Saurfang, Wounded

Vol'jin and Baine fought their way into the underground fortress. They encountered many obstacles, overcoming them one by one, and finally captured the hall at the crossroads.

"Something isn't right."

Vol'jin seemed to hear Baine muttering. After listening to a report from an adventuring party, the Tauren chieftain frowned.

"What is it?" the Troll asked.

"The latest news is that another enemy leader has disappeared," Baine explained. He said "another" because they had not seen Nazgrim again since before coming here. The general should have stepped forward to stop the rebels.

"Who?"

"One of Garrosh's Goblins. I heard he's a highly capable inventor."

A fleeting smile crossed Rassuvios's face when he heard that.

"Then let's assume he fled," Vol'jin said. "Finding Garrosh matters more than him."

The rebels hurried to rest and resupply, preparing for the even harsher battles ahead.

Baine nodded, walked over to the Troll, and asked with concern, "Is your wound any better, Vol'jin?"

The Troll chieftain's arm was wrapped in bandages, with red stains seeping through. Malkorok had caused this. Vol'jin had been injured by accident during their recent battle, but fortunately, the Blackrock Orc had died in the end.

Feeling the dull ache from his wound, Vol'jin gave a snorting laugh. "Malkorok was stronger than I expected. It's a lesson. I'll be more careful when I fight Hellscream next."

The Tauren's tail flicked twice. "Perhaps you should remain in the rear and let the Horde's warriors continue the assault."

Vol'jin laughed again. "No. I told Garrosh to his face that I would step forward and kill him when everyone had turned against him. I keep my word."

"Then let's not waste time."

The Elf's voice was as beautiful as music, yet filled with anger—perhaps even hatred. Vol'jin turned toward Sylvanas. The Ranger-General of the Silver