The great bear

"Whoa-oh!" Diago Asnar nearly shouted in astonishment. Although he had seen Druids cast spells more than once in the game before crossing over, those had only been simple spell effects-a ball of green or white light. They could not compare to what he saw now, where every tiny unfurling and twisting leaf was clearly visible. Diago could even see the pale yellow fuzz on those tender leaves swaying gently in the breeze.

"Shh." The Night Elf gestured for silence. "Keep it down. Don't let that Orc guard hear you." He gently slipped his hand through the bars of the cage and brought it beside the brass padlock.

Under Diago Asnar's gaze, the sprout continued to grow. He saw part of its tip extend into the keyhole. A few seconds later, as though it had finished growing, the plant began to harden and turn dark brown.

"A very simple little trick-manipulating plants. A basic Druid technique, not even the crudest of spells," Masley explained with a smile. But Diago could see the smugness on his face, and it allowed him to judge the Night Elf's age almost instinctively.

Although nearly all Night Elves looked alike to humans, experienced players could still distinguish them by their facial markings, eye colors, the shapes of their long ears, and so on. Even the most seasoned players, however, had trouble judging a Night Elf's age. Of course, those with distinctive appearances were exceptions-Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage, for instance, with his antlers and great bushy beard. Diago, however, had some unique insights into this.

Because of the Well of Eternity, Night Elves were almost immortal, which also made their childhoods extremely long. Humans reached adulthood at eighteen or even younger, but in their comparatively uncomplicated society, Night Elves needed hundreds or even nearly a thousand years to mature. When faced with a centuries-old Night Elf, one rarely knew that his mental age might only equal that of a human teenager. Some of his childish behavior would seem almost inconceivable to an adult human. These were the things Diago used to judge a Night Elf's age.

From his observations, this Night Elf was probably only six or seven hundred years old, roughly equivalent to a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old human boy. He was right in the middle of his rebellious adolescence, and might well have run away from home.

Masley Bearhide did not notice that this human had already guessed almost everything about him. He smugly twisted the plant-made key. With a soft click, the lock opened. But he immediately locked it again, pulled the plant key from the keyhole, and casually tossed it onto the ground-even the most imaginative Orc would never connect that crooked tangle of twigs with a key.

Accompanied by heavy footsteps, a brown-skinned Orc emerged from the distant rain and mist. He had a typical Orc face: a narrow forehead, a broad jaw, pale yellow eyes, and a shiny scalp without a single hair. Two sharp tusks thrust upward from his lower jaw and protruded from his mouth, making him look vicious and brutal.

He carried a heavy battle-axe. It looked as though it had seen more than one battle, with nicks of every size covering its edge until it resembled a saw blade. A Dwarf or even a human would have thrown it away long ago-its crude forging and poor iron made it unworthy even of being melted down and reforged. But to the Orc tribes, which suffered an extreme shortage of iron goods, it was still an enviable weapon. He had honed it to a gleaming, razor-sharp edge.

The Orc wore crude leather armor made from animal hides. Only his shoulder armor was iron, and its workmanship looked rough. Still, he must have been fond of it-Diago saw that he had polished it until it gleamed, and had carefully repaired even the cracks and delamination caused by flaws in its forging. On the left shoulder, near his heart, a great red dragon's head had been painted in some red pigment-which, judging by Orc traditions, Diago concluded was the blood of some intelligent creature.

A red dragon's head? Brown skin? Diago knew that was the emblem of the Dragonmaw Clan. Although this clan had also drunk Demon Blood, their skin had not turned green. That was baffling-even the Frostwolf Clan, which had not drunk Demon Blood, had developed green skin through prolonged exposure to the Fel within Orcs of the other clans.

If these were Dragonmaw Orcs, he could be fairly certain where he was-the Wetlands! Only its climate matched this damp, muggy weather. More importantly, before the Cataclysm, the Dragonmaw Orcs had always operated around the Wetlands, and Grim Batol fortress in the eastern Wetlands was the Dragonmaw Clan's stronghold.

Unlike players obsessed with dungeons, battlegrounds, and equipment, Diago was utterly fascinated by the vast world of Azeroth itself. Over ten years, he had traveled to every corner of this world. Every deep cavern and ruined relic bore the footprints of his explorations. He knew in detail the stories behind every person in Azeroth, and even every named weapon. Whether it was Azeroth's long history or the events great and small that had occurred there over the past ten years, he knew them all.

More than once, people had told him in bewilderment that this was only a game, that everything in it was false and fictional, that this world did not exist at all and was a utopia. Yet he stubbornly continued playing his role within it. Almost no one knew that he had solemnly returned the salutes of Alliance soldiers, or used Goblin Jumper Cables on civilian NPCs who fell when escort quests failed, vainly trying to save their lives. Like Don Quixote lost in tales of chivalry, he could not pull himself free. This game was as essential to him as air. He seemed to have become part of this world, utterly in his element and knowing everything.

Now, perhaps this would be his greatest asset in surviving in Azeroth.

The Orc approached and stopped in front of the Night Elf's cage. Masley Bearhide hunched with his head lowered, hiding in his cage and trembling like a quail, looking utterly terrified. It was a good approach. Orcs worshipped strength, and nothing pleased them more than seeing weaker creatures fear them. It always filled them with an inflated sense of power.

What acting! Diago marveled inwardly. Just then, the Orc, his vanity thoroughly satisfied, came to his cage. All right, time to compete in acting. He turned his head with difficulty and stared blankly at the Orc, like a human who had been beaten senseless. Right now, I'm an Oscar-winning actor. I'm Tom Hanks. I'm Denzel Washington. I'm Nicolas Cage... he silently repeated. The Dragonmaw Orc's pitiful brainpower was clearly insufficient to see through this skilled actor. He was fooled before Diago had even finished a third of his long list of Oscar-winning actors.

"Ted-lasa!" the Orc threatened viciously. Diago did not understand Orcish, but he guessed it meant something like "Behave yourself." The Orc swung his axe and tapped Diago's cage. With each blow, flakes of rotten, rusty iron showered down, covering Diago's head and face. Some of the finest particles even fell into his upturned nostrils, making him sneeze several times in succession.

The captive's wretched state clearly delighted the guard. The Orc roared with laughter, shouldered his two-handed axe, and swaggered away. Diago saw a crude little hide tent over there, presumably intended for the guard to rest in.

Not long after the guard returned to his tent, heavy snores drifted over.

"All right, we have to hurry," the Night Elf said, picking the key up from the ground and deftly unlocking his cage. "Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow night, those greenskins will sacrifice us to a demon."

He crept over toward Diago. Another plant seed blossomed in his hand, and he brought it up to the keyhole.

"You must have put up quite a fight when they captured you. I can tell from your injuries. You must have fought fiercely," he said admiringly. The iron lock clicked softly and opened; to him, this was hardly more difficult than drinking a glass of water. "I was caught in a trap. I didn't even have time to resist," he added self-mockingly.

The Night Elf opened the door, then bent down to examine Diago's injuries. After a while, he raised his head.

"You're lucky. Your organs and bones are unharmed. It's just bruising," he said with a smile, reassuring the somewhat nervous Diago. "You see, as a Feral Druid, I'm not particularly good at healing, but I can handle these injuries of yours."

The Druid order had always been divided into three schools, or branches: Feral Druids, who specialized in transforming into beasts and fighting in close combat; Balance Druids, who mastered nature spells and controlled nature's balance; and Restoration Druids, who healed nature and soothed injuries. Diago remembered that when the Wandering Isle was discovered a few years later, perhaps influenced by the Pandaren way of natural harmony, a new school split off from the Feral Druids. They called themselves Guardians. These Guardian Druids specialized more in defense, transforming into great bears and fighting at the front of their groups, protecting the damage dealers and healers behind them.

Masley Bearhide placed his hand on Diago's shoulder, his expression turning serious. "Bear with it. This might be uncomfortable. Try not to make a sound." A faint green glow shone beneath his hand, then vanished into Diago's body a moment later, like water soaking into sand.

Healing Touch. Diago knew this Druid spell; he had been healed by it more than once in the game. But he had never experienced its effects in reality. Suddenly, his throat began to itch, as though air were rushing out of his lungs. That green life energy was working inside him. Every injury on his body tingled and itched, as though ten thousand ants were gnawing at his wounds.

"Could you knock me unconscious?" he pleaded, his whole body taut like a shrimp in a pot.

"Many people have asked me that before, but I have to tell you: no. You must stay awake to ensure the best healing results, and we don't have time to do this again," the Night Elf said apologetically. He lifted Diago's clothes to inspect how his injuries were healing. "I'll have to leave the wounds on your face. Otherwise, those Orcs will notice something's wrong."

A little later, Diago felt somewhat better. His strength seemed to have returned to his body. He tried to roll over and sit up, but the Night Elf stopped him.

"You'll get better, but not right now. What you need most now is rest," Masley Bearhide whispered. He locked the cage door and handed Diago the wooden key. "I have to go back. That Orc guard will be coming out soon. There isn't enough time left for us to do anything."

With that, the Night Elf returned to his cage, locked himself inside, and resumed playing the quail. Diago could only lie there and wait for his injuries to improve.

The Night Elf's healing spell was undeniably powerful. Diago soon felt much better, at least enough that his injuries no longer impaired his fighting ability. At times, he even felt that if given a weapon, he could take down that Orc guard. But he did not act rashly. Instead, he lay quietly on his back, waiting for the Night Elf's signal.

During that time, the Orc guard came out on two more patrols, but his intelligence was clearly insufficient to see through the Elf's and human's superb acting. This helped both of them relax considerably.

While waiting, Diago tried summoning a "system" and character panel-benefits enjoyed by protagonists in most transmigration novels. To his disappointment, nothing appeared. This was a real world, not a game. There was no system and no cheat ability. All he had over Azeroth's natives were his memories from before crossing over.

The rain gradually stopped. Although the hazy mist remained, it was much thinner than before, and Diago could now see farther. He saw that the camp stood against a towering mountain range, while to the east-presumably east, if his sense of direction was correct-lay an endless expanse of open wilderness.

Diago judged that this was neither the Dragonmaw Orcs' stronghold of Grim Batol, with its bristling ramparts and towering fortress, nor Dragonmaw Gate, which lay in a valley flanked by rocky cliffs. That left only one place matching this terrain-Ragefang Camp. This made Diago breathe a quiet sigh of relief. After all, escaping from Ragefang Camp would be much easier than escaping from either of those heavily guarded places.

In the Eastern Kingdoms, Ragefang Camp had always served as a Dragonmaw Orc outpost. An important trade route ran below the slope on which the camp stood. For the Dwarves of Ironforge to the south and Stormwind City farther south, it was an essential route whether they were heading north to Arathi Basin or west to Menethil Harbor to cross the sea to Kalimdor. The Dragonmaw Orc raiders of Ragefang Camp held this territory and robbed passing merchants and travelers, not only enriching themselves but also sending vast quantities of supplies to their stronghold at Grim Batol.

For Alliance players, this was also a place of countless painful lessons. Diago himself had been clubbed to death by Dragonmaw Orcs more than once.

The sky gradually darkened, and night was approaching. Bonfires had already been lit in the distant Orc camp. Amid the firelight, the camp grew noisy. Diago could even hear Orc hand drums, and the sound of the Dragonmaw Orcs stamping their feet in rhythmic dances carried over from afar.

The Orc guard emerged from his tent several times to gaze toward the camp. He was clearly annoyed at being unable to attend this grand gathering, which made his attitude toward the two prisoners twice as nasty.

"Hey, buddy, we have to get started," Masley Bearhide called softly after the Orc guard ducked dejectedly into his tent once more. He picked up the wooden key and unlocked his door, signaling for Diago to do the same. "Once their feast ends, they'll come over here and sacrifice us to a demon. We have to hurry."

The two left their cages and crept toward the guard's tent.

"Aren't we going to help them?" Diago asked quietly, looking at the prisoners in the other cages. Although the two of them had already moved back and forth several times, those prisoners still lay motionless. Not one had even rolled over to look their way.

"The last of them died this morning," the Night Elf answered softly, somewhat sadly-as followers of Elune, Night Elves mourned the passing of every life. His eyes remained fixed on the hide tent. "They didn't have your constitution to hold out this long. And that Orc was watching closely earlier, so I didn't dare try healing them rashly."

They advanced very slowly to avoid making a sound, but eventually approached the guard's tent. About three paces away, the Night Elf stopped.

"All right, this should be close enough," he whispered. Just then, the light inside the tent flickered a few times. It seemed that irritable Orc was growing restless again.

"Now!" the Night Elf said, making no deliberate effort to lower his voice this time. Diago was certain the Orc guard had heard too, because he saw the Orc's shadow cast through the tent entrance bend over, trying to pick up the weapon beside him.

What happened next stunned Diago Asnar once again. He felt that he had not experienced as many shocks in his entire life before crossing over as he had today. Right before his eyes, the Night Elf's appearance underwent an astonishing transformation. His purple skin grew tough and rough, dense fur sprouting from its pores like a thick blanket. His mouth became a beast's muzzle, uneven fangs protruding in a hideous, frightening display. His limbs grew thick and powerful, his enormous claws as sharp as blades.

Diago's mouth nearly hung open in astonishment. He stared dumbfounded as Masley transformed within a second into an enormous brown bear weighing a full ton and a half. Although the bear retained some Night Elf characteristics-the bands around his elbows and the sun-and-moon markings on his shoulders identified him as a Druid bear-Diago still found it hard to believe that this beast retained his awareness and reason. He swallowed with difficulty and involuntarily stepped back.

The great bear growled and lunged at the low tent, his body looking bigger than the entire structure. The tent collapsed without resistance. Diago heard the crack, crack of breaking bones beneath it. Those were the last sounds the Orc guard could make; he did not even have time to scream. But the great bear was clearly not yet satisfied. He struck fiercely a few more times before stopping, panting heavily.

He clawed a few times at the blood-soaked canvas, exposing the Orc's corpse beneath-though it could no longer be called a corpse, only a mass of mangled flesh-and the two-handed axe beside it.

"Take that axe. We've got something bigger to pull off," the great bear said to Diago, turning his head and baring his teeth. Diago was astonished that he could speak, but after so many incredible experiences tonight, he was already somewhat numb. He stepped forward, silently picked up the axe, and followed the great bear.