After a day and the first half of the night filled with anxiety, the ghostly force walking in the darkness could finally relax. Brox continued to patrol vigilantly, guarding against any potential threats, especially the seemingly frail and petite human huntress who had almost killed them. Her crossbow and arrows were simply their nemesis!
"I feel fantastic now!" Rivendare, riding another converted undead warhorse, felt the endless power flowing from the runeblade and within his body. "Darrowmere Lake isn't far ahead. Soon, we won't have to be so anxious." He was no longer flesh and blood; his new identity granted him the power and immortality he had long desired.
Kel'Thuzad's neck was wrapped tightly with a scarf. He wasn't afraid of the cold; it was merely to conceal the horrifying hole in his neck. If not for the power bestowed by the Lich King, if he were still an ordinary man, he would have been dead the day before.
He was somewhat dissatisfied with the fact that he had fewer than ten men at his disposal. "Rivendare, where are we?" Because his throat was almost shattered, his voice was severely raspy, each word laced with a hideous hiss.
"We just passed Darrowshire and are now near the Merris Gardens, my friend."
"I recall a cemetery nearby. Perfect, I need some helpers." Kel'Thuzad chuckled cruelly.
...
Gavinrad focused his energy once more, trying to move his left arm, but apart from the immense pain, he still couldn't feel its presence. The sweat, brought on by the pain, soaked his forehead. He used his remaining right hand to hammer the bed forcefully, venting his inner frustration.
Ever since he regained consciousness after the duel with the orc, he knew he might never be able to fight as a paladin again. The physicians and his paladin brothers had healed his external wounds, but he was simply too severely injured at the time; his internal organs and tendons had been ruined by the axe. It was a miracle he had survived, but he also had to face the fact that he was crippled.
Now, all of Stratholme was in chaos, and his paladin brothers were fighting the plague, but he could only lie here waiting to die. This feeling was simply unbearable.
At that moment, a healer entered his room, carrying a bowl of green medicinal liquid. Gavinrad knew it was a potion concocted by the apothecaries to treat his internal injuries.
"Lord Gavinrad," the healer placed the bowl on the bedside table, looking at him with a smile. "My ancestors possessed a special method to treat injuries like yours. It can not only restore your injuries but also make you even stronger, although there will be a slight side effect. I wonder if you would be willing to try it?"
"What did you say?" Gavinrad stared at the healer. "Impossible, even the Holy Light cannot heal such injuries!" He expressed his doubts, yet with a hint of anticipation. "How could you possibly heal it!"
"The Holy Light isn't omnipotent. For example, with the injuries you face now, the Holy Light is powerless. But I can assure you that my method will definitely work. Don't believe me? Don't rush. This bowl of soup can produce some effects; it can let you feel your left arm again. After trying it, you can judge again." The healer pointed to the bowl of medicine on the bedside table.
Gavinrad looked over. The potions usually mixed by the apothecaries weren't this dark green color, but rather a lighter, more vibrant green liquid with hints of leaves. He was very eager to try it, but past experience told him that something seemed wrong. He looked at the healer suspiciously:
"I haven't seen you before. Where's the healer who usually brings me medicine?"
The healer smiled and said, "I was specially invited to treat your injuries. The previous one could only help you relieve pain. If you don't believe me, I'll leave now and let him continue with his treatment plan." He picked up the bowl of medicine, heading out without hesitation. "I wish you a speedy recovery, Lord Gavinrad Doom."
"Wait!"
...
The merchant Gerald Bard had been trapped in Stratholme for three days, living in fear. In these three days, he had watched helplessly as his four old companions, Mike, Truman, Goldman, and the youngest, a sixteen-year-old boy named Jack, all turned into man-eating zombies. After being locked in the quarantine room, he waited in horror for the moment he would turn into a zombie.
He constantly thought of his wife, children, and relatives in Southshore. His eldest son was getting married in half a month, marrying the daughter of a grocery store owner in town, but he was afraid he would never see his family again.
He now regretted coming to Stratholme that day when he bought discounted bread from the bakery owned by Baron Rivendare—that vile cultist. When Lord Dathrohan of the Silver Hand Knights told the citizens two nights ago that the son of a bitch cultist had put a terrible plague in the bread, grain, and water, he knew he would not be spared. Because before that, the tormented Tru had already turned into a man-eating zombie.
Gerald had thought about suicide. Turning into a zombie and then being killed by the paladins, even his corpse would be desecrated. But he couldn't bring himself to do it and could only wait in fear for the final moment to arrive. Anyway, the paladins would definitely not be soft-hearted.
At that time, he would also turn into those zombies in pain: growing sharp fangs, his skin rotting like a candle about to burn out, his eyes glowing red, ugly and bloodthirsty.
His vision was gray, and he waited alone and helplessly for his doomsday.
The door to the room was opened. The sensitive Gerald shrank into the corner in horror. It wasn't time for a meal, so why would the guards come in? Could it be that they were going to kill him ahead of schedule?
"Gerald Bard, come with us for a moment." The leading paladin spoke to him kindly, not at all like he was going to kill him.
Gerald kept backing away in fear, shouting, "No, no, don't kill me, I don't want to die yet...ah... I want to go home, I want to go home..."
"Don't worry, no one will kill you." The paladin assured him gently, "I swear in the name of the Holy Light!"
The paladins led the anxious Gerald to the headquarters of the Silver Hand, the Hall of Justice. A dignified and tall paladin sat at his desk, opening his mouth to confirm: "Are you Mr. Gerald Bard?"
"Yes, I am Gerald, not any Mr., just a merchant, respected paladin!" Gerald was flattered.
"I am Commander Saidan Dathrohan of the Silver Hand Knights, and I have some questions I would like to ask you." Dathrohan pointed to the chair opposite him. "Please sit down, Gerald."
Gerald sat down carefully, thinking that this situation certainly didn't mean they were going to kill him. He relaxed slightly, and then humbly said, "Lord Dathrohan, please ask whatever you want, and I will definitely answer!"
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Gerald," Dathrohan asked the first question. "I saw in the records that you and some of your companions bought bread from the bakery under Rivendare's name and ate it, right?"
"Yes, I watched helplessly as Mike and Truman turned into zombies." Gerald nodded, and tears flowed again as he said sadly, "I will also face that moment, right, Lord Dathrohan? But I'm really afraid to face death. I'm a coward, a fool."
"No, Mr. Gerald, I'm afraid you won't turn into a ghoul." Dathrohan comforted him. "According to our observations, infected people will mutate into zombies within a day. And now it's the third day, and there hasn't been a new mutation among the quarantined people for a day."
Dathrohan paused, looking at Gerald, whose expression was mixed with disbelief and joy, and continued, "The reason I asked you to come here is to confirm how you avoided being infected."
Feeling like he had escaped a catastrophe, Gerald became happy. He had never felt that life was so precious and beautiful, and everything in front of him became vivid: "Is this true? I, I'm so happy!"
Dathrohan interrupted his excitement and said in a deep voice, "Mr. Gerald, now the entire Stratholme, even the entire Alliance, is threatened by this deadly plague. If you can help us find a way to deal with it, then you will become a hero of the Alliance! Now, please try your best to recall, before or after eating the bread with the plague, did you do anything special, or encounter anything unusual?"
Gerald tried hard to recall: "Special things... let me think, my companions and I basically eat and live together, so if there was anything special, they shouldn't have turned into monsters either." He recalled his experience and shook his head in frustration after a while, saying, "I really can't remember anything special, sorry, Lord Dathrohan..."
Dathrohan sighed in disappointment, showing a stiff smile, and extended his hand. "Okay, thank you for your cooperation. For safety reasons, you will still have a period of observation, and you will be able to return to your hometown after we confirm that you are safe and that there is no threat of the plague spreading in Stratholme."
Gerald stood up and shook hands with the paladin cautiously. Dathrohan's hand was large, rough, but very warm, which suddenly reminded him of something:
"Wait... I remembered!" Gerald suddenly shouted, "Before, when we passed through Andorhal, we met an angel. She was blessing people on the street, and I happened to be nearby, so I also knelt on the ground, letting her bless me. And my companions were handling business on another street at the time and didn't receive the blessing. When we rested that night, I even bragged about it to them, making them envious... If there's anything special, it must be this!"