In the cosmic belly button of Azeroth, the Endless Sea, a truly colossal whirlpool perpetually churned. To the east of this watery abyss lay the perpetually inconvenient Broken Isles. And in October of the twenty-fifth year since the opening of the Dark Portal, every single eye on Azeroth—and a few unholy ones in deep space—was fixed on the southeastern edge of this archipelago.
In Kalimdor, the night elves and the tauren, setting aside their cultural differences for the sake of not being obliterated, met up in the bustling hub of Ratchet. Together with the Crusaders, various centaur tribes, quilboars, and other less-than-charming vassals, they had somehow formed a truly enormous sea fleet. It was a motley collection of vessels, all pointed resolutely eastward.
The Eastern Kingdoms were a different story. Unlike Kalimdor, where only the night elves and the Crusaders could manage long sea voyages without accidentally sailing off the edge of the world, the fleets of various nations were positively flourishing. Lordaeron, Stormwind, Stromgarde, Kul Tiras, and even the perpetually grumpy sailors of Gilneas all had their own impressive navies. Each carried a significant chunk of Ironforge's stout, axe-wielding army. They all met up at the bustling port of Kul Tiras, creating a truly magnificent traffic jam, before setting sail towards the Broken Shore.
Looking down at the Endless Sea from outer space, if you were a demon with nothing better to do, you'd see more than just the densely packed ships beyond the eastern and western continents. Oh no. There was also a colossal, dark shadow sailing furiously north from the southern seas! That, my friends, was the Zandalari's Golden Fleet! When fully loaded, this ridiculously huge fleet was capable of transporting the entire, screaming population of Zandalar. The decks of every battleship in this glorious armada were practically groaning under the weight of meticulously strapped-down war beasts: snarling Triceratops and roaring Tyrannosaurus Rexes, probably with little saddles. In addition to the proud, upright Zandalari trolls, there were also moss-covered Amani trolls (who looked like they'd been dug up from a swamp), and the perpetually blue-gray Gurubashi trolls (who looked perpetually annoyed). Among these blue and gray trolls, if you squinted, you could vaguely make out some round, black and white figures—tiny, fluffy, panda-like figures, probably trying to sneak snacks.
Of course, at this very moment, the demons in outer space, who typically lacked decent binoculars, could not see the charming details of the various fleets. They only saw three massive, dark shadows rushing towards the big vortex. And Kil'jaeden's two (some might say, long-suffering) female lieutenants, High Warlock Alyses and Queen Saloras, were the first to notice this rather alarming scene. The twin sisters, who commanded shadows and fire with terrifying efficiency, hurriedly reported the news to their boss, who was currently a light-year away, probably polishing his hooves.
Kil'jaeden still maintained the same posture as last time, with his chin propped thoughtfully on one hand, giving off an air of cosmic contemplation. But his next few, deceptively light words made every single demon lord below him feel a sudden, intense urge to clean their claws. The only thing worse than Kil'jaeden's rage was Kil'jaeden's calm rage. It usually meant someone was about to have a very bad day.
"It's nothing, I'm just afraid of being pissed off," a small, internal voice seemed to whisper to the cowering demons.
The Vanguard starships' invasion had now lasted for nearly half a year. And what had it accomplished? Apart from successfully attracting the unwanted attention of every single native on Azeroth and allowing Prince Malchezaar to successfully set up a rather inconvenient beachhead on the Broken Shore, they had failed to occupy even an inch of land at any of the invasion points. Not even a small, strategically important rock. Even the military supervisor Kathra'natir, whom Kil'jaeden had personally sent out, was now missing, probably hiding in a very small, very damp tree hole.
Even the brainless pit lords, whose tactical genius extended only to "hit it with a very big axe," knew better than to easily anger Kil'jaeden at this particular moment. The air crackled with a silent, suffocating tension.
"Listen! You idiots!" Kil'jaeden's voice, though still calm, sounded again, resonating with a barely contained fury. "These ants down there, these insignificant insects, have united! And they are foolishly trying to challenge us. Us! Can you believe the audacity?"
A gleam of pure cruelty and cold, calculating brutality flashed across the Deceiver's eyes. It was obvious that he was absolutely seething inside, probably planning creative new ways to torture their souls. But his inner forbearance, honed over millennia of cosmic deception, allowed him to hide this volcanic anger remarkably well.
"A good opportunity to truly serve the great Dark Titan has finally come. Our outstanding Prince Malchezaar has already set up the Star Coordinates on the Broken Shore. The truly destructive power of the Legion will once again descend upon Azeroth! And this time, we're not pulling any punches!"
"And your only mission, you glorious, terrifying creatures, is to rush in and tear every single living creature to pieces! Don't leave a single, squishy thing intact!"
"If you still can't bring me victory this time," Kil'jaeden purred, his voice dropping to a dangerously soft whisper, "the Legion will not waste its precious resources reviving such… rubbish… again."
There was a truly profound, very nervous silence in the starship.
As a great demon who manipulated hearts and souls, Kil'jaeden certainly knew the principle of using a big stick in one hand and a very sweet, very tempting carrot in the other.
"You also know," he added, his voice suddenly sounding almost benevolent, "that after the rather… unfortunate… demise of Archimonde, a vacant position for the adjutant of the Legion will be available. A position of immense power, second only to myself!"
Sure enough, every single demon lord who had originally lowered their heads in abject terror now raised them instantly, their eyes blazing with avarice and desperate ambition.
"Prove yourselves to Lord Sargeras! Prove that you are qualified for that position! Show me you're not just glorified cannon fodder!"
The Lord of the Abyss with a body as huge as a mountain, the Lord of Doom with a perpetually pointed face and remarkably monkey-like cheeks, the perpetually angry, red-skinned Eredar, and the pitiful remnants of the Dreadlords (of which only two or three big and small, very frightened cats were left) all had burning, avaricious emotions in their eyes. The Dark Titan's lieutenant! A position second only to one man and above ten thousand others in the Legion! The ultimate promotion!
"ROAR!"
For a moment, the demons were dancing wildly, roaring, stamping their hooves, and probably accidentally incinerating a few lesser imps in their excitement. Morale was off the charts, fueled by pure ambition and the fear of not being reborn.