Memories of the Past

When the Orcs besieged Shattrath, even the heavens wept. The earth was adorned with rain, and dark clouds churned overhead. A light drizzle fell upon the city and the armies beyond its walls. Both sides watched and waited, as the rain gradually intensified, eventually pouring down in a torrential downpour.

"They must number ten thousand," Malkorath said meticulously, standing atop the inner city wall. Akama looked at him in horror.

Beyond the outer walls, in the dim light of Talador, many shadows moved about. The Orcs cared little for tactics; they were only after the thrill of battle and the immediate satisfaction of Bloodlust.

The city of Telmor in the Draenei has fallen and is now in ruins. The situation in Karabor is still unknown.

The Orcs Legion slowly moved toward them, leading Akama to believe that this was an attack that would foreshadow the defeat of the Shattrath defenders.

"Tonight, the people of the capital are destined to perish," Akama thought to himself. Suddenly, he heard Archbishop Mar'adul shouting something.

"Malkorath, Malkorath!" the archbishop called twice, but the garrison commander did not answer. Malkorath's attention was fixed on an Orcs on a hillside not far away. The creature's eyes were red, visible even from a distance to Akama. He held a spear, the tip of which bore the corpse of Draenei. Blood streamed down the spear, blooming into dark red flowers on the Orcs's head. Malkorath stared through gritted teeth, his weapon Hammer of the Naaru, held horizontally before him.

"Malkorath!" Mar'adul roared again, finally snapping the garrison commander out of his rage. He knelt down and looked up at the archbishop expectantly, thinking the archbishop wanted him to lead his soldiers to stop the Orcs, but the result left him utterly disappointed.

"Quickly lead the last group of refugees and leave!"

Malkorath straightened up. "Yes, Archbishop."

Akama watched the garrison commander leave along the city wall, glancing occasionally at his brothers stationed on either side. They stood expressionless and resolute, just like him.

Beyond the city walls, the war machine had arrived: catapults, siege engines—all siege weapons gleamed in the torchlight. These machines were placed in prominent positions away from the walls, their heavy weights creaking and groaning ominously.

The drums began, at first just a few scattered beats, then more and more drums followed, gradually growing into a sustained, thunderous roar. Akama prayed softly, asking the Holy Light to protect the Draenei.

Above, the dark clouds moved violently, rumbling with thunder, which echoed the frantic drumming below the wall.

Immediately afterward, a massive incendiary bomb hurtled towards him with the speed of a meteor and the force to shatter bones. A deafening roar followed as the bomb destroyed the adjacent wall, sending debris hurtling towards Akama. He scrambled to dodge, but a large section of the upper wall crushed him beneath it, plunging him into a vast expanse of darkness.

The Orcs outside the walls Charge forward with all their might. The sound of their footsteps echoed through the city.

The raindrops grew heavier, and the outer walls trembled under the assault of the siege engines. Akama knew that Shattrath's defenses wouldn't hold for much longer, just like his own now, heavily wounded and on the verge of collapse.

He heard the death cries of several of his companions, but he could see nothing in the ruins.

Then he heard a terrifying war roar coming from outside, a roar that chilled him to the bone.

A shadow rushed past him. Akama struggled to see it clearly, but his body was convulsing and contorted, unable to move.

This war is about to end.

The Draenei vomited a large amount of blood, desperately pleading with the Holy Light for help, begging to be freed from his predicament. He cried out...

This was the first time he had sought help from the Holy Light since he had connected with it and received its radiant blessing (in the past, he had only prayed).

However, no response was received.

Trembling with fear, the Orcs roars drowned out all other sounds. Akama's eardrums were being dangerously torn apart as the torrential rain poured down, and he drifted into a terrifying, silent dream...

He lay there, thinking of Malkorath and those who had fled in search of hiding places, and he prayed that they would escape the slaughter. Akama awoke from a stupor in the dark abyss to find himself trapped in a suffocatingly dark space. His breathing was hoarse, trembling, and broken, but he was still alive. He didn't know how much time had passed since the wall collapsed.

He tried desperately to recall. It must have been the noisy battle that had prevented him from concentrating on connecting with the Holy Light, but now, now he could connect, he was sure he could...

Nothing... There was no response.

Shocked, Akama tried again. He no longer wanted to be saved, nor did he want to alleviate his pain; he only wanted the Holy Light to appear before his eyes.

Nothing! Akama had never felt such helpless desolation and utter loneliness. If even the Holy Light had abandoned him, and he were left to die here, what would become of his soul? Would the Holy Light reject him? Was he destined to be buried forever in the emptiness?

He lived a dignified and respectable life. In retrospect... could this be considered some kind of punishment?

As he struggled to find the answer, he reached out and touched the cold stone. He slowly realized that he was lying in a very awkward position, and that his left leg was almost broken.

He rolled to his right, took a deep breath, and tried to ignore the pain radiating from his ribs and legs. Unable to heal himself without the aid of the Holy Light, he could only endure the agony. But at least, he had feeling in the left side of his body again. And... he could hear the dull thuds of his own movement; it seemed his hearing had returned.

His eyes gradually adjusted to the environment. Akama rallied his spirits and searched for a way to escape.

It was a long process, and even now, Akama doesn't know how he managed to crawl out alive. He can't remember what he touched, grabbed, or used in the ruins. The only thing he remembers is everything he saw after he came out—a memory he can never forget.

The entire Lower City, bathed in moonlight and surrounded by firelight, had become a junkyard for Draenei corpses. The mountains of bodies were slick and shiny with thick blood.

Akama's heart ached as his gaze fell upon the children amidst the pile of corpses. When he was buried in the rubble, a part of him had hoped, and prayed with all his might, that the remaining children could be protected. Though he knew it was a foolish hope, he clung to it nonetheless.

A rage swept through Akama. Rage and frustration, and an irresistible desire for revenge.

At this moment, there was nothing anyone could do.

In despair, he summoned the Holy Light once more. Perhaps with its help he could do something, but again, only silence answered him...

The Holy Light died in his heart!

The flickering firelight in the dungeon allowed Akama to see his reflection in the water. His distorted face still retained some Draenei features, but Akama no longer called himself Draenei, nor was he a follower of the Holy Light. For some reason, looking at himself now brought Akama a sense of peace.

"What's your decision, Akama?"

From the prison cell opposite him, a cold and cruel female voice rang out. The leader of the Ashtongue Deathsworn then remembered that the Betrayer had sent him here because of the woman in the cell. But as often as before, he made no move to investigate. Akama rose, for he heard someone approaching; every day at this time, Illidan would send a Demon Lord to check on him.

"Akama, is something amiss?" the Demon Lord asked, his eyes filled with disdain. Among Illidan's forces, the Broken were the weakest and lowest in rank.

Akama was inwardly laughing, though his face betrayed his inability to smile. He answered as always, "Everything's fine, sir, everything's fine."