Chapter 741

Chapter 741: Kallez’s Confidence

Completing the contract ceremony consumed substantial magical energy, just like summoning a succubus or other imps.

Given Jesse’s target was a powerful Doomlord, summoning him from the Twisting Nether had required three people channeling the Storm Altar’s power together.

After sealing the contract, Jesse genuinely wished to question Kallez immediately, but arcane exhaustion left him drained.

With no urgent matters at hand, he opted against using Ursula’s Mana Potions and retreated to the orc camp across the altar bridge to rest.

That evening, Luther Pickman and Spackle returned. Spackle’s Mo’arg servant carried a hefty green scorpion.

Larger than any scorpion Jesse had seen with Vereesa in the Burning Steppes, it bore an arrow lodged in its shell cracks. Luther strode ahead, chin raised, clutching his bow as if daring anyone to overlook his prowess.

Despite its fearsome appearance and oozing green demon-blood-like fluid, after Kahlor’s butchering and roasting, it resembled a giant grilled shrimp—visually passable.

When the orc sprinkled spices, Jesse recognized Stormwind’s signature sweet barbecue seasoning, with a hint of heat favored by Elwynn Forest hunters for wolf meat. This orc knew his craft.

Jesse cracked a thick leg’s shell and bit into the white meat. Crab-like in texture, it carried a pungent insect bitterness beneath the charred aroma, falling short of expectations.

Still, in these circumstances, such a meal was a blessing.

Yet as he ate, Jesse sensed unease at this "barbecue gathering."

None thanked the orc cook. Others traded whispers and laughs, but all communication bypassed Kahlor entirely.

Jesse understood their mindset. Though an otherworldly traveler, he’d lived twenty full years in Azeroth—through the Dark Portal’s opening and the orcish invasion…

An orc settling into Azeroth felt like a harbinger: orcs were here to stay. This burly figure expertly handling food, indistinguishable from any traveler, unsettled more than his battlefield ferocity.

Still, Jesse had noted Kahlor’s uniqueness in prior skirmishes. As part of their makeshift warlock circle, surface civility held. But erasing war’s scars remained arduous.

That night, Jesse sat sketching tomorrow’s questions for Kallez by Molofeel’s ever-glowing magic eye.

He craved the Cripple spell—that ability to slow enemy actions, hindering spells, attacks, and movement alike.

Jesse even sensed it muddled thoughts, delaying mental reflexes. A potent control magic, truly.

Mastering Cripple alongside Curse of Weakness would devastate Fear-immune foes: frenzied orc warriors or undead.

Against distant spellcasters pelting them with spells—untouchable by Fear or Choking Spells, with Felhounds too slow to intercept—Cripple offered temporary relief.

He wondered if this Doomlord knew other incantations.

Kallez’s true strength eluded Jesse. Without levels or health bars for reference, gauging power was guesswork—especially after hearing Kallez’s ambition to challenge Kazzak for "King of Ered’ruin."

A fully summoned Doomlord on Azeroth was terrifying. Kazzak himself, who followed Archimonde, and Archimonde’s lieutenant Kazrogal could each single-handedly stall Alliance and Horde armies.

"Ever heard of this demon Kallez?" Jesse asked Molofeel.

"No," Molofeel replied. "But his name declares his station. Ered’ruin reserves ‘Kar’ or ‘Kaz’ for rulers."

"How does he stack against Kazzak?"

"Kazzak’s renown echoes across the Twisting Nether. Even the arrogant Brutallus respects his might. Kallez? Though nearly slain by the collapsing portal—proof his body and soul are ravaged—I’d wager he’d fall short of Kazzak even at full strength."

"Then why challenge Kazzak for Ered’ruin’s throne?"

"Fools forever strive to prove they’re clever," Molofeel leaned in. "Think, master. Had he not bragged about seeing through your ruse, would he have bound himself so easily?"

"Master Jesse Seso, I need a private word."

Molofeel’s voice still hung in the air when a call came from outside—Demisette Cloyce, the warlock from the altar that day.

Jesse recalled Mor’zul mentioning she hailed from Lakeshire.

"Enter," he said, tucking away his notes. Molofeel shot him a wary glance.

The female warlock ducked inside. Thankfully, Mor’zul had provided a spacious orc tent; Luther’s cramped quarters would’ve suffocated three.

Demisette Cloyce wore a brown linen robe, collar loosely open.

Her straight black hair recalled Jalane Ayrole, but her beauty eclipsed Jalane’s, devoid of that perpetual sneer. An almost Eastern elegance graced her features.

Seeing her beside Kallez earlier had tickled Jesse’s memory.

In the game, she belonged to The Slaughtered Lamb basement—yet she’d never crossed paths with Zardeth or its denizens here.

Had Gakin drawn her there originally?

With Gakin dead early, had she missed that fateful connection?

Jesse dismissed the thought. His presence had already rewritten much. She glanced at a stone slab beside her. Jesse nodded, gesturing for her to sit.

"I know a veteran of the Nethergarde battles, Master Seso," Demisette began as she settled.

Jesse frowned. "Call me Jesse. Or Seso. Even my full name. Spare me ‘master,’ Ms. Cloyce."