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Plop
The impact of plunging into the cold water jolted Blake Shaw awake. He let out a cry of pain as he felt as though his entire body had been hurled into fire and scorched. His limbs quivered as he tried to stabilize himself in the water, but the overwhelming pain left him helpless.
Is this because the chassis exploded? Although it was an old computer, it was just a replica, wasn't it?
Fragmented thoughts filled his mind, only to be abruptly silenced.
Through the dark, swirling waters, Blake caught sight of the scene unfolding above. Flames danced across the sea's surface—unnatural fires, impervious to the waves, clinging to the water and consuming everything they touched. All around him, the murky water was filled with wreckage, fragments of ships, and motionless bodies. A few sailors, clad in armor, fought desperately to stay afloat, unable to make a sound as they drowned in silence.
Above, nearly seventy meters long, two shadowy figures soared, unleashing streams of fire that made the entire sea tremble under the wrath of these enormous beasts.
Is this a dragon?
Blake's mouth opened in shock, and saltwater rushed in, forcing him to clamp his lips shut. The searing pain radiated through his entire body, scattering his thoughts. Dizzy, he glanced around, taking in his own hands and body. His clothes and belongings were scorched, seared by dragon fire.
Severe burns covered his skin, and he felt as if he were melting.
This isn't my body!
Staring at fingers longer than he remembered, Blake felt a surge of horror. In that instant, fragmented memories came crashing into his mind, leaving him trembling, hands clamped to his head as he struggled to make sense of the chaos.
The Third Fleet of Kul Tiras... the sea battle at Khaz Modan... the orcs crossing the sea into Azeroth... the opening of the Dark Portal and the Second Orc War, six years in.
"No!" Blake screamed internally.
This wasn't how he had wanted things to play out. But now wasn't the time to wallow in despair. His life force was draining fast, as though he were a balloon losing air. He was growing weaker by the second. If he didn't act quickly, this adventure would end in mere minutes. He couldn't count on any lucky afterlife transfer this time.
In desperation, Blake slapped his face to focus and attempted to rise above the water. But as his hand brushed his forehead, a translucent message inexplicably appeared before his eyes:
Character Card: Derek Proudmoore (Blake Shaw)
Information: Kul Tiran Human, 19 years old
Status: Mortal body. Seriously injured. Weak. On the verge of death.
Class: Level 10 Warrior / Level 16 Navigator / Level 5 Rogue
Legendary Class: None
Mythical Class: None
Title: Prince of Kul Tiras
Equipment: None
Talents: Son of the Sea, Battle Hero, Proudmoore Bloodline (Seal of Hate)
Skills:
Kul Tiran Military Swordsmanship (Skilled)Fatal Throw (Beginner)Tidal Fist (Mastery)Navigation (Mastery)
"This character card."
Seeing this information, Blake's mind nearly shut down. What's going on? he wondered. Am I an NPC now?
The neatly organized information, along with these familiar terms, matched the character settings of the tabletop game he often played with his friends. So, am I in a role-playing story? Or have I somehow entered the real Azeroth?
But as his eyes fell upon the diminishing character card, showing only a fifth of the health bar and still depleting, reality came crashing back. No time to ponder this. If I can't find a way to survive, I'll either be burned to death by dragon fire or suffocate here in the water.
With his life hanging by a thread, Blake's mind raced. His memories, etched from countless game sessions, surfaced quickly. When the game was set, it had already been 24 years since the opening of the Dark Portal. The Third Fleet had been destroyed by the red dragon controlled by the Dragonmaw Clan, a tragic tale within the game's background and mission chain.
Though he knew little of the battle's specifics, Blake, as a mission enthusiast, immediately recalled a quest chain related to the Third Fleet's wreck. The waters of Khaz Modan—the wetlands—played a significant part in it.
Eighteen years later, Fitzmoths, a grizzled sailor who had survived the massacre, would approach any adventurer in Menethil Harbor willing to listen. That crusty old drunk would demand an overpriced ale before revealing the quest. Blake had resented paying a full gold coin for it, grumbling about the extortion.
But thanks to that coin, I know exactly where I am now, he thought.
With renewed determination, Blake steeled himself. Turning his injured body in the water, he swam toward the wreckage of the Dreadnought, sinking nearby. Each movement sent waves of pain through his limbs, but he had no choice. If he didn't retrieve that crucial item, he would surely perish.
The memories from Prince Derek Proudmoore's life, which had begun to flood Blake's mind, affirmed his suspicion.
Kul Tiras' Third Fleet wasn't specifically deployed to intercept the orc fleet's crossing today; they simply had unfortunate timing.
In fact, before setting sail, they had no knowledge that the orcs would choose this moment to cross the sea. The fleet's mission was straightforward: two warships and five troop transports were to deliver new recruits to the Wildhammer Highlands, opening a secondary battlefield behind enemy lines. Additionally, they were tasked with transporting a holy relic tainted by an orc warlock to Arathi Highlands, the capital of Stromgarde, to be safeguarded within Stromgarde Castle.
This relic, known as the Eye of Pareth, was a revered artifact crafted by the Church of the Holy Light decades ago. Originally intended to bless believers, it fell into the hands of the Horde when the Kingdom of Stormwind was conquered by orcs two years prior. Under Gul'dan's leadership, warlocks steeped in shadow magic had corrupted the Eye, twisting it into a vile tool for curses.
The Eye of Pareth, now defiled, would soon find its resting place at the ocean floor, its dark magic binding the spirits of countless warriors who perished in today's battle, tethering them eternally to the shores of Khaz Modan. This cursed bondage persisted for eighteen long years, only broken by an adventurer manipulated by a cunning first mate. However, the artifact's corruption was too deep for ordinary priests to dispel. It would eventually require the touch of Archbishop Benedictus, the Second Son of the Light, to purify it within Stormwind Cathedral.
This crucial knowledge blazed through Blake's mind as he endured the agonizing pain, racing to reach the wreckage of the Dauntless within mere moments, his destination just below the captain's cabin.
Boom!
Blake punched his fist against the waterlogged hatch and forced it open, revealing the captain, who lay lifeless, having ended his life in despair with a dagger. Clutched in the captain's hand was a sinister black suitcase.
The key!
Blake seized the suitcase, and despite the grim act of disturbing the dead, he retrieved a bronze key from the captain's waist. His chest felt like it would burst at any moment. Although his Kul Tiran heritage granted him the talent of "Son of the Sea," allowing him to hold his breath longer and swim faster, his injuries were severe, and his strength was draining fast. The character card's red bar was dangerously low; in another ten seconds, it would empty entirely.
The tainted Eye of Pareth is a dangerous thing, Blake thought. Anyone who possesses it is cursed to join the ranks of the undead. Unless purified, that curse will last eternally.
Without wasting another second, Blake inserted the key into the enchanted suitcase, twisting it sharply.
Click!
As seawater rushed into the case, a foreboding purple-black light glowed, piercing the dim depths around him. Blake cast a quick glance at his diminishing life bar before seizing the small, crystal-like orb within the case.
"Agh!"
Dark magic surged into Blake's body through his hand, sending a frigid, eerie force coursing through him. Remarkably, the searing pain from his burns faded, and the drain on his life energy halted. He felt his breath grow heavier and his skin dry out rapidly, as though he were a mummy that had been dead for years.
His mouth lost all sense of taste, his brain fogged over, and his sense of touch and smell dulled to nothing.
But his hearing sharpened.
The surrounding waters grew darker, as strange, whispered voices began to echo in his ears and within his mind—sinister murmurs, like a swarm of mosquitoes buzzing ceaselessly nearby.
One second later.
Blake Shaw stopped breathing.
But he didn't die.
Instead, the curse bound him to the realm of the undead, twisted by dark magic into an unnatural form. Now immune to drowning and beyond the reach of pain, the curse both weakened him and sealed his life force. The blood bar, which had been dangerously low, stabilized. As Blake forced a soggy chunk of bread he'd salvaged from the battleship wreckage into his mouth, his life meter slowly began to climb. It likely tasted revolting, but he could no longer taste anything.
"Survived."
A strange sense of calm washed over him as he floated in the water, turning the crystal ball in his hands. This was the Eye of Pareth. He didn't know who Pareth was—perhaps a priest of the Holy Light or the creator of this cursed artifact—but the orb resembled a malevolent purple eye, its eerie aura casting malicious whispers through his mind. The longer he stared, the louder those murmurs grew, yet they remained unclear, a constant reminder that something was very wrong with this object.
"Azeroth, is this your welcome gift to me?" Blake muttered with dark humor.
The undead Blake Shaw turned to look back at the watery grave behind him. Sunlight filtered through the waves, casting an ominous glow across the corpses of sailors descending into the deep. Damaged warships and torn banners floated alongside them—a scene of shattered valor.
This was buried glory.
Suspended in the water, Blake became both a silent witness and a survivor of this terrible aftermath. Sunlight from above fractured along the burning surface, streaming into the abyss, illuminating the pale corpses and debris with a cold, haunting light.
He would never forget this.
These sailors would be lost to history, their courage forgotten by the world. But Blake would remember, etching this massacre into his soul.
Derek Proudmoore's memories stirred within him, adding weight to the moment. Emotion welled up in Blake's undead heart. After several minutes of silent reflection, he slowly raised his hand and, with stiff, undead limbs, offered a formal Kul Tiran salute to the scene before him—a final gesture of respect to those who had fallen.
With a last glance at the smoldering ruin above, Blake turned away. Holding the cursed Eye of Pareth and the captain's magic suitcase, he propelled himself through the dark water, swimming farther out to sea.
This place held only death and resentment.
It was no longer a place for the living.
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If you enjoy please support me on my patreon Future 80+ chapters at patreon.com/Phoenizbeelze
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