Chapter 712

Chapter 712: Shapeshifting Demon

As Jesse squeezed through the crowd, he carefully tucked his sword under his cloak.

He recalled being in Quel’Thalas that morning, bathing in the Sunwell’s light, walking neat stone paths through pale woods with arcane lamps glowing beside him. Now, he stood in this dark, damp cellar-like place where even candle and brazier light struggled to pierce the gloom—like stepping from one dream into another.

Finally reaching the counter, he considered asking about the Dark Iron Dwarf.

But seeing the busy helpers behind it and the scruffy-bearded patrons with hair wilder than his own, he dropped the idea.

“Need something, lad? Food, drink, or something else?” a young female sommelier asked.

“Just food. Anything. Beans—boiled beans,” Jesse said.

“From Stormwind, young sir?” she asked.

“How’d you know?” he replied.

“Stormwind folk always think their Common sounds proper,” she smiled.

“Doesn’t it?” Jesse retorted, secretly pleased. He’d never expected to hide his Brill accent from a Lordaeron local.

“Actually, not Stormwind. I’m from Goldshire,” he added.

“Goldshire,” she mused. “Name alone sounds like it breeds rich folk, sir.”

As she left for the kitchen, Jesse scanned the tavern with Detect Demon. A shadow flickered in the far corner—a demon?

Its aura was faint but unmistakably not an imp. Imps hid deeper in shadows when phase-shifting. This had to be a concealed succubus.

He dropped the spell and looked again… The shadow was a human girl. Raven-haired and striking, she moved with an elven grace.

She smiled at a nearby dwarf, feeding him nuts from her plate while he chatted with tall companions, happily accepting her offerings.

Jesse studied the dwarf. Was this his target—a Dark Iron warlock?

Truthfully, he didn’t resemble a typical Dark Iron Tribesman. His skin was dark, but eyes lacked their fiery red, and his hair was russet-brown.

In Uldaman, Jesse had seen Dark Irons who looked like Bronzebeards or Wildhammers—much like this one. Maybe his subtle features let him blend into the Kingdom of Lordaeron.

Just then, the sommelier brought boiled bean soup. Jesse took it, noted the dwarf’s position, and crouched by the deserted stairs.

Certain no one watched, he slipped a bean into his bag. Saenor’s unsettling demon-skin brushed his finger, snatching the bean inside.

“I want a Soul Shard, master! Why a bean?” the imp hissed.

“Can Sayaad shapeshift?” Jesse asked in Demonic.

“Should can,” the imp mumbled through bean bits.

“Why didn’t Molofeel say so?”

“That fool *can’t*,” the imp whispered. “Special Sayaad—means special stupid. Only hunts demons and scrambles minds. Were she a shifter, you wouldn’t pine day and night for Mrs. Vereesa Windrunner—”

“Enough,” Jesse muttered, eyes locked on the pair. “I think a shapeshifting demon’s disguised as human here. How prove it’s not real?”

“Master doubts his own Detect Demon?”

Jesse watched the girl. If a demon, the mimicry was flawless.

Yet Ursula’s Satyr had posed as a half-elf undetected. But a Sayaad had traits a Satyr lacked.

Jesse gulped the bean soup, slammed the empty bowl on the counter—then choked as the dense beans clogged his throat.

After forcing them down, he pushed toward the dwarf and girl. Nearing their table, he caught a scent beneath the ale and rot: a Sayaad’s “fragrance.”

Now he knew.

Why not just kill the demon right here?

In a public tavern like this, neither the demon nor the warlock would dare retaliate with obvious dark magic.

If this demon escaped into Andorhal’s shadows, Jesse would be at a greater disadvantage facing it alone.

Killing it here meant he could openly justify using black magic to slay a demon. He was Jesse Seso, bearer of the Knights of Lordaeron’s ring—a dark mage even the Kirin Tor acknowledged. Nothing to fear.

The "girl" seated nearby seemed to sense Jesse’s approach. She whispered to the dwarf beside her, who glanced over while reaching into his coat.

The girl smiled at Jesse. He returned the smile, then her expression froze.

Jesse knew that feeling—hurling magic against an immovable target was like punching stone with a limp fist. The succubus must’ve felt like he did when countering Archmage Malin’s spells. No wonder she looked terrified.

Still, Jesse grudgingly admired her boldness, using demonic power so openly. Yet her magic paled next to Molofeel’s.

*Know who you’re facing, demon?*

He rolled up his sleeves, pointed at the dwarf, and silently cast Fear. The dwarf—who’d just drawn a dagger—gasped and bellowed, shoving his chair back as he collapsed to the floor.

The girl sprang up, grabbing for a table knife, but Jesse snatched it first. Two patrons lunged at him, grappling for the blade. Jesse wrenched free and shoved them aside.

He flipped the table toward them. Chaos erupted, drawing the whole tavern’s attention.

After battling orcs, dragon whelps, and demons, handling these ordinary folk felt unfair.

They looked younger yet weaker—no match for his years brawling in Stormwind’s alleys. Let alone… the dragon blood.

But they weren’t his target. *She* was.

As the girl tried slipping away, Jesse seized her collar.

"Why kill me…?" she sobbed, shadows still lacing her voice—still attempting Charm.

Jesse twisted her arm, raising the knife. "You won’t die. Just back to the Twisting Nether. Quit the act."

Her tear-streaked face stiffened. One hand shot toward Jesse’s eyes at inhuman speed.

He jerked backward, dodging the swipe. She exploited his shift to break free, but he caught her ankle and yanked violently. She slammed onto the floor.

Now enraged, she shrieked and clawed at his eyes, her features distorting toward true form. They grappled until she locked onto his arm, clinging to his shoulder while screaming for aid.

Jesse ignored her Charm, but others couldn’t resist. Patrons advanced—one hefting a chair, another drawing a sword.

He kicked the chair-wielder aside, tore his knife-arm free, and stabbed toward her heart—only for her to catch his wrist again!

Her strength surpassed most men’s, but couldn’t halt the blade. It plunged deep into her demon heart.

She crumpled with a piercing shriek, dark mist coiling around her.

A patron who’d shoved a table aside charged Jesse but took an elbow to the face, sprawling beside the mist. Clutching his bloody nose, he gaped at the shadows.

"Demon! Demon!"

He scrambled backward as the mist thinned, revealing her true form: corded muscle, a face now handsome and agonized, and between the legs—

*This damn thing was actually a male succubus!*

The demon’s death shattered all Charm. The tavern exploded into panic—shouts of "Demon!" and "Run!" echoing as patrons stampeded upstairs or jammed the exits.

Jesse snagged the fleeing dwarf. "Don’t kill me, Paladin!" the dwarf begged in broken Common. "I didn’t know it was a monster! Just wanted a drink!"

He seemed truthful, freshly freed from Charm. Jesse released him, and the dwarf bolted through the door.

Jesse poured Ursula’s purification potion over the corpse, tossed the vial, and left.

Outside, he puzzled over the dwarf calling him "Paladin." He bore no weapon—Azuresong Mageblade stayed hidden—and wore no Silver Hand or church garb. Summoning Holy Light would’ve vaporized a shadow creature like him.

Then he saw his reflection in a rain puddle.

Fire flickered in his eyes—likely what the dwarf mistook for Holy Light.

Jesse took a steadying breath, cooling his battle-lust until the embers faded.

Now in the icy rain, steam rose from his bare arms.

His blood roared—not just from fire elemental affinity. His strength dwarfed what he’d had with only black dragon blood.

Boots splashed through mud in the distance—soldiers summoned by fleeing patrons. Time to go.

Back in eastern Andorhal, the western demon incident seemed contained.

He retrieved his belongings from the inn and crossed the bridge. Few walked the midnight streets until a patroller galloped past, shattering the quiet.

Deep in the pines beyond, Jesse heard Andorhal’s alarm bells piercing the night. He was already far.

He’d meant to leave Lordaeron discreetly, not stir trouble.

But this worked: The Kirin Tor would find the corpse. Eastweald’s watch on warlocks and demon summoning would tighten, disrupting Dar’Khan’s Doomguard ritual.

Ursula’s task was done too. When the Dark Iron warlock sensed his demon’s death and found purification potion on the body, he’d understand.

If he asked the tavern owner or sommelier, they’d name the killer: a man from the Kingdom of Stormwind.

Dawn revealed a vast lake after the forest trek.

A great island rose ahead, its gray walls and fortress recalling Fenris Keep on Lordamere Lake.

Caer Darrow—one day infamous as the Scourge’s Scholomance to Lordaeron’s survivors, and folk of Khaz Modan and Stormwind.

Now it was just an old castle ringed by pines, Lordaeron’s white banner flying too distant to discern.

Further south, red flags jutted from the pines—Stromgarde’s colors. The military camp was close.