The battlefield had narrowed. Not in size but in purpose. Where once armies clashed and formations shifted, now there was only destruction without restraint. The land had been stripped bare, reduced to a fractured wasteland where nothing natural remained.
At its center Leylin stood alone. And before him the Scourge surged. Without the need to hold back, without the burden of protecting allies, Leylin's magic expanded to its fullest extent. The sky itself fractured.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of arcane circles rotated in layered formations above him, each one radiating immense pressure. They no longer spread thin across the battlefield.
Instead, they condensed, interlocking into a dense, multi-layered system of control and destruction. Reality warped under their influence.
"Advance," Arthas commanded coldly.
The Scourge obeyed. They came like a black tide, ghouls clawing forward, abominations crashing through the broken earth, skeletal mages unleashing torrents of dark magic. Endless. Relentless.
Leylin raised a single hand.
"Restriction field—full deployment."
The arcane circles descended.
BOOM—
The ground collapsed inward as an invisible force pressed down upon the Scourge. Entire sections of the undead army were crushed into the earth, their bodies immobilized under overwhelming spatial pressure.
Others were caught in overlapping distortions, their movements slowed to near stillness. Some were erased entirely. Yet even so they kept coming.
Arthas stepped forward. Frostmourne gleamed.
"You delay the inevitable," he said.
Leylin did not respond. Because he was already moving. Their clash erupted once more, but this time there was no restraint.
Leylin's attacks became sharper. More decisive. Each strike carried calculated intent, targeting not just Arthas' defenses, but the flow of his power.
Arthas answered with overwhelming force. Every swing of Frostmourne tore through space itself, necrotic energy devouring anything it touched.
The collision of their powers twisted the battlefield further. Below the Scourge continued to surge. Above, Leylin continued to hold. And far beyond, the elves retreated.
Through shattered terrain and fading barriers, Sylvanas led what remained of her forces away from the battlefield. The magisters maintained what little protection they could, their spells growing weaker with each passing moment.
No one spoke. Because they all knew they had barely escaped.
A ranger stumbled, catching herself before falling. "…we left him," she whispered.
Sylvanas did not slow.
"He told us to," she replied.
"But—"
"He is still alive."
Her voice was absolute. Unyielding. And yet her eyes betrayed something else. Concern.
Behind them, the distant horizon flickered with violent bursts of light, evidence of the battle still raging. Each flash is a reminder. He was still there. Still holding. Still fighting. Sylvanas' grip tightened on her bow.
She remembered. The way the dead had risen. The way the fallen had turned. The way the Scourge did not diminish but grew.
Her gaze hardened.
"…if they reach Silvermoon," she murmured.
She did not finish the sentence. She didn't need to. She had seen enough. And then—Leylin's voice echoed in her mind.
Not through sound. But through magic. A precise, controlled transmission.
"Sylvanas."
Her eyes widened slightly.
"…you can still talk?" she muttered under her breath.
"Efficiency," Leylin replied simply.
Even now, in the middle of that battlefield. He maintained enough control to communicate.
"Report," he continued.
"We are withdrawing as ordered," Sylvanas said. "Casualties… manageable." A pause. "But the Scourge—"
"Will not pursue immediately," Leylin finished. "I am maintaining aggro."
She exhaled slowly. Then— "…what are you planning?"
There was a brief silence. Even amidst the chaos of battle, Leylin paused. When he spoke again his voice was unchanged.
"If the council refuses to act," he said, "I will proceed independently."
Sylvanas' steps slowed.
"…independently?"
Another pause. Then understanding.
Her eyes narrowed.
"…you're serious."
"I do not engage in speculation," Leylin replied.
Her gaze shifted forward. To the distant path that led back, To Silvermoon. To the city. To everything they were trying to protect.
"…after what I've seen," she said quietly, "they won't understand."
Leylin's voice was calm.
"I am aware."
The ground trembled faintly beneath her feet, even at this distance, a residual echo of the battle still raging behind them.
"They think this is a war," Sylvanas continued.
"It is not," Leylin said.
Her grip tightened.
"…it's an extinction."
Silence. Then Leylin spoke again.
"If they do not act," he said, "containment becomes priority."
Sylvanas closed her eyes briefly. Containment. She understood what that meant. Not defense. Not victory. Sacrifice.
Her jaw clenched.
"…and Silvermoon?" she asked.
A pause. For the first time, Leylin did not answer immediately. Because the answer was obvious.
"If necessary," he said at last, "it will be included."
Sylvanas stopped walking. The world seemed to still. Behind her, the remaining elves halted as well, sensing the shift.
"…you're talking about destroying it," she said.
"Yes."
No hesitation. No emotion. Just certainty. Sylvanas' eyes opened slowly. And in them, there was no shock. Only understanding.
Because she had seen it. What the Scourge did. What it turned people into. What it would do—If it reached the city.
"…then don't hesitate," she said quietly.
Leylin did not respond. Because he didn't need to. She continued walking. Faster now. More determined. Behind her, the elves followed.
And far away on a battlefield that no longer mattered, Leylin stood alone. Against Arthas. Against the Scourge. Against inevitability.
Arthas' blade descended once more.
"You fight for nothing," he said.
Leylin caught the strike.
"Incorrect."
Their powers collided. The sky shattered.
"I fight," Leylin said calmly, "for outcome."
And as the last of the elves disappeared beyond the horizon, he released the final restraints. The battlefield became hell.
And Leylin stood at its center. The last traces of elven presence vanished beyond the horizon. No more arrows. No more coordinated spells. No more voices.
Only silence—And the dead.
Leylin stood unmoving, his gaze fixed forward as the final signatures of the retreating army faded from his perception.
"…evacuation complete," he murmured.
A quiet exhale followed. Not relief. Just confirmation. Behind him the Scourge surged.
Freed from all restraint, no longer diverted or segmented, the undead tide moved as one. A black ocean of rotting flesh and bone, driven forward by a single will. Endless. Unstoppable.
And at its head—Arthas. Frostmourne gleamed under the dim sky, its cursed edge pulsing with anticipation.
"You have delayed the inevitable long enough," Arthas said, his voice echoing across the empty battlefield. "Now there is nothing left to protect you."
Leylin did not turn.
"Incorrect," he replied calmly.
He raised his hand. The ground answered. At first—A tremor. Then, A roar.
The earth split open with violent force, massive slabs of stone erupting upward from beneath the battlefield. Entire sections of land were torn free, rising and shifting under Leylin's control as if the world itself had become his weapon.
A wall began to form. Not a simple barrier but a fortress.
Layer upon layer of compacted earth and stone surged upward, reinforced by arcane compression that increased its density far beyond natural limits. Jagged spires extended outward, interlocking structures forming a continuous line that stretched across the horizon.
Dozens of meters high. Hundreds of meters thick. And still it rose. The Scourge did not slow. They crashed into the forming wall like a tidal wave.
BOOM—
The impact shook the ground. Ghouls clawed at the surface. Abominations slammed their massive bodies against it. Skeletal mages unleashed dark spells, necrotic energy splashing uselessly against the reinforced stone. The wall held.
Leylin's eyes glowed faintly as he continued shaping it, extending its reach further, sealing every possible path forward. No gaps. No weaknesses. No alternative routes.
If the Scourge wished to pass, they would have to break through. And that would take time.
Arthas watched in silence as the barrier expanded, his gaze cold and calculating.
"You think this will stop me?" he asked.
Leylin finally turned.
"No," he said simply.
A pause.
"But it will delay you."
The distinction was absolute. Arthas' grip on Frostmourne tightened.
"Time is irrelevant," he said.
Leylin's lips curved faintly.
"Not to me."
The final segment of the wall slammed into place. A thunderous echo rolled across the land as the structure stabilized, its immense form casting a shadow over the battlefield.
For a moment there was stillness. Then, the Scourge attacked. Claws tore at the stone. Flesh slammed against unyielding rock. Dark magic erupted in waves, striking the barrier again and again.
Cracks formed, but slowly. Too slow.
Leylin observed for a brief moment, his mind already calculating the rate of degradation, the density of the assault, the projected time required for a breach.
"…acceptable," he concluded.
Even if they broke through, it would not be soon. Even if they searched for another path,the distance alone would delay them. Either way, time had been secured.
And for Leylin, that was enough.
He turned away. Arthas did not follow. Because he could not. Not yet.
"You run," Arthas said, his voice carrying over the growing chaos behind the wall.
Leylin paused briefly. Then— "No," he replied.
A faint shimmer surrounded him as spatial energy gathered.
"I'll be waiting at the next battlefield."
And with that, he vanished. The battlefield was left behind. Only the wall remained.
And the endless, furious tide of the Scourge clawing at its surface. Far from that place, the world was different. No screams. No war. No death. Only fear.
The outskirts of Silvermoon were in chaos, not of battle, but of urgency. Civilians moved in hurried clusters, escorted by remaining guards and magisters. Carriages overloaded with supplies creaked under the strain, while others carried the wounded, the elderly, and the young.
They did not know everything. But they knew enough. The Scourge was coming. And time was limited.
A flash of light appeared at the edge of the encampment. Leylin stepped forward.
Instantly, several guards raised their weapons but lowered them just as quickly upon recognizing him.
"Magister—!" one of them began.
"Status," Leylin interrupted.
The guard straightened immediately.
"Evacuation in progress. Northern routes are clear for now, but we're encountering delays—too many civilians, not enough transport."
Leylin's gaze swept across the area. Disorganization. Inefficiency. Panic. Unacceptable.
"Reassign all available magisters to transport assistance," he said immediately. "Priority: children, injured, non-combatants."
"Yes, Magister!"
Leylin stepped forward, his mind already moving through dozens of calculations. The wall would hold. For a time. But not forever every second mattered.
"Estimated time before breach…" he murmured softly.
His eyes flickered.
"…insufficient."
Then, he raised his hand again. But this time not for destruction. For movement.
Spatial distortions spread outward, forming temporary gateways, unstable, short-range teleportation corridors designed for mass transit.
"Accelerate evacuation," Leylin said calmly.
Around him, the operation changed. Civilians were redirected. Magisters coordinated. The pace increased. Order was restored.
And as the sun dipped lower on the horizon— Leylin stood at the center of it all. Not as a warrior. Not as a defender. But as something else entirely. A strategist.
Because this battle was no longer about holding the line. It was about saving what could still be saved.
And far in the distance beyond sight. Beyond reach. The wall trembled. Cracks spread. And the Scourge did not stop.