Setting aside the western coast of Kalimdor, already thrown into chaos by the Hive Crystals falling from the sky, at the very moment the insect swarms erupted, rain fell on the battlefield of the Burning Steppes in the Eastern Kingdoms. Rain was rare on this scorching land, and it lent a little softness to the hostile environment.
The sky, thick with dark clouds, left the place dim. Apart from the flames of the large-scale battle raging in the distance, scarcely a speck of light could be seen.
In a corner at the edge of the battlefield, a group of black-robed figures struggled forward, carrying two wooden crates.
Rainwater mixed with blood had soaked the scorched, barren ground until its original color could no longer be made out. Fortunately, the ground here was all hard-packed sand, so there was no mud.
The dozen or so black-robed figures let the rain fall onto their heads and clothes. Although thick veils covered all their faces, their heights alone made it clear that they belonged to different races. The only thing they shared was the emblem hanging on the chest of each robe: a bone warhammer with blood-red wings.
A few of them also wore black strips of cloth around their arms, marking the recent death of a relative or brother. This was apparent in the silent atmosphere among them as well. Like "champions" marching willingly to their deaths, their silence held a trace of tragic resolve, along with an indescribable hint of glory.
It was as though they were about to undertake something truly great.
"Brother Robb! Here we shall meet our final 'ascension'! I must ask you and your brothers to deliver the other 'Gift' to the Dark Iron Dwarves. Those traitors! Those deceitful, double-dealing dwarves shall taste the bitter fruit of