"CLOSE THE NET!"
Those two words, bellowed across the Golden Plains, weren't just a command; they were the glorious, cataclysmic signal for a full-throttle counterattack against the Burning Legion's vanguard fleet. And what a symphony of righteous fury it was!
In truth, the moment Galen gave the order to "close the net," nearly identical commands, vibrating with grim determination, were issued simultaneously across Azeroth—by King Varian in the Westfall, Muradin Bronzebeard in Dun Morogh, Turalyon in the Hillsbrad Foothills, and Maraad in Azshara. However, while the battles in the Golden Plains, Azshara, and Hillsbrad ended in the total, utterly spectacular annihilation of the demonic vanguard, Stormwind and Ironforge faced far fiercer, and frankly, more annoying, resistance.
Ironforge, having begrudgingly accepted Galen's pre-battle "assistance" (which mostly involved him installing bigger, louder cannons), stood firm. Its upgraded anti-air cannons shrieked like banshees, and its gleaming mechanized suits stomped through demon hordes, managing to pulp most of the invaders—including one particularly unlucky Fel Lord—before the remaining starship, thoroughly traumatized, fled in a panicked, smoky retreat.
Stormwind, however, was a different, far more embarrassing story.
After over a decade of glorious recovery, the kingdom's strength had, by all accounts, supposedly surpassed even its pre-Scourge glory. Following the chilling Northrend campaign, Varian, in a moment of questionable genius, had boldly auctioned off two fully restored Scourge necropolises—Naxxramas and Tal'ramas. He then proceeded to outfit these floating fortresses with enough arcane cannons and artillery to make a Lich King blush, rendering them deadlier than they'd ever been under Arthas's bony thumb. With these grim, repurposed citadels hovering ominously above, and Sentinel Hill's ground defenses humming with power, Varian had been positively brimming with confidence. He'd even dismissed Galen's repeated offers of aid, eager to prove Stormwind's resurgence and, more importantly, its ability to handle its own celestial intruders.
But pride, as it often does, came before a very loud, very fiery fall.
While the necropolises were undeniably formidable, the Burning Legion's technology was a devastating mismatch, like trying to fight a dragon with a butter knife. When Sentinel Hill's cannons downed one demonic starship, the enraged Legion commander, clearly having a very bad day, ordered a full, utterly disproportionate assault. Their flagship charged a catastrophic blast that didn't just hit the fortress; it obliterated half of it in a single, earth-shaking strike.
Forced into action, Varian deployed Naxxramas and Tal'ramas prematurely, sending them into the fray like very expensive, very angry, floating death traps. The two Shadowlands-inspired war citadels fought valiantly, each managing to destroy two demonic ships before the sheer, overwhelming power of the Legion's assault proved too much. One disintegrated mid-air in a shower of screaming ghosts and arcane sparks, and the other crashed into the Gold Coast with a monumental splash, narrowly missing a very confused murloc village.
"Damn it! This invasion is unlike anything we've faced!" Varian roared, wincing as burning debris rained from the sky, narrowly missing his freshly coiffed hair. "That was half the kingdom's treasury right there! Do you know how much that cost?!"
Beside him stood a battle-worn man with a grizzled beard and thinning hair—Callan Lothar, descendant of the legendary Arathi bloodline, son of the former Alliance High Commander, and Varian's own exasperated cousin.
"You overplayed your hand, Varian," Callan growled, his voice a low, warning rumble. "You always do. Call for Alliance reinforcements, now! Before we're all reduced to crispy, royal ash!"
Nodding grimly, Varian barked orders, his voice raw. "Callan, you take what's left of the guards, regroup with Bolvar, and fall back to Westbrook Garrison! Buy us time!"
As the distress signal flashed through the mages' hastily opened portals, a truly ominous thunderhead gathered in the northern sky, crackling with a furious, righteous blue lightning.
BOOM!
From the heart of the storm streaked a hail of cobalt-black projectiles—not mere rocks, but meteoric figures hurtling toward Westfall like angry, divine cannonballs.
Varian squinted through the smoke and ash, trying to make sense of the incoming spectacle. Then his breath caught in his throat.
"Father…?"
"Lothar…?"
The meteors' cores resolved into towering, armored figures—larger than any mortal, clad in gleaming gold-and-silver plate, wielding impossibly massive greatswords and warhammers that hummed with power, their crimson capes whipping behind them like banners of vengeance.
The Throne of Heroes spirits had arrived. And they looked pissed off.
Varian's blood burned, a primal fire igniting in his veins. Long ago, he'd asked Galen, with a hint of suspicion, what the Hall truly was. The answer had stirred his very soul, sending shivers down his spine:
"Among our Vrykul ancestors, there was a rite of ascension—the highest honor, reserved only for the mightiest warriors. Now, as heirs to humanity, we revive this tradition, forging an elite force for Azeroth. They're basically unstoppable."
Galen hadn't lied. The Throne of Heroes was his ridiculously overpowered replica of Odyn's Valarjar, only now bolstered by years of Galen patiently recruiting literally hundreds of legendary spirits. Using cosmic energies siphoned from Ulduar's Forge of Wills and Uldum's Forge of Origination (because why use one forge when you can use two?), these heroic souls were reforged in bodies of thunderforged steel—a privilege only the strongest, most unyielding wills could possibly endure without exploding.
WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
The meteors struck, one after another, slamming into the ground with the force of small earthquakes. The first to land was King Llane Wrynn himself, Varian's own father, his lion-crested greatsword a blur of steel as it cleaved through two hulking Annihilators that had been happily slaughtering scores of defenders. More Champions followed, lightning crackling around their massive forms as they carved through demonic ranks, piling corpses like cordwood, turning the battlefield into a grisly, magnificent work of art.
Seizing the precious respite, Varian, now feeling a surge of renewed hope (and a tiny bit of embarrassment for his earlier arrogance), led his guards and priests to stabilize the crumbling lines. The tide was turning, and it was glorious.
Yet far away, on the Broken Isles, a certain one-eyed, very old god took notice.
The Hall of Champions' arrival, their sheer, undeniable power, had finally drawn Odyn's ancient, thunderous gaze. And he looked... impressed. And maybe a little envious.