Lo'gosh (King Returns Arc)

Regar Wrath of the Earth disliked rainy days. In Draenor, it was raining when his village was Ogre to the ground by ogres. He was Ogre and trained as a gladiator until the Horde rose to power. He followed Orgrim in the invasion of Azeroth, was captured after the defeat, and imprisoned in a prisoner-of-war camp. There, he truly witnessed the benefits of being a gladiator. Every day, he fought to the death in the arena, only to receive food and water in return—he increasingly understood what kind of trade it was. Time and again, Regar watched his enslaved masters collect heavy bags of gold coins, all thanks to him and his fists winning one terrible battle after another. Unsatisfied with his situation, he found a way to escape the prisoner-of-war camp and began to build his own gladiator team.

There's another duel today, taking place in the Valley of Trials in Durotar, and his opponent is a Goblins, but his gladiator... Regar arrived at his tent with a heavy heart, his mind already condemning Goblins for their utter lack of principles.

"I have some bad news." Regar pushed open the tanned leather curtain. It was pitch black inside, and he couldn't see anything, but he knew his three gladiators were inside. "Your opponents for the next match have been decided."

As is customary, Regar would say it was good news whenever he learned who his opponent was, but today it was the opposite.

"Your opponent is an Undead, and there is only one of them. Therefore, according to the rules, you will take turns fighting."

"Are they the Undead loyal to the Demon Lord, or the Scourge?" A cold yet slightly mocking and alluring voice asked from the darkness inside the tent.

"He's loyal to the Goblins, loyal to the gold coins!" Regar grinned, his eyes turning to the other side of the voice. "He killed a fully grown Thunder Lizard, one man."

Silence fell inside the tent.

"Bearskin, you go first!" The enslaver gave his final instruction before leaving the tent, letting the leather curtain fall back into place.

"He doesn't seem as confident as before."

"This shows that the opponent is very strong." Two completely different voices tore apart the silence in the tent, especially the one who spoke last, whose tone always carried a hint of authority.

"We'll take turns? Broll, I demand you lose, and then I'll take care of that Undead."

"I'm not stupid, Valeera. I may have never seen Undead, but I've heard of their brutality Bloodlust. If I lose... I'm afraid Regar will find you a new teammate."

A light mist hung in the Valley of Trials, sending a chill through Nathanos's skin. He closed his eyes and meditated, trying to regain his strength before the next gladiatorial combat. In the distance, Gizzlok was clamoring to increase the bets, but his pockets were probably already overflowing.

This is a plan... and it all started a few days ago.

Is the intelligence accurate?

The Witherer remained calm as always, not letting the news affect his judgment.

"It's absolutely true. I've already sent people to investigate. That gladiator is Varian King Wrynn. And he's quite famous; the Orcs call him 'Lo'gosh.'"

"So your previous information was incorrect?"

Belmont's expression changed drastically, and he bowed deeply. "Please forgive me, Master, but I believe our intelligence is absolutely correct. The King of Stormwind City is indeed still on his throne. As for that gladiator, perhaps he just looks like him..."

"I want the truth, not maybe..." Nathanos snapped. "Fine, if that's the case, then let me go and confirm whether this human is 'Lo'gosh' or Varian."

And so he appeared here, Gizzlok disguised as the master of slavery, while he... was the gladiator.

Nathanos sat cross-legged in the center of the arena, the High Elf sword Sulfuras resting on his knees. Since his last visit to the arena, things hadn't changed much from what he remembered, but that wasn't anything to be surprised about. Humans and Orcs alike would shout with all their might during a duel. He wiped away a few drops of blood that gleamed softly on the sword. The blood dripped onto the barren ground. He reached into his robes, took out his third piece of jerky for the day, and began to chew slowly, passing the time while waiting for his next opponent.

Looking at the chipped food in his hand, Nathanos realized he was no longer alive. He remembered once enjoying what he held in his hand—the food, the drink... everything had become a pale shadow in his memory. Food was no longer a necessity, but rather something for amusement.

Nathanos carefully lifted a corner of his cloak and ate the last bite of jerky. Not a single patch of his skin was exposed. That was fine. He wasn't even quite sure what his skin looked like anymore.

A cold wind swept westward across the mountains surrounding the Valley of Trials, while a storm on the distant coast poured rain onto the unfamiliar wasteland. Perhaps the storm would travel westward, carrying rain with it, and descend upon the Wailing Caverns. If so, perhaps the Forsaken should prepare their defenses.

The storm would also alter the arena's environment. Perhaps that was for the best. After all, someone qualified to fight him needed at least some adaptability. He heard the sound of claws digging into the earth and the whisper of them cutting through the air.

"Stand up and face me," a powerful voice commanded.

Nathanos clapped his hands, put on his cloak, and looked up at his opponent standing before him. The man was a cheetah, entirely purple with black spots, and had light green whiskers on either side of his head.

A Druids? Interesting? Nathanos secretly admired him; it seemed the arena had all sorts of characters.

"It looks like you can hunt in the jungle and then take a nap in a tree," Nathanos said.

"I won't waste my breath on you, monster," the Druids said, assuming a fighting stance befitting a cheetah. Nathanos sighed in disappointment; it seemed the previous challengers who had failed to impress him hadn't made this tabby cat realize the danger.

"A monster?" Nathanos said, stretching slightly as he stood up. "I can show you what a real monster looks like, but I'm afraid you won't live long enough to tell others what a monster truly looks like."

He gently swung Sulfuras and slung him against his shoulder muscles.

"For the Elune!" the Druids shouted as he launched his attack. He was agile and fast, faster than any Nathanos Druids ever seen, but such speed was to be expected in cheetah form. Nathanos dodged the first blow, retreated to avoid the sweeping claws, blocked the third, then spun around and slashed into the Druids's opening, using the back of the blade to strike the side of the Druids's head.

Broll felt his head buzzing; he groaned in pain and slowly backed away. Nathanos gave him some time to calm the echoes in his mind. The Druids reverted to his original form, a bloody gash on his head. Blood smeared his cheek, but what impressed Nathanos was his control of his anger. Druids were masters of tranquility; each of them could meditate from day to night. Nathanos truly admired this.

Broll took a steady breath and launched another attack. This time, he transformed into his incredibly defensive bear form.

Attacks rained down from all directions—a mix of sweeping slashes with sharp claws, lightning-fast thrusts, and high-reaching strikes—all parried by Nathanos. His sword was able to defend before Broll launched his attack— the Druids's speed was considerably reduced in bear form—and he returned the blows, some sharp, some blunt, to Brol's two forepaws. Nathanos swayed to the left, slicing Sulfuras into his opponent's right forepaw shoulder, forcing him to stagger backward, gasping for breath in pain.

"Is that enough?" Nathanos asked. "I can take your life; that will end it faster."

"I would rather die than accept the enemy's mercy," Broll said, transforming back into human form and shakily rising to his feet. His resolute exterior didn't crumble before Nathanos, but when he attacked again in human form, his stance was nothing short of that of a completely unskilled brute. Nathanos dodged a deadly punch, then caught another with one hand. The sound of bones cracking followed. Broll gritted his teeth and slowly knelt on the ground. He didn't cry out in pain, but the pain in his hand forced him to express it through his body.

"Did you underestimate my strength?" Nathanos said, slowly turning around to walk towards the spot where he had been eating jerky. "Your left hand is dislocated; without immediate treatment, it will be unusable."

Looking at Broll's condition, Nathanos shook his head. He had forgotten that Brol was a Druids who could heal himself.

But he won this battle.

"Next!"

"I'm next!" a woman said. She was not far behind Broll. Unlike Nathanos, who was all black, she hid herself in red, her right eye covered by golden hair, and her left eye gleaming with emerald green light.

A Quel'dorei Elf? Interesting!

The voluptuous yet slender Elf approached with a steady, effortless gait, exuding absolute balance and unwavering confidence. Her beauty was striking, slightly thin, yet radiating an aura of power. A few strands of crimson hair were framing her face. Her eyes were cold and ruthless; Nathanos could discern only death and resolve within them. The recent battle seemed to have had no effect on her. She carried a dagger the same color as her eyes; whether this was the dagger's natural color or something else applied to it was unclear. As she passed the Druids, the two exchanged a nod.

Turns out it was a teammate.

"Who are you?" Nathanos's curiosity was piqued; he hadn't asked the names of his previous opponents.

"My name is Valishgunar." She finished speaking and drew her weapon, its perfect blade gleaming coldly. "And I will truly send you to your grave."

Nathanos's face, hidden behind his cloak, seemed to be smiling faintly.

"What a boastful beauty."