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(A/N: Chapter 121 will soon be on Patreon!)
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- Terra -
The grand hall of Proudmoore Castle was filled with people—important nobles, administrators, military officers, and other influential figures—who were seated in the stands.
At the head of the hall sat the Alliance leadership: the kings of the various kingdoms, the Archbishop of the Church, the most powerful Archmagi, and other renowned heroes.
Every man and woman seated at the high table had contributed greatly to the war effort. Through their actions more than their titles, they had proven their worth and mettle.
This group had earned the right to be called one of the greatest generations of leaders and heroes in Azeroth's history, and none dared question that claim.
Especially when it came to the man seated at the very centre of the high table.
The Supreme Commander of the Alliance, the greatest hero of Azeroth, and a living symbol of hope for the people of their world, regardless of race or ethnicity.
Alastor sat in the central seat offered to him by Daelin when he first arrived. He was still clad in his new armour and cape, which he had decided to simply name his Phoenix Armour.
On his left sat Daelin Proudmoore, one of his future fathers-in-law and the king of the host kingdom where the trial and subsequent discussions were to take place.
On his right sat his brother, Varian Wrynn, King of Stormwind and the de facto second-in-command of the Alliance.
Behind Alastor stood Anduin Lothar, as still as a statue and with a gaze sharper than most blades. The Lion of Azeroth now served as Alastor's personal bodyguard.
"Is everything ready?" Alastor asked.
Varian and Daelin both nodded.
"Aye, lad. Everyone is gathered and accounted for," Daelin replied in a rare serious tone.
"The scribes are ready, and so are the broadcasting units. All of Arda will witness this trial and its conclusion," Varian confirmed with a nod.
Alastor nodded as the giant doors of the hall swung open.
A group of armoured knights entered, surrounding a haggard man bound in anti-magic shackles and chains imbued with the power of the Holy Light.
The knights escorted the prisoner deeper into the hall as the atmosphere turned noticeably colder. Everyone present fixed the bound man with icy glares.
Nor could anyone be blamed.
This entire war could be traced back to the delusions of this one man.
The leader of the Black Mages.
Malak.
Formerly known as Marcus Graves.
After the knights brought Malak before the assembly, one of them harshly kicked him behind the knees, forcing him to the ground.
In Azeroth, it was customary that criminals guilty of heinous crimes were denied the honour of standing during judgement.
Varian felt his killing intent surge as he was reminded of the moment he had watched Malak stab Llane with the cursed dagger while impersonating him—and how he had been unable to stop him in time.
Thankfully, Varian managed to control himself, especially knowing that Malak would not live to see tomorrow.
Surprisingly, it wasn't Alastor who spoke first.
It was Antonidas.
"I never thought we would once again find ourselves in such similar circumstances."
Antonidas spoke from his seat at the high table, but his voice no longer carried the disappointment of a mentor watching a gifted student squander his potential. Instead, it was cold and detached, as though he were looking upon a rabid beast that was about to be put down.
Malak looked up at him with disdain.
"Are you going to preach about the sanctity of magic again, Grand Magus?"
"My efforts and forgiveness are reserved for those who recognise they were wrong and are willing to repent," Antonidas replied, narrowing his eyes.
"If I had even the slightest inkling that you would willingly plunge our world into such disaster, I would have followed the advice of my peers and executed you the first time!"
Malak chuckled mockingly.
"On what grounds? Is it a crime to want our people to strive for heights we could only dream of?"
"YOU'RE A BLOODY DELUSIONAL FOOL! THAT'S WHAT YOU ARE!" Saidan roared.
The great Paladin rose from his seat beside Alonsus and the other members of the Church, glaring at Malak with undisguised fury.
"You would damn us all to an eternity of suffering in the service of mad fel gods and call it ascension!?" Tirion said. Though he remained seated unlike his friend, his tone was no less chilling.
"All that death, destruction, and suffering... for what?" Calia Menethil, the only female ruler among them and Queen of Lordaeron, asked.
"Was any of it worth it? Was ruining my brother's life worth it!?"
"Any worthwhile cause requires sacrifice." Malak didn't even flinch beneath the accusations and hostile stares. "Every death would have been worth it in the end. But now they've all become meaningless because of your petty defiance."
"Arthas Menethil was no different. If anything, he had only one paramount duty, and he couldn't even do that right."
Malak glared directly at Alastor, who had remained silent from the very beginning, his expression stoic and cold.
"But I suppose it was too much to expect from a failure."
"You would know," Calia replied, her face taking on a rare icy expression. "It takes one to know one."
Malak had not expected such a retort.
Heck, neither had most of those present.
Not from the normally kind-hearted queen.
Though none of them could blame her.
Alexandros, standing behind Calia, gently squeezed her shoulder and gave her a solemn yet understanding look. As her de facto guardian and surrogate uncle following the tragedies that had befallen her family, his quiet reassurance helped Calia regain some of her composure.
Daelin rose from his seat and addressed the assembled gathering.
"Please, let us settle down. I understand that emotions are running high, especially now that the man responsible for this war has finally been brought to justice."
"But let us also remember our stations and our duties. This trial is meant to show the people of our world that justice prevails despite the odds. Let us not give our defeated enemies the satisfaction of seeing us descend into reckless abandon."
Seeing that his words had achieved their intended effect as everyone gradually calmed down, Daelin nodded in satisfaction before taking his seat once more, yielding the floor to Alastor.
Alastor inclined his head towards Daelin.
"Let the trial commence."
"Malak, once known as Marcus Graves, you have committed crimes that violate the very tenets of magic, not to mention countless atrocities surpassed only by the vilest criminals in our world's history."
"Make no mistake. Though this proceeding is called a trial, it would be more accurate to call it your judgement."
"Do you have any last words before we proceed with your punishment?"
Malak glared up at Alastor.
For a brief moment, Alastor's figure seemed to be replaced by that of a much younger Llane, just as he had appeared all those years ago when Marcus Graves had first been brought before the Council of Dalaran.
"I dearly hope your father is enjoying his time in the Garden!"
Malak said ruthlessly, knowing that being struck by a blade personally blessed by the Grandfather would mark the victim's soul and consign it directly to the Garden of Nurgle.
He dearly hoped that self-righteous fool was suffering!
Varian's grip shattered the section of the table beneath his hand. Anduin's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, while every other Stormwind representative radiated intense killing intent.
Nor were they the only ones.
The atmosphere within the hall grew noticeably colder and more oppressive as no one took kindly to the insult directed at their leader.
Yet Alastor's reaction was the most shocking of all.
There wasn't even a hint of anger.
Instead, he gave Malak an amused smile, as though he were watching a clown make an even greater fool of himself.
The unexpected reaction left everyone stunned.
It was well known throughout the war that Alastor had relentlessly hunted Malak across the continent like a bloodhound.
Even Malak himself was momentarily speechless.
For some reason, that smile gave him a very bad feeling.
"You don't have to worry about my father. He's actually doing very well. In fact, every person who died during this war—regardless of who they were—as long as they weren't willingly affiliated with Chaos or the Scourge, is also doing well."
Now everyone was even more confused.
Not only those gathered within the grand hall, but everyone watching the broadcast across Arda as well.
Yet they also couldn't help but feel a spark of hope.
If those words were coming from Alastor, then they had to mean something good for the countless martyrs of the war.
Malak's pupils dilated.
He remembered how every time one of the living had died during the war, their soul had mysteriously "disappeared" before it could even enter the Warp.
Then he looked at Alastor's knowing smile.
And remembered that gigantic flaming bird.
...He did something!
That was the final straw.
Malak felt what little composure he had left finally collapse.
This entire war, which should have been a foolproof conquest of the planet, had instead become one of Chaos' greatest humiliations.
Their armies had been shattered in battle after battle.
They had failed to prevent the mortal races from uniting.
They had failed to stop the destruction of the main Warp rift.
They had failed to halt the Alliance's advance.
With every battle, the Alliance's momentum had only continued to grow.
He had even gambled his own life by having Alastor transported into the Realms of Chaos, hoping the Gods themselves would torture and corrupt him.
Only for him to be empowered by some unfathomable cosmic entity and force the Chaos Gods into retreat.
And now Alastor had all but confirmed that the disappearing souls were somehow connected to him.
Not only that, but it also meant that his revenge against Llane had amounted to nothing.
Malak could no longer contain himself.
"DON'T YOU LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT!!"
Malak screamed hysterically at Alastor, who continued to wear that infuriatingly mocking smile.
"ALL OF YOU ARE HYPOCRITES! SELF-RIGHTEOUS HYPOCRITES!"
He continued shouting as his crazed gaze swept across everyone in the hall.
This time, the madness in his eyes had nothing to do with Chaos.
It was simply the result of his own sanity crumbling.
"I WOULD HAVE GIVEN YOU ALL IMMORTALITY! POWER BEYOND IMAGINATION! I WOULD HAVE GIVEN YOU ALL FREEDOM!"
"YET NO! YOU'D ALL RATHER CALL ME EVIL AND A LIAR, AND THEN THROW YOURSELVES TO HIS FEET WITHOUT A SECOND THOUGHT!"
"HE'S JUST AS MUCH OF AN ABOMINATION AS THE ONES YOU ALL CURSE AND HATE, EVER SINCE THE DAY HIS BASTARD OF A SELF-RIGHTEOUS FATHER FOUND HIM!"
Malak began rising to his feet.
Suddenly, multiple chains formed from blue arcane energy erupted from the floor, wrapping tightly around him before violently dragging him back onto his knees.
Jaina lowered her glowing hand, revealing herself as the caster of the spell.
With another casual wave, she froze Malak's lower body solidly in ice, pinning him firmly to the ground while the freezing magic seeped painfully into his body.
She did not appreciate anyone insulting her fiance.
Alastor's mocking smile immediately softened into a gentle one, touched by her protective gesture even though Malak's ramblings never affected him.
Alleria quietly sheathed the dagger she had drawn and gave Jaina an approving nod.
Suffice it to say, she had also intended to silence Malak.
Her method, however, would have been considerably... messier.
Nor was it only Alleria.
Sylvanas, Tyrande, Vereesa, Alexstrasza, and Isha were equally displeased by what they had heard.
Isha, seated beside Tyrande, had a terrifying glint pass through her eyes.
Meanwhile, Alexstrasza felt an overwhelming urge to butcher Malak where he knelt.
Honestly, ever since she had witnessed Alastor's phoenix form, her instincts had been in complete turmoil, and she had needed to exercise tremendous self-control.
Otherwise...
She feared she might "attack" Alastor instead.
"Since you've spoken more than enough, let us proceed."
Alastor swept his gaze across the hall, looking at every representative of the factions that made up the Alliance.
"All those in favour of the selected punishment?"
"Aye," Alonsus, Archbishop of the Church of the Holy Light.
"Aye," Thoras Trollbane, King of Stromgarde.
"Aye," Genn Greymane, King of Gilneas.
"Aye," Daelin Proudmoore, Lord Admiral and King of Kul Tiras.
"Aye," Antonidas, Grand Magus and Head of the Council of Six of Dalaran.
"Aye," Varian Wrynn, King of Stormwind and second-in-command of the Grand Alliance.
"Aye," Calia Menethil, Queen of Lordaeron.
"Aye," Gelbin Mekkatorque, King of Gnomeregan.
"Aye," Magni Bronzebeard, King of Ironforge.
"Aye," Kurdran Wildhammer, King of Aerie Peak.
"Aye," Tyrande Whisperwind, High Priestess and leader of the Night Elves.
"Aye," Kael'thas Sunstrider, King of the High Elves of Quel'Thalas.
"Aye," Alexstrasza, the Red Dragon Aspect and representative of her "siblings."
Each vote was like a death knell echoing through Malak's mind, as a growing sense of dread and hopelessness consumed him.
"All those against?" Alastor asked.
This time, the grand hall remained completely silent.
That same silence weighed down upon Malak, causing him to break into a cold sweat.
Alastor nodded before turning his gaze back to Malak.
"The vote has been cast, and judgement shall proceed with the unanimous consent of all parties present."
"The punishment decided upon is Oblivion."
"You have proven yourself a danger not only to your fellow man but to all living beings. For that, you have forfeited all mercy. For your innumerable crimes, you have also forfeited the right to penance."
"And so, by the authority vested in me as Supreme Commander of the Grand Alliance, I sentence you... to Oblivion."
The final death knell tolled for Malak.
Alastor's eyes ignited with Phoenix fire as a golden-orange magic circle bearing the image of a phoenix appeared beneath Malak.
Phoenix flames erupted from the circle, coiling around him before completely engulfing him.
Malak screamed in agony as the flames consumed him without mercy.
He desperately called out to his masters to save him, just as they had once done at the lowest point of his life.
But no matter how desperately he cried out into the Immaterium...
The only answer he received was...
...
Silence.
To his utter despair, Chaos had abandoned him without the slightest hesitation.
As the flames consumed him, memories from every stage of his life flashed through his mind.
His joys.
His sorrows.
His achievements.
His failures.
His anger.
His love.
His despair.
Through it all, he came to one final realisation.
He had lived most of his life without meaning.
Most of all...
He had willingly surrendered everything Marcus Graves once was to something as fickle and uncaring as Chaos.
The flames burned through his skin, muscles, bones, and organs, leaving not even ashes behind.
Then they reached his soul.
Their purpose was absolute annihilation.
Alastor felt everything through his connection to the flames.
Because of that bond, he also felt Malak's crushing despair...
...and the overwhelming nihilism consuming what remained of him.
He frowned.
At first, he had expected to feel satisfaction at Malak's suffering.
Just as he had whenever he slew a powerful daemon, undead monstrosity, or Beastkin commander during the war.
Just as he had when he struck back against the Chaos Gods for everything they had put him through.
Malak had hurt him as well.
Surely this should have felt no different.
This man murdered his father and nearly condemned his soul to the Garden of Nurgle!
'Your father's soul is safe within your soulscape.'
He plunged their world into war!
'War would have come regardless. Your father knows it. Your people know it. And, more than anyone else... so do you.'
He deserved to pay for his crimes!
'He has. But you were never the monster.'
An entire internal struggle played out within Alastor's mind.
In reality...
It lasted less than the blink of an eye.
'DAMN IT ALL!'
With a single thought, the Phoenix flames halted.
They had already burned away a portion of Malak's soul...
But not enough to erase his consciousness.
At that moment, Alastor felt a familiar presence brush gently against his mind.
It was the same presence he had first sensed upon returning to Azeroth from the Realms of Chaos.
Titanic.
Ancient.
Vast beyond comprehension.
It seemed to exist all around him.
Yet despite its immense power, he felt not the slightest trace of hostility...
Or even danger.
If anything, it felt warm.
Nurturing.
Like a calm and vast ocean.
Serene and peaceful...
Yet possessing the undeniable power to become a devastating tsunami.
Unfortunately, after returning to Azeroth, he had been far too occupied reassuring others and carrying out his duties as the Alliance's leader to properly investigate it.
Since he sensed no danger from the presence, and the Phoenix itself had offered no warning, he had decided to give it the benefit of the doubt.
The mysterious presence communicated with him without words.
Alastor mentally nodded.
Malak's soul was gently taken away by it.
When the Phoenix flames finally dissipated, not even a speck of ash remained.
The grand hall erupted into cheers.
Across Azeroth, people watching the broadcast celebrated as well.
Only a select few present noticed what had truly happened.
Tyrande looked at Alastor, a fleeting expression of exasperated fondness passing through her eyes.
'Fool..... If only there were more fools like you in this galaxy.'
Isha, on the other hand, regarded him with gentle affection.
She had spent a long time with Alastor during one of the darkest periods of his life, while imprisoned within the Garden of Nurgle.
More often than not, true character is revealed through hardship.
During those long years, Isha had come to understand exactly what kind of man Alastor truly was.
Despite everything he'd already suffered through, he'd willingly endured Nurgle's Warp-tainted broths without complaint—unless Nurgle himself was the target of his insults—simply so she wouldn't have to.
In truth, Isha had expected something like this to happen.
After spending who knew how many years, decades, or perhaps even more than a century with him, she understood who he was at his very core.
Alastor was never a monster.
Whether he was the kind-hearted knight...
The fierce protector...
Or the wrathful angel wreathed in living flame...
Alastor had always been defined by one unwavering ideal.
Hope.
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