Chapter 637

Chapter 637: The Crux

Jesse recalled arriving at Malin’s study to find his teacher had gone for lunch, so he waited there. Exhausted from sleepless nights, he dozed off against the wall. In that brief moment, Deathwing seized the opportunity to invade his mind.

Now it seemed pointless to question Malin about the Demon Soul and Grim Batol. He’d only come to gauge the Wizard’s Sanctum’s knowledge, since wielding magical items here wasn’t as simple as clicking a mouse. Deathwing had already answered in his teacher’s stead. Still, he ought to bid Malin farewell.

He knocked—no response. "Mr. Seso?"

Turning, Jesse saw Malin watching him, an old book in hand. "Ah, Master."

"How long have you waited?"

"Not long."

Malin nodded, unlocking the door. "Trouble sleeping? I’ll give you Goldthorn tea—restores vitality better than Mana Potions. Free of charge."

The old mage entered. Jesse hesitated at the dim room, inhaled deeply, and followed. He’d meant to refuse but now wanted some.

"If it truly helps…" He met his teacher’s eyes. "I’ll try it, Master."

"It does." Malin produced a twine-bound packet. "Someone mentioned you’ve mastered Water Creation. Iced tea’s refreshing—takes longer but needs no fire. With your volatile flames, best avoid lighting any."

Jesse smiled awkwardly.

Malin asked, "Finally time to discuss Kalimdor?"

"Yes."

"Wait here." Malin set down a half-eaten biscuit and hurried out, leaving Jesse alone. He hadn’t planned this talk yet inexplicably agreed.

Did he have afternoon plans?

Nothing urgent. His ship sailed in two days; Ursula would fetch medicine tomorrow. Soon Malin returned with a teapot.

"Start from Steamwheedle Port—that goblin-run hub, correct?"

So Jesse recounted Kalimdor: Centaur clashes, Tauren tribes, Satyrs in Maraudon, Highborne ruins in Eldre’Thalas, nomadic Orcs, forest-dwelling Gnolls, Silithid swarms spilling from deserts, reclusive Night Elves on islands.

Until parting with Mosa Woodmane on the coast.

Remembering the lone Tauren onshore, Jesse felt lighter. His struggles paled against Mosa’s—years evading enemies, guarding his clan’s survival, bearing the last embers of their Natural Magic.

His own task? Merely reenacting a known tale in Grim Batol. Success might crown him a hero; failure, a martyr. Yet to him, it was just retreading another’s path.

At dusk, Jesse ate sparingly and returned home. Lying abed, he pondered the Demon Soul.

It enslaved the Red Dragon Queen. Free her by controlling it, and Grim Batol’s forces would crumble.

Deathwing knew this too—he’d never teach Jesse to wield it. Killing Dragonmaw leader Nekros and seizing the artifact could crush the clan without mastering its use.

Orcs weren’t fools. If the Red Dragon Queen’s shackle changed hands, resisting meant suicide.

Thus Jesse knew Deathwing would invent excuses to withhold the Demon Soul’s secrets. The dragon claimed indifference to the Red Dragon Queen’s fate… but his true motives? Unfathomable.

Other Dragon Aspects had cursed the Demon Soul, barring Deathwing from touching his creation. Otherwise, he’d have wielded it himself against rival dragons, not manipulated mortals like Nekros or Jesse.

He craved to purge all rival Aspects, letting black dragons reign. No matter—Jesse had countermeasures.

He glanced at Molofeel. If Deathwing stayed silent, he’d extract answers from Nekros himself. Suppressing his satisfaction, he masked emotional shifts—Deathwing, like Molofeel or himself, could infer thoughts from feelings. Not true mind-reading, but perilous enough.

And Deathwing’s shadow mastery dwarfed his and the succubus’s. How much could he deduce?

Caution was paramount.

Calmer now, the true challenge emerged: shattering the Demon Soul to return the stolen Aspect powers, amassing strength to defeat Deathwing.

Without their full might, the other Aspects couldn’t best him—even wounded in Draenor, he outmatched their weakened states.

Rhonin had cleaved the Demon Soul using a scale Deathwing gave him to ensure control.

Deathwing had forged the artifact with four Aspects’ powers, rendering it inviolable to them—while his own untouched power made his body its sole vulnerability…

Jesse lacked a scale. Tracing the black runes on his arm, he wondered: Could these suffice? Everything diverged now.

Blindly following the original path risked colossal errors—or hurtling toward utter ruin.

He’d advance step by step. Retreat was impossible.

He hadn’t reached Grim Batol; Rhonin only gained the scale mid-quest.

Even Krasus likely knew less about the Demon Soul than he did. This was his advantage—he couldn’t waste it.

"Hypnotize me, Molofeel."