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He was only a Mogu, perhaps merely an ordinary soldier. Nathanos surveyed the chaotic battlefield and hurled his off-hand sword forward.

The Elemeini in his hand pierced another Mogu's back. The giant colossus staggered two steps, then clutched his chest and began gasping loudly. He dropped to both knees before crashing heavily onto his side. One hand pressed against the ground as his body continued to tremble. Then he let out one final cry, and his eyes dimmed almost at once. The Pandaren monk whom this Mogu had been suppressing bowed to Nathanos after being saved.

Saving him had merely been a matter of chance. Nathanos's true purpose was to use Shalator. With only one hand, he had no way to recombine Sulfuras.

Perhaps having witnessed Nathanos's display, a Mogu strode toward him, each step making the ground rumble. He stared fixedly at this unusual being.

As he approached the Undead from behind, Nathanos spun around and viciously punched a hole through the Mogu with his sword.

The Mogu's body shuddered as he fell at Nathanos's feet. The Witherer was now certain—the first Mogu he had killed had not been an ordinary soldier.

Then Nathanos witnessed a sight that sent a chill through his heart. Amid the crowd, he saw that not all the Mogu were warriors wielding massive weapons. Some wore cloaks and looked like spellcasters. Nathanos could see their magic clearly.

Several monks floated in midair, struggling in agony beneath some kind of vile shadow power. Their throats had been seized. Had that been all, Nathanos would not have felt sickened; he had seen spells a hundred times more horrific than this. But he had never expected their methods to go further. The most painful scene buried deep in his heart reappeared before him.

The forms of those