Where did the road lead?

The battle finally ended. Ragefang Camp, with its nearly a hundred Orc warriors, had been wiped out by just two people. Corpses littered the camp. No Orc had fled; it was in their nature to die fighting rather than cling to life.

By the light of the fires still burning in the camp, the two inspected their surroundings and rummaged through the place. Neither had any qualms about finishing off the wounded or collecting loot. But these penniless Orcs really had nothing worth taking. Apparently, the supplies from their last raid had already been sent to Grim Batol Fortress. They found only a few dozen gold coins, human coins at that—the Orcs had yet to mint their own currency. They were still primitive clans that bartered for goods. They would not have currency of their own until several years after Thrall established his capital at Orgrimmar.

In the Orc chieftain's tent, which the flames had spared, Diago found two hand axes. He had to prepare for enemies getting into melee range-something that would be inevitable in the future. Almost every melee class knew to close in on a hunter as quickly as possible and keep them tied up at close quarters.

The axes were Dwarves' in style. They looked old but had been well maintained. A little thorium must have been added during forging, giving their edges a dreamlike emerald sheen. The axes had broad blades, with sharp armor-piercing spikes mounted at the ends of their hafts.

Good stuff. At least rare quality, Diago guessed. In Azeroth, weapons and equipment were graded common, uncommon, rare, epic, and legendary. Occasionally, lower-quality equipment could outperform something a grade above it, but that was usually because good materials had been added during forging. Of course, that seldom happened. Few people were willing to waste good materials on crude craftsmanship.

Oh, except rich spendthrifts and Orcs, of course. The two pieces of leather armor he eventually found in the camp were just such examples.

Before his transmigration, Diago's human hunter had learned Leatherworking. Raising professional skills in World of Warcraft was brutally difficult, built entirely on repeated practice. From apprentice, journeyman, expert, artisan, master, grand master, illustrious grand master, and zen master all the way to Draenor master, the skill ranks were even more complicated than professional accreditation levels back home. Professions such as Engineering even split into Goblin Engineering and Gnomish Engineering. Known as the king of money pits, it had inspired players to joke, "Archaeology ruins your life; Engineering impoverishes three generations." Unfortunately, Diago had learned Goblin Engineering, which was why he had always been broke.

Besides those two professions, Diago had also raised Fishing, First Aid, and Cooking to Draenor master level. After all, as a hunter roaming the wilderness, those skills could ensure he lived well without any supplies.

Judging by his Draenor master's eye for Leatherworking, the two pieces of leather armor were crudely made but used decent materials: fine rugged leather lined with rugged hide. With a few alterations, they could give him and the Night Elf some extra protection.

Apart from that, nothing else in the camp caught his eye. The Dragonmaw Orcs' craftsmanship was nowhere near sufficient to make intricate chain or mail armor, while cumbersome plate armor was unsuitable for agility-oriented classes such as Druids and hunters.

The Night Elf, however, found a pile of peculiar objects. Even Diago could barely tell what any of them were for-oval stone beads, bones covered in tooth marks, tattered banners, a chipped clay pot, and assorted other odds and ends.

"I've studied archaeology. These are clearly antiques from some bygone age," the Night Elf explained confidently. He carefully packed the junk into a leather bag and slung it over his shoulder.

Archaeology ruins your life. Another unruly kid taken in, Diago sighed inwardly. He kept that to himself. It was difficult to reason with an "antique collector" whose imagination had run wild.

After looting the camp, the two left Ragefang Camp and went to a nearby stream. The Night Elf's bear fur was soaked with blood-some his own, but mostly the Orcs'. The sticky fur had tangled into clumps all over his body, leaving him extremely uncomfortable.

Diago was relatively clean, another advantage of being a ranged class. But he had his own business to attend to.

Beside the stream near the camp, Diago immersed his hands in the icy water, repeatedly curling and stretching his numb fingers to ease the swelling in his arms. He had fired more than eighty arrows under Rapid Fire that day. His already injured arms could not withstand such violent exertion, and his muscles had torn-without the thick calluses on his fingertips, his fingers would surely have been rubbed raw as well. The Druid had been forced to cast Rejuvenation on him. Its sustained healing was better suited to internal tissue damage like this, and he was doing much better now than at first.

Under the twin moons high in the night sky-Azeroth had two wondrous moons, the White Lady, whom the Night Elves called Elune and the Tauren called Mu'sha, and a smaller moon called the Blue Child-Diago studied his reflection in the water. This was the first time he had seen his face since transmigrating. He looked a little over twenty, not handsome, merely reasonably good-looking, with a slightly sunny air. He looked a little like Matt Damon in The Bourne Identity.

"You were brilliant today. Almost as good as me. Even the finest elven archers couldn't have done better as hunters." Freshly bathed and back in humanoid form, the Druid walked over, sat beside him, and offered loud praise. Though exhausted after that thoroughly satisfying slaughter, the young Night Elf still could not conceal his excitement.

"Aren't you going to rinse your mouth? I saw the guts spill out of that Orc you were biting. They trailed all over the ground in every color." Looking at the blood at the corners of the elf's mouth, Diago asked deliberately.

"Could you not bring that up? You're making me sick," Masley said reproachfully. He turned his head and retched several times. "That was my first time doing that. I've never been, urgh..."

"...that ferocious before!" The Night Elf retched a few more times, then chose his words and finished proudly. Taking the water flask the hunter offered, he rinsed his mouth. "But you have to admit, it felt great. Really let off some steam, right?"

Night deepened. In a little hollow a few miles from Ragefang Camp, the two made a small campsite. It offered a good view of Ragefang Camp in the distance. If any Orc party came from Grim Batol Fortress by torchlight during the night, they would spot it immediately.

The campfire blazed, with two small iron buckets of tender crocolisk meat suspended above it, giving off a rich aroma. They had discovered the Orc-raised crocolisk in a water trough in the camp that day. Carried away by the slaughter, the Druid bear had pounced and struck it with a paw, providing their dinner.

Diago sat silently beside the campfire, staring into the flames. After a tense, exciting day, this was his first opportunity to untangle his muddled thoughts.

Back home, both his parents were still alive, but his two older brothers were dutiful sons and should be able to look after them for him. His girlfriend of only six months, though, would surely be devastated. She was not beautiful, only average-looking, but she was gentle as water and indulged him in everything. They had a good relationship. Although they had not reached the point of discussing marriage, what was she supposed to make of his sudden disappearance? Diago felt melancholy-no one could easily sever their past without leaving a single lingering attachment.

"What year is it?" he asked the Night Elf, pointing at the back of his head. "You know, I took a blow here. There are some things I can't remember."

"It's the twenty-first year since the Dark Portal opened. Just last year, we won our final victory over the demons at Mount Hyjal!" Masley declared proudly, though inwardly he bitterly regretted having missed that holy war.

Diago nodded. He understood almost immediately what period this was. He knew World of Warcraft would not launch for another four years, in the twenty-fifth year after the Dark Portal opened. That was an enormous relief.

He did not know why he had come to this world. At first, he had even feared it was a vivid dream, that one day he would suddenly wake up and return to going to work, coming home, and sleeping as usual, repeating his mediocre, insipid life day after day.

Later, he had wondered whether his soul had been sucked into World of Warcraft, reduced to a set of data like some NPC, stored in a client or server. If the game ever ceased operations and the servers shut down, he would disappear with them. But now it seemed he could dismiss that fear-World of Warcraft had not even launched yet. His existence had nothing to do with the game. He knew he might never have to worry about that again.

"Where are you planning to go?" Masley Bearhide interrupted his thoughts, leaning over to ask. Unlike other reserved, elegant Night Elves, this unruly child of several hundred years seemed more energetic and adventurous.

Diago considered briefly. Three roads led from here. One went west to the port city of Menethil, where he could board a ship to the elven city of Darnassus or the newly built human port of Theramore. Another went north to the human kingdom of Lordaeron. The third went south to the Dwarves' realm of Ironforge, from which he could take the tram farther south to the human realm of Stormwind City.

"I hear Darnassus is a wonderful place. A picturesque city built on the World Tree, Teldrassil, with spring weather all year..." With that in mind, he broached the subject.

"What's so great about it? Nothing but forests, more forests, and a bunch of old fossils. It's no fun at all," Masley interrupted impatiently. He did not seem to miss home in the slightest.

"All right, then we won't go there." Diago mentally crossed it off, but he would not choose Theramore either. This very year, Admiral Daelin Proudmoore would bring his fleet to Kalimdor and wage war against the Orc nation Thrall had founded, smashing the newly established port city to pieces. It was too dangerous. Though Diago Asnar desperately longed to join this magnificent, surging age, he knew he had to be cautious. He must not plunge headlong into a thicket like a reckless boar. He still needed time to familiarize himself with this world and adapt, especially before he had gained a practiced command of his own strength.

Nor did he want to head north. The Kingdom of Lordaeron had already fallen, and amid its ruins, the Banshee Sylvanas Windrunner was leading the Forsaken in their struggle to free themselves from the Lich King's control. With plague everywhere and Undead running rampant, that land was hardly a good choice for settling down or traveling.

That left only one choice.

"I want to go south to Stormwind City. I'm all alone now, and I've completely forgotten my past. Perhaps being among my own people will help me recover it," Diago said, inventing an excuse.

"Then I'll go too," the elf replied without hesitation. Apparently, he did not care where he went as long as it was not Darnassus.

"I hear the human girls there are very friendly," he said wistfully.

Diago was speechless. Under cover of the shifting light and shadows cast by the flickering campfire, he quietly examined the Night Elf. Unlike the devastatingly handsome elves in many fantasy stories, Azeroth's male Night Elves were not handsome. Though they too were tall and slender-the one before him stood a head taller than Diago, who was over 1.8 meters tall-their knotted muscles and thick, powerful arms suited burly men rather than pretty boys. Not to mention those long, horse-like faces. They were not merely unhandsome; they even looked a little sleazy. Still, that made them more approachable. After all, no man liked hanging around someone more handsome than himself-was being someone else's foil supposed to be fun?

For a long time, many players had maliciously speculated in private that this was another major reason the handsome Blood Elves had joined the Horde rather than allied with humans. Among that crowd of monsters and freaks, Blood Elves absolutely stood head and shoulders above the rest in looks. What a psychological advantage! At least it would keep them in a good mood every day, wouldn't it?

Still, male Night Elves benefited from being ugly. Their looks were a major reason why, as a minority living in human society, they had not been clubbed unconscious, stripped naked, and taken away by humans to be trained as catamites or kept lovers. Male Blood Elves fared worse in that respect. They were so handsome that they appealed to both men and women. Because of that, not only female but also male Blood Elves went missing in consistently high numbers every year. Regent Lor'themar Theron had issued strict decrees several times and used brutal punishments against slavers, all to no avail-there was simply too much demand!

"Are you a player too?" Diago suddenly asked in Chinese.

"What? Is that Trollish?" The elf, who had been poking the campfire, looked up in surprise. "I know Dwarvish, and I can understand some Gnomes' language, but I've never heard the language you're speaking."

"Oh, the Diaoyu Islands belong to us!" Diago continued in Chinese. He wanted one last confirmation of whether he was inside the game, or whether this world's natives had ever encountered players.

"What?" The elf gave him a reproachful look. This was terribly rude. He had already made it clear he did not understand that language. Was Diago showing off his gift for languages?

"The heavenly king subdues the earth tiger!" Diago watched the elf eagerly. To his disappointment, the latter eyed his eager expression warily and edged backward in some disgust, putting more distance between them.

"Hey, buddy, listen," Masley Bearhide said solemnly, looking utterly serious. "I don't discriminate against love between men, but I don't want it happening to me."

"Absolutely not!" He waved his hand emphatically, reinforcing his point with absolute conviction.

"Neither do I." Though happy to have confirmed he was not in the game, Diago did not know whether to laugh or cry. He decided a lie would be better. Explaining would only look like covering up and would do no good now. "I was asking whether learning Druid spells requires talent or being of a particular race."

"Oh, that." Understanding dawned on Masley's face as he looked at the hunter. He smiled in relief and considered the question carefully. "There's never been any such thing as a talent requirement for Druids, nor any racial restriction. Tauren and elves produce so many Druids only because their thinking, or rather their way of life, accords more closely with Druid teachings and brings them closer to nature. My teacher also told me that more than one human had studied Druid spells with him, but every one of them failed. Their race is too impatient, too greedy, without restraint. They take from nature without knowing how to give back. Naturally, nature won't grant them its power."

At this, the Druid bowed apologetically toward the hunter and explained, "I don't mean you, Asnar. You're different. You're a good person. Even by elven standards, no one could ask you to do better."

Having been handed the nice-guy card, Diago smiled wryly. "Too impatient, too greedy, without restraint. They take from nature without knowing how to give back." He possessed every one of those faults. But that had not been his real purpose. It was enough to stop Masley from mistaking him for a gay man.

As a hunter, he had no intention of taking up Druid as a second class, though both classes were suited to surviving in the wilderness and shared many similarities. This world did not follow DND rules, and before his transmigration, he had never heard of any player successfully taking a second class.

After transmigrating into this world, he had retained all his skills, both professional and combat-related. Some interesting knowledge had remained as well, such as languages. Before transmigrating, Diago had only passed the College English Test Band Four. Now he was a formidable master of languages, fluent in five: Common, Dwarvish, Elvish, Draenei, and Gnomes' language. Oh, strictly speaking, four—Gnomes' language did not really count as a separate language. Like Dwarvish, it was a branch or variant of Old Dwarvish, much as Portuguese and Spanish both derived from Latin.

Without a system or character panel, Diago had no idea how powerful his body actually was, which frustrated him somewhat. For all he knew, a Gnoll might knock him flat the moment he stepped outside. Still, that was not very likely. Judging by how the fighting at Ragefang Camp had felt, he was no pushover anyone could bully.

Whatever the case, caution was rarely a mistake. In a world full of powerful figures, keeping a low profile was best.

Note: The Dark Portal Era: To commemorate this history, which inflicted terrible suffering on the races of both Azeroth and Draenor, the races unanimously agreed to designate the year the Dark Portal opened as Year One of the Dark Portal Era.

Readers must note that this story takes place in the world of World of Warcraft and does not follow DND rules. Reportedly, Blizzard initially wanted to use DND rules, but its war with Wizards of the Coast destroyed that possibility, leaving Blizzard to start afresh and create its own Azeroth.

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