The gathering was held in the deepest part of the sewers, inside a circular hall.
It was a long-abandoned underground chamber. The vaulted ceiling loomed several meters overhead, and the ancient bricks, soaked year-round by groundwater, were stained with dark green moss.
At the center of the hall stood a slightly elevated stone platform, like the base of some kind of altar. Melted wax and burn marks still lingered on its surface.
Dozens of stone stools were arranged around it, scattered into an irregular arc.
A female mage and a man in a black cloak entered from the far end of the passage.
Emmy—and Allen, who had altered his appearance with Disguise Self.
Two birds perched on Allen's shoulders—two gray parrots. The one on the left had round, black eyes that kept darting about, as if sizing up everyone present. The one on the right sat quietly, making no sound from beginning to end.
A man from the gathering stepped forward to greet them.
Walking ahead, Emmy lowered her voice. "We were introduced by Alvin."
The man's gaze swept over the two of them, then he smiled knowingly. Turning to face everyone present, he raised his voice and announced, "Brothers and sisters, we have new members joining us!"
Dozens of people stood up, applause echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling.
The man looked curiously at the two birds on Allen's shoulders and asked with a grin, "Brother, why bring pets to something like this?"
Stella—who had been transformed into a gray parrot with Polymorph—was bursting with excitement. Flapping her wings, she shouted at the top of her lungs, "Good! Very good!"
Meanwhile, Morgan remained completely still. He merely tilted his head slightly, casting the man a sideways glance with one glossy black eye before looking away again, indifferent.
Hmph. A bunch of cultists.
Allen reached up and pressed the still-squawking Stella down onto his shoulder. "Hahaha, I just like keeping little things around."
The man extended his hand, trying to pet Stella.
Stella shrank back abruptly, dodging the hand, then burrowed straight into Allen's clothes, leaving only the tip of her gray-brown tail sticking out and flapping.
The man tried again with Morgan, only to have his finger sharply pecked by the small beak.
"Ow, ow—feisty little thing, hahaha."
Allen glanced at him but didn't respond.
He slipped his hand into his clothes, grabbed the gray parrot that was still wriggling around, and pulled it out by the back of its neck.
The parrot flapped twice in his grip, letting out disgruntled coos.
Allen expressionlessly placed it back on his shoulder and said in a low voice, "Behave."
Whether he was speaking to the bird or to the man was unclear.
The man's smile stiffened for a moment. For some reason, a chill crept up his spine. He obediently shut his mouth and led the two of them to a pair of stone stools near the back.
People in the hall murmured among themselves, chatting idly about recent news in Dalaran, the old fogies of the Kirin Tor Council, and how so-and-so had been reprimanded by their mentor again.
Then, all at once, everyone fell silent.
A man in a dark red robe stepped out from the shadows behind the stone platform.
Standing atop it, his gaze slowly swept across every person present.
"Not a single person here today is someone who has ever been understood."
The hall was so quiet that the crackling of the wall torches could be heard.
"Because our talent is too great, we are feared. Because we've gone too far, we are questioned. Because we see the future too clearly, we are called mad. Every one of us has endured this."
His voice was calm, yet it carried a weight that seemed to drag people downward.
"They cannot comprehend our foresight. They cannot comprehend the inevitable future we see approaching. They cannot comprehend the urgency that keeps us awake at night—the urgency that drives us to give everything."
"They don't understand us." His voice suddenly dropped. "They reject us, exclude us, persecute us."
"But—" his voice rose sharply, "none of that matters. We will prove everything to them. We will overturn everything. We will claim everything!"
Thunderous applause erupted throughout the hall.
Allen turned his head slightly, looking toward the person seated beside him.
A pale, thin young man.
Sharp cheekbones, tightly pressed lips, and gray-blue eyes that seemed especially deep under the dim yellow light.
From the start of the gathering, this pale young man hadn't spoken a single word. He hadn't applauded, hadn't cheered—he hadn't even changed his expression.
Allen leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Brother, looks like we're the only ones keeping a clear head. You new here too?"
The young man turned his head, his gaze resting briefly on Allen's face.
He clearly had an entirely ordinary appearance, yet he gave off a strong sense of approachability.
"No." The man's voice was calm. "I just think our group is still too small. We should grow further—form a true sect."
Allen raised an eyebrow slightly. "Oh? Sounds like you've got real vision." His tone grew a bit more animated. "I think the same. We should probably start laying down a doctrine as soon as possible—find a path that truly suits us."
"What kind of path?"
Allen moved his fingers. A strand of obscure black energy coiled around his fingertips.
"Lately, I've been studying necromancy," Allen said in a lowered voice, like he was sharing a secret. "I don't think necromancy is as evil as people imagine."
Emmy's expression changed. Sitting on Allen's other side, she could clearly see that strand of black energy dancing at his fingertips.
The man looked at the shadow at Allen's fingertips, and something flickered in his gray-blue eyes.
"May I ask your name?" His tone carried a hint more seriousness now.
Allen slipped his hand into his clothes, grabbed the gray parrot that was once again trying to burrow into his collar, and pulled it out, pressing it back onto his shoulder. The parrot let out a dissatisfied coo.
"My name's Ner'zhul," Allen said casually. "And you?"
The man fell silent for a moment.
"Kel'Thuzad."
Oh? So the future founder of the Cult of the Damned had shown up.
Allen tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting into a meaningful smile. "Oh. I think we're going to have plenty to talk about."
The speech on the stone platform finally came to an end.
The man in the dark red robe stepped forward again, his enthusiastic gaze sweeping across everyone present before finally landing on Allen and Emmy.
"Next—" His voice carried undisguised anticipation. "Let's see whether our new members are qualified to join us."
Dozens of eyes turned toward them in unison. Those gazes were like a group of starving people staring at a freshly served dish.
Emmy froze. She clenched the hem of her clothes, her eyes darting nervously across the crowd.
But the gray parrot on Allen's shoulder suddenly perked up. It poked its head out, shook its feathers, puffed out its chest, and arrogantly swept its gaze across everyone present.
The light in Morgan's tiny eyes was so upright and imposing that it didn't resemble a bird at all. Several people who met that gaze instinctively looked away.
Allen smiled as he stood up and stepped forward. His voice wasn't loud, yet it carried clearly to every corner of the hall.
"Brothers and sisters." He spread his arms as if embracing the entire world. "I can feel it. I was born for this place."
He paused briefly, the smile on his lips deepening.
"The people at the top of Dalaran—every single one of them is an idiot, a fool, a complete bastard."
A ripple of low laughter spread through the crowd. Some nodded, some applauded.
"But we are not idiots, fools, or bastards. I believe the future of Dalaran rests on our shoulders."
His voice gradually rose, like a rising tide. "Talent is a curse. Excellence is a curse. Ability is a curse. We surpass ordinary people by too much—the ignorance and conservatism of those common folk shackle our extraordinary gifts, and that brings us suffering."
Some people began murmuring in agreement.
"Like a curse." Allen's voice suddenly dropped. "Magic itself is not evil. But those pedantic, foolish, decaying old men—they can't even grasp something that simple. They stop us from pursuing truth, from approaching the source. They are utterly unfit to be our teachers—"
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the faces lit by candlelight.
"They are unfit to lead Dalaran!"
Thunderous applause erupted from the crowd, some even rising to their feet. Allen raised his hand and pressed downward slightly, signaling for them to calm down.
The noise gradually subsided, dozens of eyes fixed on him with burning intensity.
"Our progress, our vision—though they may be our curse—" his voice softened, almost a whisper, "they are also our pride."
He took a deep breath, raising his voice to its peak.
"I propose that, starting today, we adopt a unified name—to bind us all together."
The hall fell silent once more, with only the crackling of flames in the wall lamps.
"I propose—"
His gaze swept across the candlelit faces.
"From this day forward, those of us gathered here shall be known as—"
He paused for a beat.
"The Cult of the Damned."
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