Silver Arena (VII)

Two days before the main competition, each race will compete internally, and the top performers will become champion warriors. It sounds complicated, but the competition moves quickly. The selected champions will then freely form teams and enter the arena in the center of the arena. Many believe that the excitement that the tedious horsemanship training hasn't revealed will be showcased here.

However, this led to even bigger trouble.

Despite prior instructions to keep the fight brief, in the first encounter, a Stormwind City champion and an Orgrimmar champion, consumed by rage, simultaneously stabbed each other off their mounts. Tirion Fordring knew that all hope for peace and order had vanished.

The crowd gasped in shock at the deadly fight, rushing into the arena to surround the two fallen warriors, leaving Tirion and his entourage seated in their places. The previously civilized and polite atmosphere quickly descended into chaos, a torrent of language flying through the arena like arrows. All Tirion could do was try to restrain himself from unleashing his wrathful power in this situation.

The cruelty of the Holy Light is no less than its mercy.

Tirion's angry sigh formed a mist in the cold wind. He raised his hand to cover his eyes, unwilling to watch the Argent Crusade soldiers bravely trying to restore order to the out-of-control league. However, even as they repeatedly pointed to the insignia on their robes to outsiders to identify themselves, the intermittent sounds of clashing metal still echoed in the arena, drowning out the light music that had been playing in the icy north wind.

"Enough!" Tirion complained, standing up. His voice was rough and harsh. "Let them be!"

The Highlord then turned and left, leaving the group to continue arguing.

At the end of this long corridor was the arena's gate. There, the statues of the Silver Hand and the fallen heroes of the Argent Dawn stood faithfully in watch. The clamor and shouting in the air made him too ashamed to meet the statues' gaze. He could only hurry through.

A gentle breeze from the shore carried the delicious aromas of fried fish and roasted wild boar, along with the familiar cries of numerous merchants, offering him a welcome respite from the chaos.

These vendors arrived quickly after news of the competition spread, and now they are neatly set up stalls around the arena base, enthusiastically promoting their goods and serving the warriors summoned by the Argent Crusade. Their flags, merchandise, and clothing are displayed in front of the arriving spectators.

Their support brought a smile back to Tirion's face. These merchants were quite quaint and interesting, reminding him of the many knightly tournaments that seemed to have been held in Hearthglen in his past life: the gentle breeze of Lordaeron, the sound of horns and the laughter of the people, the juicy roasted meat and fine wine on the tongue, and the excited look in Taelan's eyes as he watched knights from all over the world compete in the arena.

A biting gust of cold wind pierced the gaps in the Highlord's armor, bringing him back to reality. With a heavy heart, he reminded himself that the warmth of Lordaeron could never exist in this land of eternal winter, and that the eyes of Taelan would never open again. Only these merchants remained.

"It's both fortunate and surprising to see that there's no blood on Ashbringer!"

The voice was cold and harsh, and Tirion knew whose voice it was without even turning around to face the person.

"I heard from your people that you weren't supposed to attend, but you still came."

Nathanos the Witherer's every word was like an arrow aimed straight at the heart. He was currently wearing a deep purple robe he had bought from a merchant.

Tirion had seen the entry list; before the tournament started, the Forsaken chose to forfeit in the first two rounds, perfectly "missing" the good show just now.

"Welcome, the Witherer. I'm sorry I can't formally welcome you; perhaps that's what you wanted."

"The living have the capacity for hatred," Nathanos said, completely ignoring Tirion's greeting. "Hatred is also an emotion that the living cannot control."

"Is there any hatred greater than the Scourge's hatred for the living?"

"Stop deceiving yourself, Highlord. The hatred born from the cold heart of death is a gift from the Lich King, and it is fixed. It is nothing compared to the hatred of the living."

Nathanos slightly turned his head behind him, listening intently to the chaotic commotion. The Alliance and Horde were in a frenzy, foaming at the mouth, roaring as if to shake the entire world.

The Witherer continued, its voice sounding as if twisted from the darkest magic. "Bloodshed... is inevitable, but the diplomatic work that follows is the most troublesome."

Tirion sighed in frustration. He knew that if Thrall or Varian found out about this, they would only condemn the other's behavior and not restrain their own men.

Fordring's eyes met Nathanos's. An unnatural crimson glow. The frost in the air froze on his robes, turning them completely white.

"Compared to them, the Forsaken indeed much quieter and less troublesome," Tirion replied after a moment. "At least they won't be wielding sticks and fighting each other. But I'm worried that the conflict will make the match seem completely worthless."

"This is a topic that has been debated to death from the very beginning," Nathanos said.

"The existence of the league is necessary, the Witherer. You and I both know that there are extremely evil beings lurking within the Lich King's fortress. We cannot simply send our army to fight Arthas directly, or he will turn his forces against us."

"You don't need to tell me all this," Nathanos replied. "I know what you're thinking, but in the eyes of others, you're even less genuine than those who are involved in the competition. The purpose of the league is to find the strongest warriors in Azeroth, but everyone knows that what you really want is to extinguish the war started by King Wrynn and Grommash. And because that's what you intend, many people say you're an idiot."

Tirion was furious, but he knew the Witherer was simply stating the facts. He deeply hoped the truce would foster cooperation between the Horde and the Alliance, even if only temporarily. But it wasn't hard to see that this was impossible; they might even... turn on each other while storming Icecrown Citadel.

"If we are to defeat Arthas, we must unite as one."

"So, what do you intend to do?" Nathanos looked back at the arena once more, "... to improve this terrible situation?"

"Are you willing to help me?"

"If your plan can bring forward the day of the Lich King's demise by one day."

Tirion felt his anger subsiding, and he did come up with a plan. First, he needed to stop and catch his breath. "I want the Forsaken to participate in the next match."

As Nathanos turned away, a strange look flashed across his face. He quickly understood Ashbringer's thoughts, the Witherer nodded to himself, "Then you'll have to invite the leaders of the Alliance Horde first."