Read upto 10 extra chapters worth of extra content; Simply go to my Patreon and become a Patron.
Patreon Challenge: If I get 100 Paid Patrons then I will officially make writing a job of mine.
Allowing for more consistent updates as well as more Content availability on my Patreon.
Current number: 49/100
Patreon: Patreon.com/ArkNova
Hayden Williams and Deadpool2695. Thanks a lot for joining as fellow Patrons, it not only means a lot, but it also really helps out the story.
As for other, You too can support the story and get multiple extra chapters simply by going to my Patreon and becoming a Paid Patron member not to mention you can also contribute to the Patreon Challenge.
---------------------------------------------------
(A/N: Time for Alastor to show why an angry Primarch is scary ESPECIALLY when it's one of the Kind ones.)
Alastor caught the sharp edge of a Herald of Khorne's Hellblade and with a contemptuous sneer, shattered the normally lethal weapon forged from pure hatred — a blade whose wounds could fell even the most veteran of warriors.
With one hand, he swung his massive warhammer downward at an attacking Fiend of Slaanesh, reducing it to a heap of gore. With the other, he seized the same Herald by the face and crushed its skull like a grape.
His once-pristine knightly armor was now drenched in daemonic ichor and mutant blood. The crimson-soaked figure standing amidst the carnage looked less like a defender of humanity and more like the true demon on the battlefield.
Five minutes — perhaps less — had passed since the battle began.
Or to be more precise, since the massacre began.
In this short span of time, Tens of thousands had already fallen.
The daemons dissipated upon the destruction of their physical forms, but the Beastkin remained — their bodies littering the battlefield in grotesque abundance: torn apart, burned, impaled, shattered.
For hundreds of meters in every direction, the ground was carpeted with corpses. The fields outside the city had become rivers of blood, irrigated by slaughter.
Thousands had fallen directly to Alastor's hands alone as he moved through enemy ranks like a crimson-clad reaper — barely seen, yet leaving only death in his wake.
The rest perished when he unleashed his power as an Archmage.
Years of relentless experimentation and practice had allowed him to purify vast amounts of Warp energy the moment it entered his body through his soul.
As a Warp-sensitive Primarch, his natural capacity was immense. He could draw in staggering amounts of raw Warp energy, while simultaneously purifying it, before channelling it into his spells — provided he did not exceed the threshold his soul and body could tolerate and cleanse.
The daemons began to hesitate.
As entities of the Warp, they were accustomed to dominating battlefields and entire worlds.
So long as they maintained a steady flow of Warp energy, they could rampage freely unless confronted by drastic countermeasures or an exceptionally powerful foe capable of banishing them.
Each of them bore blessings from their patron god — unnatural strength, sorcerous abilities, and incorporeal resilience. Their mere presence corrupted the environment and eroded mortal sanity.
They had been surprised when they first manifested upon Azeroth.
Not only were its defenders resolute warriors, but they possessed Psykers — mages — who were unusually powerful and, more disturbingly, highly disciplined without succumbing to corruption.
And that did not even account for the other anomalies on this strange but vibrant world especially the followers of the Light.
Mortals who called themselves priests and the paladins.
The daemons quickly learned that this "Holy Light" was dangerous for them.
Very dangerous.
It burned them in ways mundane weaponry never could — an antithetical force to their chaotic essence, capable of inflicting something far worse than banishment.
True death.
Many daemons at the start of the war had been annihilated by paladins or soldiers wielding blessed weaponry. Only the swiftest managed to destroy their own manifested forms in time to retreat back into the Warp.
Thus, at best, Azeroth's mortals proved worthy foes — a delight to Khorne's servants. At worst, they were frustratingly resistant and dangerously equipped to counter Chaos.
But this demigod—
No.
This monster—
Was something else entirely.
He fought with a rage that would make Khorne roar in approval.
He wielded sorcery of such potency and Knowledge it would intrigue Tzeentch.
He displayed resilience that would make Grandfather Nurgle smile.
And even in his fury, his precision and skill bore a perfection that would cause even Slaanesh to swoon.
They understood why their masters were obsessed/interested by the Anathema's second "son."
There was only one problem.
That same being was currently slaughtering them without restraint.
In five minutes, tens of thousands were already dead — and Alastor showed no sign of slowing.
But that was not the most terrifying part.
Every daemon present was directing the full weight of its corruptive influence upon him.
And nothing happened.
Rage and bloodlust failed to sway him.
Plagues and contagions withered as soon as they touched him.
Promises of forbidden knowledge found no purchase.
Whispers of ecstasy and transcendent mastery may as well have been spoken by the mute.
It was as though their power simply vanished upon reaching him — swallowed whole as if he was a black hole.
But not in the way a Blank nullified the Warp.
No.
It was as though the moment their essence touched him, it was obliterated — erased at the most fundamental level of existence.
The Beastkin, meanwhile, felt something far more primal.
Fear.
Not confusion.
Not madness.
Fear.
Their strongest champions were being torn apart with brutal ease. The ancient instinct buried beneath mutation and corruption — the survival reflex that triggered when confronted by a superior predator — began to surface.
That instinct was overpowering the warped bloodlust that had once driven them.
It did not help when Alastor shattered their Beastlord's weapon with his hammer — then broke the creature's arm.
He seized the massive mutant by the leg and swung him like a flail, smashing his own bodyguards to death with him.
Then, with savage brutality, Alastor tore the Beastlord's spine out — killing him instantly — and drove it through the last of the Bestigor elites.
Combined with his blood-drenched form — clad in the remains of their greatest warriors — it was enough.
The Beastkin broke.
Their formation collapsed as they turned and fled into Elwynn Forest as fast as their twisted bodies could carry them.
-----------------------------------------------
At first, the soldiers of Stormwind lining the outer walls were filled with dread as they watched their beloved prince charge alone into the enemy host.
That dread turned to shock.
Shock turned into something far fiercer.
Reverence.
They watched Alastor tear through mutants and daemons alike like a crimson-clad reaper. They saw him unleash devastation worthy of an Archmage while moving across the battlefield in a blur, leaving only death and destruction in his wake.
"HAHAHA! BURN, YOU BASTARDS, BURN!"
"NO MERCY, MY LORD!"
"HAIL THE SAINT! BEHOLD HIS JUDGMENT!"
It was not only the soldiers, knights, and mages shouting.
The priests and followers of the Church had fallen to their knees in prayer, voices trembling with fervor.
Many were even more convinced that their Prince — the legendary Saint of the Light — was truly more than mortal.
He was most likely a Divine being associated with the Light, who had descended upon the mortal world as an incarnation.
With a Holy mission to punish the wicked, to scour the fel and the profane, and to shield the innocent from encroaching darkness with his Divine light!.
(AN: Oh boy…)
Varian, Bolvar, Gavinrad, and Mathias — who had joined them not long ago — stood in stunned silence.
"…There are no words for how grateful I am that he's on our side." Mathias muttered at last.
"I knew he was destined for greatness when he destroyed that Warherd years ago," Bolvar said quietly, shaking his head. "But this… to think I still underestimated him."
Gavinrad's gauntleted hand tightened around his sword's pommel. Relief and pride swelled within him.
King Llane — and all the fallen — were already receiving justice.
Varian said nothing.
But something hardened in his gaze.
A decision was made.
Between Varian and Tyrande, Alleria watched Alastor in the distance and allowed herself a small, sad smile.
Let it all out. Your grief. Your rage.
And when it's done… come back to me.
Tyrande, meanwhile, stared with open wonder.
Unlike the others, she and her Sentinels were witnessing the full extent of Alastor's martial might for the first time.
"By the moonlight… is he truly mortal?" the Sentinel nearest her whispered.
"I told you, Delaryn," Tyrande replied softly. "He is a demigod. And from what I am sensing… even Cenarius would struggle against him — perhaps even fall."
The Sentinels stared at her in disbelief.
To compare a human — even a human demigod — to their own revered Demigod, Cenarius bordered on heresy.
But this was Tyrande Whisperwind speaking.
So they said nothing.
They simply looked back to the battlefield — their expressions far more complicated than before.
---------------------------------------------------
Gul'dan watched the unfolding disaster with mounting disbelief.
The man they had come to kill had turned the battlefield into an execution ground.
His original plan had been simple: overwhelm Alastor with sheer numbers, divide his focus, then send Grimgor in to deliver the killing blow. If necessary, Gul'dan himself would intervene as well to quickly kill him.
That plan was now in shambles.
Alastor was not being overwhelmed.
He was annihilating them.
Gul'dan seriously considered retreat. Facing a demigod in a controlled duel was one thing.
Facing one consumed by wrath was another entirely.
Unfortunately, the choice was ripped from him.
With a thunderous roar, Grimgor leapt from the hilltop and charged down toward Alastor. Moments later, the rest of Da Immortulz followed.
Gul'dan cursed the battle hungry fools of his kind under his breath.
Still, he followed at a distance. If there was ever a moment to kill Alastor, this had to be it, especially since it was paramount that he dies here.
Alastor heard the roar.
He stopped.
Slowly, he turned — baleful violet eyes locking onto the charging Black Ork.
He did not question how Grimgor was here.
He did not care.
To him, the Ork was simply another enemy amongst the many that needed to die for all that had happened recently.
To his world, his kingdom, his people and his family.
"Oi, humie!" Grimgor bellowed. "Let'z see dat WAAAGH! outta ya! Show us yer inner GITZ!"
He swung Gitsnik — his massive black axe — in a brutal arc.
Normally, Alastor would have dodged or parried as he had done at Fort Clover.
Not today.
Today there was only rage.
Alastor drew back his warhammer and met the strike head-on.
Then something shocking happened.
Mid-swing, the head of the thunder hammer erupted into brilliant orange flames — highlighted by yellow and crimson, unlike any fire seen on Azeroth.
Or even the Warp in that case.
Hammer met axe.
The air detonated.
A violent shockwave rippled outward, flattening nearby corpses and knocking lesser creatures off their feet as the ground cratered beneath them and spider web cracks streaked outward.
And then—
CRRAAAAAACK!
Gitsnik shattered.
The legendary black axe exploded into fragments as if struck by divine judgment.
The flaming hammer did not slow as It smashed into Grimgor's chest.
Sounds of flesh tearing and bones cracking was heard.
The monstrous Black Orc staggered back, blood spraying from his mouth.
For the first time in centuries—
Grimgor Ironhide was seriously injured.
But Alastor did not relent.
He vanished and reappeared directly before him.
And the flaming hammer fell again.
Once.
Twice.
Many more times as it became nothing but a blur.
Each blow landed with the sound of tearing flesh and breaking bone.
Flames spread across Grimgor's armor, devouring metal and skin alike.
With a final, earth-shattering roar, Alastor delivered one last strike.
The hammer connected.
Grimgor's upper body exploded apart in a storm of fire, flesh and shattered bone. What remained of him — charred, broken, unrecognizable — collapsed onto the blood-soaked earth.
Silence hung over the battlefield for half a heartbeat.
Then—
The walls of Stormwind erupted.
Cheers thundered across the battlements.
Grimgor Ironhide — the ancient nightmare of an Ork who had plagued Azeroth for centuries, who had murdered countless heroes — was finally dead.
After everything they had witnessed and endured, the sight was a balm to the people.
-----------------------------------------------------
The Beastkin had already fled into the surrounding forest.
The daemons, however, lingered only for a moment longer.
When they saw the strange flames Alastor had conjured — flames unlike any Warp-fire they had ever encountered — they felt something they rarely if ever felt.
Dread.
True soul stirring dread.
In an act that was not merely rare (In the case of Khornate daemons, thought impossible) — they willingly destroyed their Physical forms and retreated back into the Warp.
They fled.
Alastor slowly raised his head.
His gaze locked onto Gul'dan, standing behind the remaining Black Orks.
Gul'dan had already been deeply shocked by Grimgor's death.
But when their eyes met, realization struck him like a cold blade.
He was next.
Borgut and the remaining Immortulz, roaring in grief and fury at their warboss's death, charged Alastor without hesitation.
They never reached him.
Krasus descended from the sky in his dragon form, crimson scales gleaming. Dragonfire swept across the Black Orcs, followed by crushing claws and precise bursts of arcane magic. The Immortulz were being killed by the ancient dragon.
Gul'dan did not spare them a glance.
He was already running.
Fel chants spilled from his lips as he began the incantation to teleport far from this place.
Then he froze.
A surge of immense arcane energy locked onto him.
He turned just in time to see a massive arcane blast racing toward him.
Gul'dan reacted instantly, drawing upon fel power and unleashing a torrent of green lightning.
The two spells collided.
To his surprise, they neutralized each other in a violent detonation. His fel magic was infamous for weakening and siphoning other energies — yet this arcane force had resisted him.
Before he could process it, another spell followed after the dissipation of the first one, This time, it was a purple lightning spell that quickly streaked towards him .
Gul'dan threw up a magical shield.
It shattered.
The purple lightning tore straight through his defenses and struck him full in the chest.
He screamed as the blast hurled him backward, his torso blackened and smoking.
Coughing and grimacing in pain, Gul'dan forced himself upright—
And finally saw his attacker clearly.
A white-haired woman stood calmly at a distance, deep green eyes fixed upon him. She wore traditional mage robes and carried a staff. Though youthful in appearance, her gaze held the weight of ancient knowledge.
"H-How?!" Gul'dan rasped. "You're supposed to be dead!"
"My death was greatly exaggerated," she replied coolly.
She did not launch another attack.
Gul'dan quickly understood why.
A shadow fell over him.
Before he could react, a blood-covered hand seized him by the throat and lifted him effortlessly off the ground.
Alastor.
Gul'dan clawed weakly at the iron grip around his neck, choking as he struggled to speak.
"W-Wait—! I can be useful!" he wheezed desperately. "I know who killed your father—Malak! His name is Malak! He's likely in the north now! I can offer my abilities, I can—Gah—!"
His words cut off as Alastor tightened his hold.
Those violet eyes were utterly devoid of mercy.
"Burn."
Above Alastor's head, the same brilliant orange flames ignited once more — streaked with yellow and crimson. They spiraled upward before twisting downward into a blazing vortex, forming a descending spear of fire.
For the first time in his life, Gul'dan felt true panic.
Those flames were not fel.
Not arcane.
Not Warp.
They were something else.
With a single thought, Alastor released them.
The inferno engulfed both of them in a spiraling column of incandescent fire.
Every defense Gul'dan summoned — fel wards, demonic pacts, desperate invocations — was burned away instantly.
The flames "burned" through them all.
Skin, muscle, bone.
Magic.
Essence.
Soul.
Gul'dan screamed as he felt himself unravel — incinerated not only in body but erased at the most fundamental level from existence itself as even his very soul was burned away.
When the flames finally dissipated, Alastor stood alone.
Unharmed.
The blood that had coated his armor was gone, burned away by the conflagration.
Only ash remained in his grasp.
He released it.
The wind carried Gul'dan's remains across the ruined battlefield.
Alastor turned toward the white-haired woman.
For a long moment, they simply regarded one another.
Then they exchanged a silent nod.
For now, he understood.
She was an ally.
----------------------------------------------------
After the two of them came back to Stormwind city's gates, Alastor was met with fervent cheers.
Alastor's rage had cooled but the core of his rage still burned deep within him like a cold flame, he saw the cheers and happiness knowing what happened today would have his name etched in history.
But it wasn't enough not for him, his family nor his people and he came to a decision as he made his way up the walls with the white haired woman behind him.
Bolvar, Gavinrad and Mathias gave Alastor nods of respect their eyes filled with admiration for the feat they witnessed.
Alleria stepped to his side without a word and took his hand. He squeezed back, grounding himself.
Varian approached last.
Still towering in his Primarch form, Alastor met his brother's eyes. Varian clasped his forearm firmly and gave him a firm nod which Alastor returned.
Words not being necessary for the two brothers.
But when everyone saw the woman behind Alastor their expressions were varied.
Varian frowned. Bolvar narrowed his gaze. Gavinrad and Mathias exchanged looks — none recognized her.
Anduin looked at her confused getting the feeling that he had seen her somewhere before—Many years ago.
Alleria on the other hand was surprised not expecting to see another legendary female figure so soon after meeting with Tyrande.
Tyrande and Krasus who turned back into his High Elf form on the other hand did not look surprised as if they expected to see her.
But Alastor did not pay attention to any of this as he gently took back his hand from Alleria and walked to the edge of the wall to face the gathered soldiers, mages, knights and other personnel of the army within the city.
Alastor took a breath and with a spell to make sure his voice would be amplified spoke.
"King Llane Wrynn the First is dead."
In an instant the cheerful and joyous atmosphere after the great victory was broken, as the people looked at Alastor in shock.
Behind him Varian and the others also looked shocked at Alastor bringing the news up in such a way, knowing that low morale wasn't something they needed right now.
"My father is dead, Your Queen, my mother is in a coma between the precipice of life and death."
"Not just them, but many of you lost fathers, mothers, siblings, friends and loved ones in the past week in a war that was suddenly thrown upon you without reason or measure."
Heads lowered and expressions faltered as Alastor reminded them of the recent tragedies.
Grief threatened to reclaim the city.
Yet Alastor did not falter even once.
"Does it make them meaningless?"
A few people looked up in slight confusion at Alastor's sudden question.
"Does it make their deaths meaningless? does it make their sacrifice meaningless!?"
More and more people looked up as something stirred within their hearts as Alastor's aura spread through all directions.
"We are the children of the Storm! When have we, our fathers our forefathers ever been afraid of conflict!?"
"NO!" No one knew who said it first but many people yelled back at Alastor.
"What storm have we and our ancestors not weathered and overcome!?"
"What enemy have we not broken!?"
"NONE!" This time many more yelled back while behind Alastor the commanders clenched their fists as their blood boiled alongside their people's.
"We may have broken the enemy today yet even now monsters stalk our our world, Prey upon our kin, our allies."
"We may have failed in safeguarding those we loved and allowing our land to be scarred."
"But when faced with failure and defeat, It is both our duty and our right to Avenge those lost!"
"So I ask you...WHAT. DO. YOU. WANT!?"
"VENGEANCE!!!" The Roar was thunderous filled with Bloodlust, conviction and an Iron resolve as the people of Stormwind felt their blood boil at the call of vengeance.
Alastor in a single speech had re-forged despair into fury.
And fury into purpose.
Igniting the deepest part of their courage and resolve.
And so began a Crusade of Vengeance and Liberation.
"He's a lot more capable than I thought." The white haired woman said as she watched Alastor.
"I can understand how you feel Aegwynn, I only met him today as well yet I've been surprised more than I would expect." Tyrande replied to the now named Aegwynn.
"Than both of you best prepare yourself." Aegwynn and Tyrande turned toward to the smiling Alleria.
"Because I can promise you....."
Alleria's gaze lingered on Alastor's back with a kingdom ready to follow him into hell and back.
"....it won't be the last time he does."
--------------------------------------------------------
Author Note: Please remember to Vote, comment, Add to library and give the story a 5 star review to help it get the coverage it needs.
Read upto 10 Chapters worth of content ahead by going to my Patreon and becoming a fellow Patron. As well as supporting both the story and myself as well.
By a 100 Paid Patrons I will officially make story writing a job of mine. Guaranteeing more consistent releases as well as more extra Chapters on Patreon.
Patreon: Patreon.com/ArkNova