who did were thrown into the fel furnaces.

Kil'jaeden the Deceiver, the Burning Legion's second-in-command.

The crimson giant disdained concealing his words. His voice boomed like thunder, and with every rise and fall, it seemed lightning exploded within it. Its rumbling echoes reverberated through the endless Antoran Wastes.

"I hope you enjoy this story. You know why I have come, my child."

The Deceiver boldly folded his arms before his chest, as though he wished to embrace the vast heavens and earth, and proudly spoke words that shook the heart.

"In Sargeras's temple, the remnants of a thousand worlds burn fiercely. They are merely the wails of ants. Yet I came here because a shattered soul is also wailing. He does not complain of this world's injustice; he yearns for an avenger to be born, a tyrant, a butcher, a Lakish..."

After a long while, a weak voice came from within the hall. Who knew how such a weak voice had traveled so far, yet everyone heard it.

"Why... should I believe you?"

The Deceiver sneered. "You need not believe in oaths, but tomorrow's ruins will reserve a place. It will become the cold grave of the betrayer."

The response was endless silence.

Inside the hall, the Mothers laughed with abandon. Whether they mocked the fickleness of fate or lamented mortal stupidity, none could say. They swayed their serpent-like waists and arms, celebrating this rare victory with seductive dances and laughter.

"Now... do you understand, young Eredar? Your life has been filled with lies and betrayal..."

"Trust? Family? Life is so empty. Pain is merely the remnant of the past. Cast aside every trace of luck, but never forget your anger..."

"Come... join us. Pain will give you strength, anger will show you the way. Let us savor the sweetness of vengeance to our hearts' content... hahahaha..."

In the prisoner's eyes—no, in the eyes of Lakish the Butcher—blazed dazzling fire. Scorching flames hungered for revenge.

Within the Twisting Nether, the Nathrezim were holding a gathering. They were not a race blessed with exceptional combat talent, yet they had still earned a place in the Legion through cunning and wisdom.

The image projected by an eyestalk froze on the scene of the Mothers laughing loudly.

Mal'Ganis shook his head in disgust. He truly despised having to humor those Shivarra whose minds had all gone wrong. It made his tastes seem terribly low.

It was utterly revolting. Today, he might disguise himself as a pig-brained Shivarra; next time, he might become an even filthier, more lowly stone servant!

To be honest, he somewhat missed the days when he possessed fine wine and status.

Back then, they dressed appropriately and looked immaculate. Though they worked in intelligence, they could at least keep their clothes neat and retain the identity of refined upper-class gentlemen.

How he missed those wonderful days when countless resources had been at their command. Look at them now—even eavesdropping required him to do it personally!

And all of this was because of one failure, a stupid failure. The fury of the Holy Light had reduced their homeland to ashes, turning a quarter of their entire realm into ash-covered wilderness.

From that moment onward, their name vanished into drifting winds.

Perhaps scattered chroniclers still remembered how their master had punished them and exiled them to the depths of the cosmos, but only those involved likely knew the true story.

The Nathrezim disappeared for a very long time, until one day, a title began to spread.

Dreadlords.

Mal'Ganis sighed, drawing an angry glare from Tichondrius across from him.

Tichondrius swept his gaze over the assembly. Varimathras beside him thankfully lowered his head. Though he too wanted to vent, his cleverness lay in never volunteering to be the first bird shot.

After surveying the room, Tichondrius nodded in satisfaction. With a wave of his hand, he summoned a swarm of scarlet insects. The swarm circled the temporarily opened rift several times before settling down. The spell proved that they were relatively safe for now.

Only then did Tichondrius begin to speak.

"Actually, both you and I know that this wretched environment is enough to breed dissatisfaction."

He opened with an exceedingly dull remark, as the audience's reactions made perfectly clear.

Detheroc even wore his displeasure openly. He gave a snort, and fel pressure swept across the hall. At first sight of that bloated belly, one might think they faced an abyss lord rather than a dreadlord.

This enormous oddity looked incomparably stupid and clumsy, but anyone who thought so was the truly foolish one.

No dreadlord present dared underestimate his treachery and cruelty, for behind that cumbersome body often lay the burning wreckage of dozens of planets.

Tichondrius directly ignored the provocative gesture and continued his meaningless pleasantries.

"Obviously, what we despise is not the terrible working environment, but complete and utter idleness."

Varimathras shook his head. "This tedious waiting is truly unbearable. Who can remember the last time we produced any results worth showing?"

He tapped the table. "A million years ago, we worked together to corrupt the Bronze Titan!"

"I hope you will take back the phrase 'worked together.' It disgusts me."

Mal'Ganis mocked him, once again successfully drawing Tichondrius's attention. It seemed his skill at reading the room was truly terrible—and he also appeared to be rather unlucky.

"Should I take this as betrayal? Or have you already abandoned your loyalty to our master and decided to play rebellion like that traitorous prince?"

"That doesn't mean we're suddenly as close as siblings!" Detheroc stomped hard on the floor, leaving spiderweb-like fel cracks.

At last, unable to endure it any longer, Tichondrius let out a roar:

"Shut up, you worthless idiots!"

"I have always reminded you that what the Nathrezim seek is chaos, not destruction."

"We should stand high above as weavers of shadows, toying with conspiracies and power plays, using those arrogant brutes to accomplish our noble goals."

"But look at what you're doing! Drunk on fel energy? Idiots! That stuff muddles your brains!"

And possibly kills you with high cholesterol... Mal'Ganis could not help snickering, earning everyone's wrath yet again.

"Shut up! Mal'Ganis, and all you useless trash! I didn't come here to watch a performance!"

The innocent Mal'Ganis had been caught in the crossfire once again. No matter how refined his upbringing, he could no longer contain his anger. He truly wanted to pounce on that red giant bat, tear its face apart with his sharp claws, then throw that ugly face to the floor and stomp on it a few times. So he raised both hands fiercely, as though about to slam them onto the table and rise.

Under the astonished gazes of the many Nathrezim, those hands settled onto the table.

"As you wish, my lord." Mal'Ganis sat upright, gently lowering his hands to brush away nonexistent dust from the table. The demon wore a harmless smile that, frankly, looked rather unsettling.

"Pfft..." Someone was the first to lose control.

In Mal'Ganis's mind, the image of a mad bull wielding a spear suddenly became far more imposing.

Who could have known that the great Tichondrius had once suffered defeat at the hands of an uncivilized native mad bull on some primitive planet? That bull had even been wearing animal hides and chewing grass!

Ah! Damn Detheroc, I saw you laughing too. Sooner or later, you'll be gored to death by a mad bull as well! All of you will be gored to death!

"Enough! Let this pointless chatter end here!"

Tichondrius did what Mal'Ganis wanted to do but dared not. He slammed the table hard, sending fel dust spraying everywhere. The Nathrezim all shuddered.

"The whereabouts of the Titan Soul have become clear. I assume you all know what that means?"

At this explosive revelation, all the Nathrezim present grew excited.

How could they not be? The arrival of this news meant their long wait had finally been rewarded. That plan, dormant for so long, was about to turn once more!

A grand plan to overthrow this world... no, to overthrow tens of millions of worlds!

"This information is too important. I must know its source."

Anetheron suppressed the desire and excitement in his heart. Caution had always been their way.

Meanwhile, Balnazzar stared at Tichondrius's face in shock. The other Nathrezim wore varying expressions, but all of them waited for an answer.

"That is a reasonable request. Of course I will satisfy your pitiful curiosity." Tichondrius smiled smugly. "Its source is... Sorellon."

The giant bat suddenly named someone unfamiliar, a name that had been silent for so long it was nearly forgotten.

For a full three seconds, there was silence. Even the well-informed Nathrezim could not help trying to recall exactly who this title belonged to, which showed just how insignificant its owner was.

"That nobody?"

Varimathras clicked his tongue in amazement. He still retained the faintest impression of that poor fellow who had been dispatched away.

"Fine... considering his work, I suppose this intelligence is credible."

An obscure nobody, with an unimpressive title, no great strength, and no outstanding achievements—in short, utterly lacking in presence. Yet for someone like that, at least Varimathras would not doubt his loyalty.

Putting himself in the other's place, work at headquarters was unbearably dull. Being able to guard endless yellow sands for tens of thousands of years was perseverance worthy of praise.

"Of course he is credible." Tichondrius waved dismissively and said with a mocking tone, "More precisely, he is a little too credible, to the point of stupidly getting himself into unnecessary trouble."

He sighed. "It seems the place of exile contains things other than bugs and tentacles. But what does that have to do with us? Let us wish him luck!"

The Nathrezim burst into laughter.

Tichondrius wore a cruel yet delighted smile. It seemed the Nathrezim leader had also been restraining himself for a very, very long time. He said excitedly:

"Before sunrise, this news will be on the Deceiver's desk. This is a beginning. Given the Dark Titan's impatient temperament, I believe the actions that follow will come swiftly."

Balnazzar turned to glance at the eye demon's projection. It was playing the continuation of the story at the Temple of Torment. On the screen, a red giant was gazing kindly at a young Eredar who had just been released from shackles, his body covered in wounds.

There was not a trace of pretense in that emotion. It seemed the Defiler truly intended to treat this child as family.

Balnazzar smiled disdainfully. Family affection was always a mortal's heaviest shackle. He suddenly found himself looking forward to the tragic revenge between father and son. It gave him quite a bit of inspiration.

Tichondrius turned around as well. He saw the eye demon's image and immediately wore a mocking expression.

"Kil'jaeden is merely a pitiful creature tormented by pathological desires. Letting him continue as he is may happen to align with our own plans. That can be exploited, so let it remain so for now."

"As for the Shivarra Coven... those idiots whose brains have been burned out by fel energy will certainly enjoy the work awaiting them."

With a wave of his hand, the Twisting Nether opened layer upon layer. Exquisite crimson bottles fell into the hands of the Nathrezim. With a light flick of his sharp nail, the cork popped free, and a familiar fragrance instantly filled this isolated place.

"Gentlemen, raise your cups. With wine from our homeland, let us celebrate this wonderful moment together—celebrate the great journey ahead!"

The Nathrezim raised their cups in celebration, savoring this moment of profound significance.

Behold their great undertaking!

The Defiler? Merely a brute intoxicated by power.

The Deceiver? Nothing more than a madman driven to obsession by his fixation.

The Dark Titan, once the Bronze Titan Sargeras? That answer came close, but it was still not what they wanted.

As demons, their names were so lowly as to be outrageous. But as infiltrators, their silent presence would become a terrifying nightmare of despair.

In truth, few knew the origins of these bats, including their Titan master.

Everyone believed the Nathrezim were merely another group of pawns who had submitted to the Dark Titan's great power, insignificant figures within the Burning Legion, like rabbits or rats in the grass—if you had no intention of eating it, would you care where a rabbit's burrow was?

"Look at them, how arrogant they are! Conceited, foolish, and ignorant!"

"Mortals are like this. Their knowledge limits their vision, so they can never see the grandeur beyond the veil."

"Then let us spread shadows across every world, and make the ignorant tremble as they kneel before death's skirts!"

"For Emperor Denathrius! For Revendreth! For death!"

Tichondrius raised his cup in toast.

"For Emperor Denathrius! For death!"

They drank merrily, and everyone was happy except Mal'Ganis. The giant bat's twisted face plainly read: I want to kill someone.

His wine had expired!