Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Reborn in Azeroth
Nathan awoke to the sound of death.
His senses returned slowly, sluggishly, as if his mind were pulling itself from the deepest recesses of a dream. His head throbbed with pain, and a coldness wrapped itself around him, biting deep into his bones. Slowly, he became aware of the ground beneath him—cold, damp earth—followed by the stench of decay that clawed at his throat.
When Nathan finally opened his eyes, the world above him was not the familiar ceiling of his bedroom. Instead, it was a sky choked with swirling gray clouds, where the faint glimmer of the sun struggled to break through. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared up at the unfamiliar sky. Where am I?
He sat up with effort, blinking against the sudden disorientation. Around him, a landscape of death and destruction unfolded, like something pulled straight from a nightmare. Rotting corpses littered the ground, twisted and broken. The remains of shattered structures and scorched earth stretched in every direction. The horizon was a blur of fire and ash, with dark shapes moving in the distance—shambling, staggering figures that made his stomach lurch with dread.
Then, Nathan's eyes focused on something that made his breath catch in his throat. Towering above him was a building he had seen many times before but never in real life: the crumbling remains of a gothic cathedral, its stained glass windows shattered, and its once-mighty spires blackened by fire.
His mind reeled. This wasn't possible. The architecture, the decay, the very atmosphere of the place—it was unmistakable. He had seen it before in World of Warcraft. This was Azeroth. More specifically, it was Lordaeron during the Third War—the time when the kingdom fell to the undead Scourge led by Arthas Menethil.
Nathan's heart raced, his mind racing to make sense of it all. He could hear distant cries, the sound of swords clashing and the grotesque moans of the undead. It was all too real, too vivid to be a dream. But how could this be? How could he, a man who had spent his life sitting behind a keyboard and staring at a screen, now be in the very world he had only ever played in?
He struggled to his feet, his limbs heavy, still feeling the lingering effects of whatever had happened to him. His clothing was unfamiliar—not the jeans and t-shirt he had worn before going to bed—but rather rough linen and wool, the kind of simple garments he'd often seen NPCs wear in the game. His mind raced back to the last thing he could remember: the raid in Ulduar, his victory against Yogg-Saron, and then… nothing. No, that wasn't right. He remembered falling asleep in his bed, and yet, now, here he was, standing in the middle of a war-torn battlefield.
A low growl interrupted his thoughts.
Nathan froze. His gaze darted toward the sound, and his blood ran cold. Emerging from the shadows of the ruined buildings was a hulking creature, its flesh peeling from its bones, its eyes glowing with a sickly green light. An undead abomination—a familiar sight from his many battles against the Scourge in the game.
But this time, it was different. This wasn't a raid boss on his computer screen. This thing was real, and it was moving toward him with a slow, deliberate gait. He could hear the wet squelching of its rotting flesh, smell the foul stench of decay emanating from its body. Terror gripped him, rooting him to the spot. His mind screamed at him to run, but his legs refused to move.
The abomination lumbered closer, its bloated arms outstretched, and Nathan knew that if he didn't act, he was going to die—really die this time.
Just as the creature reached him, a brilliant flash of light filled his vision. There was a powerful crackling sound, like a bolt of lightning, and the abomination reeled back, howling in pain. The air buzzed with energy, and Nathan's eyes widened in shock as he saw a figure standing between him and the creature.
It was a man, clad in gleaming silver armor with a blue tabard emblazoned with a symbol Nathan knew all too well—the hammer of the Silver Hand. A paladin. And not just any paladin. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with a commanding presence. His hair was golden, his expression resolute, and in his hand, he held a massive warhammer that radiated with holy energy.
Nathan's breath caught in his throat. It couldn't be… but it was. Standing before him, larger than life, was Uther the Lightbringer, the legendary paladin of the Silver Hand.
"Stay back, foul creature!" Uther shouted, his voice booming with authority as he swung his hammer once more, sending another wave of holy energy crashing into the abomination.
The undead creature screeched in pain as the light seared its decaying flesh, and with one final blow, Uther brought the hammer down, shattering the creature's skull. It crumpled to the ground, lifeless, the green glow fading from its eyes.
Nathan stood frozen, staring at the fallen abomination and then at Uther, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. He was in Azeroth. He was face-to-face with Uther the Lightbringer. How could any of this be real?
As if sensing his bewilderment, Uther turned to him, his expression softening. "Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice steady and reassuring.
Nathan swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. "I… I don't think so," he managed to say, his voice shaky. He glanced down at himself, half-expecting to see some horrific wound, but there was nothing. Somehow, he had survived.
"Good," Uther said with a nod, his eyes quickly scanning the battlefield around them. "This place isn't safe. The Scourge are everywhere. We need to move."
Nathan hesitated, still trying to wrap his head around what was happening. "Wait… this… this is Lordaeron, isn't it? During the Third War?"
Uther's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "Yes, this is Lordaeron. But how do you—"
Before Uther could finish his sentence, another shout rang out from nearby, and a group of paladins appeared, rushing toward them. Nathan recognized their armor immediately. They were also members of the Silver Hand, their gleaming armor a symbol of hope in the face of the undead menace.
"Uther! More of the undead are coming from the north!" one of the paladins shouted, pointing toward a cluster of shambling figures in the distance.
Uther's expression hardened. "We can't hold this position for long. We'll need to fall back to the encampment."
The other paladins nodded in agreement, their eyes wary as they scanned the horizon. The undead were closing in, their numbers growing by the second. It was only a matter of time before they were completely overwhelmed.
"Come with us," Uther said, turning to Nathan once more. "We'll keep you safe."
Nathan nodded quickly, still in shock but grateful to be alive. He had no idea what was happening or how he had ended up here, but for now, all that mattered was survival. He followed Uther and the other paladins as they began to make their way through the ruined streets of Lordaeron, moving swiftly and quietly to avoid detection by the roving undead.
As they moved, Nathan's mind raced. The Third War—the fall of Lordaeron—he knew this part of the game's history well. He had read about it, played through it in campaigns, watched cinematic cutscenes that depicted Arthas' betrayal and the rise of the Scourge. But now, he was living it. The destruction, the despair, the relentless assault of the undead—it was all real.
He glanced around as they moved, recognizing landmarks he had seen countless times in the game. The cathedral, now in ruins, had once been a place of worship. The streets that had once bustled with life were now empty, save for the occasional corpse or wandering ghoul. The weight of it all began to sink in—this was no longer a game. These were real people fighting for their lives against a seemingly unstoppable force.
They finally reached the encampment, a small makeshift fort surrounded by wooden palisades. It was a place of refuge for the remaining forces of Lordaeron and the Silver Hand, a last bastion of hope in a world overrun by the Scourge. As they entered, Nathan could see the exhaustion and fear etched on the faces of the soldiers and civilians inside. Paladins moved about, tending to the wounded, while others stood guard at the barricades, ever vigilant for the next attack.
Uther turned to him, his expression serious but kind. "You're safe for now," he said. "Rest, gather your strength. We will need everyone who can fight if we are to survive this war."
Nathan nodded, though he still felt overwhelmed by everything that had happened. He wasn't a warrior. He wasn't even from this world. He was just a gamer who had somehow been thrust into the middle of one of the most devastating conflicts in Azeroth's history.
As Uther walked away to confer with the other paladins, Nathan sat down on a nearby crate, his mind still spinning. How was this possible? How could he be here, in a world that wasn't supposed to exist?
He stared down at his hands, trying to comprehend the strange reality he now found himself in. His hands were rougher than he remembered, calloused and dirtied from his recent ordeal. He felt a deep unease in his stomach. This was no longer a game where he could simply log out if things went wrong. This was real. The blood, the screams, the reek of death—it was all real.
Nathan's thoughts whirled as he tried to make sense of his situation. One moment, he had been a simple gamer, lounging in his room after a victorious raid. The next, he had woken up in the middle of a battlefield, surrounded by undead. He couldn't remember how he got here, and that frightened him. There were no tutorials, no save points, no second chances.
He glanced around the encampment. Paladins were tending to wounded soldiers and civilians, and although he recognized the emblems, armor, and familiar faces, he didn't know how to interact with them beyond the scope of scripted quests. Yet here he was, face-to-face with one of the most iconic characters in Azeroth's lore.
The reality of it hit Nathan hard. He was living through the events that would shape the world he had spent years exploring. This wasn't just any moment in history—this was the fall of Lordaeron, the rise of Arthas as the Lich King, and the decimation of the human kingdoms. A war that had claimed countless lives and left its mark on Azeroth forever.
"Hey, you alright?"
The voice snapped Nathan from his thoughts. He looked up to see one of the paladins standing over him, a young man with short-cropped hair and a worried expression.
"Yeah, I… I think so," Nathan replied, though he didn't feel alright. He felt lost. "Just trying to wrap my head around everything."
The paladin gave him a sympathetic smile. "It's overwhelming, I know. The Scourge, the fall of Lordaeron… it's been a nightmare for all of us. But you're safe now. Uther and the Silver Hand are doing everything they can to protect what's left."
Nathan nodded, though his mind was still racing. He couldn't help but think of the timelines, the lore he knew so well. If this truly was Lordaeron during the Third War, then they were in the final days of the kingdom. Arthas had already begun his march toward the capital, leaving devastation in his wake. The Scourge would soon overrun the land, and there would be nothing left to save.
The paladin seemed to sense Nathan's unease. "I'm Elias, by the way," he said, extending a hand.
"Nathan," he replied, shaking the man's hand. The grip was strong and firm—another reminder that this was real. He felt the weight of it, the warmth of human contact.
"You don't look like a soldier," Elias said with a chuckle, though there was no malice in his tone. "You're lucky Uther found you when he did. The undead have been picking off survivors left and right."
Nathan swallowed. "I'm not a soldier," he admitted. "I… I don't even know how I ended up here."
Elias frowned but didn't press the issue. "Well, whether you're a soldier or not, we could use all the help we can get. The Scourge isn't letting up, and we're stretched thin. Can you fight?"
Nathan hesitated. He had spent years playing a warrior in World of Warcraft, mastering the ins and outs of combat from the safety of his chair. But this was different. He didn't have Grimgor's armor or his massive sword. He didn't have any of his abilities or the knowledge of how to actually fight with his own hands.
"I don't know," Nathan said honestly. "I've… I've never fought like this before."
Elias nodded, his expression understanding. "That's alright. Not everyone here is a seasoned fighter. Some are just villagers, farmers, craftsmen—people who were caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. But they're doing what they can to survive, and that's what matters."
Nathan felt a knot form in his stomach. This was real. He was really here, in Azeroth, during one of the most dangerous times in the world's history. And if he didn't figure out how to survive, he was going to die.
Elias clapped him on the shoulder. "Take some time to rest. I'll see if we can find you some gear. Uther's probably going to organize a counterattack soon, and we'll need every able body."
Nathan nodded weakly as Elias walked away, leaving him alone with his thoughts once more. The weight of the situation pressed down on him like a physical burden. He needed to adapt—quickly. This was a world of swords and sorcery, a place where the dead could rise again and where the light could burn through even the darkest evil. If he was going to survive here, he needed to figure out his place in this world.
Hours passed, and the tension in the camp remained thick. The sky had grown darker, the air heavy with the promise of more violence. Nathan tried to stay calm, taking in his surroundings and watching the paladins as they moved about, their eyes sharp for any sign of the Scourge.
He couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom. He knew the lore, knew what was coming. Arthas was likely on his way to the capital city of Lordaeron, where he would murder his own father and claim the throne for the Scourge. This land would be lost to the undead, and the survivors here would have little hope of escape.
But he was also keenly aware that this wasn't just some scripted event anymore. He was living through it. Maybe there was a way to change things, to alter the course of history. Could he make a difference? Could he stop the Scourge?
Nathan's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. He looked up to see Uther returning, his face grim.
"We've received word," Uther said, his voice low but commanding. "The Scourge are advancing from the north. They'll be here by morning."
The camp fell silent as Uther's words sank in. The paladins, despite their bravery, wore the weight of the news on their faces. They were outnumbered, and everyone knew it.
"We will stand and fight," Uther continued, his voice filled with conviction. "The Light will guide us, and we will defend what remains of Lordaeron with everything we have."
Nathan felt a surge of hope in Uther's words. Even in the face of overwhelming odds, the legendary paladin refused to give in to despair. It was a quality Nathan had always admired in him—his unwavering faith in the Light, his determination to protect those who could not protect themselves.
But as the camp prepared for battle, Nathan couldn't help but feel a sense of dread. The undead were relentless, and the paladins were few. This was the beginning of the end, the fall of Lordaeron. He had seen it happen in the game, and now he was living through it.
That night, Nathan couldn't sleep. He lay on the ground, staring up at the sky, listening to the distant sounds of the undead creeping ever closer. His mind raced with thoughts of what was to come—of Arthas, the Lich King, and the fate of Azeroth.
Could he change any of it? Could he stop what was already written in the annals of history?
As dawn approached, Nathan stood with the other paladins, his heart pounding in his chest. The time for reflection was over. Now, it was time to fight.
And for the first time in his life, Nathan would be fighting not as a gamer but as a man trying to survive in a world where death was very real.
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