Who am I, where am I, and why is there a tall blue figure standing before me?

“Run! Hurry, run! We've been discovered—we're done for!”

“Dick, you traitor who infiltrated our organization! In the name of the Enlightened, prepare to die!”

“Ah!”

The shrill screams, coupled with the graphic, blood-soaked scenes, replayed over and over in the chaos of his mind, just like a tense, thrilling film—an immersive first-person journey through some unfortunate soul’s miserable life. It did look a bit exciting, this spectacle of flesh and gore, but when his awareness returned to his body, the pain that followed was almost unbearable.

The wretch lying on the stretcher snapped his eyes open. Instinctively, he reached out for help, but immediately another hand pressed him down. Amid the tumult, he heard others shouting:

“Keep him quiet! There are still people watching us from behind.”

“His throat's been cut, he can’t make a sound. Don’t worry, those guys think he’s dead. Look at these wounds—even I almost thought he was gone. Move! Get him back; the master is waiting.”

“Alright, I’ll fetch the tabruk sheep. You follow with the stretcher.”

The stretcher jolted again, and some kind of potion was injected into his neck, plunging him into a haze once more.

He blinked repeatedly, struggling to turn his gaze to the side. There, a strange-looking fellow came into view: blue skin, a hairless scalp, odd tendrils on his chin... Wait, this appearance seemed familiar—wasn’t this that guy?

The stretcher-bearer, noticing his gaze, turned and gave an insincere smile.

“Don’t be afraid, ‘Holy Lance’ Dick. You’re safe now. Rest.”

“Who the hell are you calling ‘Dick’? Don’t think I don’t know what that means!” he wanted to retort.

But his feeble body protested and dragged him back into a feverish, chaotic dream, the wound in his throat stifling any attempt at sound.

“What is all this?” he muttered inwardly before losing consciousness again. “Still, it does seem I’ve ended up somewhere extraordinary.”

When his muddled mind cleared again, he felt as if he’d awoken from a bizarre dream—in which he had experienced a full life, from growing up as a child in a remote region, undergoing training, to becoming a security captain at a prestigious academy. From a linguistic standpoint, it all made sense, but the real problem was this:

Firstly, the place he’d grown up in was called “Krokun.”

Secondly, the long-term training he’d received was called the “Warden’s Trial.”

Lastly, the higher academy where he’d managed, against all odds, to become captain of the security force was the “Arcanum.”

Casual players might find these names only vaguely familiar, but those in the know would wear a mysterious smile at their mention. As for the true die-hards, the moment they awoke to such a beginning, they’d be packing their bags to catch a Naaru or Ethereal ship, even a standing ticket, to flee this doomed world before nightfall.

This was Argus!

The very world conquered by the Dark Titan Sargeras himself—a place destined, for tens of thousands of years to come, to serve as the universe’s undeniable “Axis of Evil” and the Burning Legion’s central stronghold.

He couldn’t be sure what stage of Argus’ civilization he’d landed in, but one thing was clear: given the Eredar’s nearly “immortal” nature, if he didn’t make himself scarce soon, he’d likely live to see Lord Sargeras personally set foot on Argus in all his “glory.”

If that were all, perhaps it wouldn’t matter. When the time came, he could join Kil’jaeden and Archimonde in serving the Legion as a Man’ari demon—a small price to pay to survive.

But the crux was, after the world’s corruption, a reckoning would eventually come! After the mighty Dark Titan was sealed away and the Legion fractured, he, who had survived by groveling as a lackey, would need a miracle to win mercy before Velen’s vengeful Army of the Light and their hundred-thousand lords.

He’d probably be cut down by any passing “king of shadows” without a second thought.

To suffer twice in a row—what a fate! And if he counted the mortal wound he’d just suffered upon arrival, that made three. It must be that in his previous life, he’d destroyed the world, and now fate had thrust him into this disastrous second existence.

Damn it, this life is something else!

The wounded man stared blankly up at the ceiling, inlaid with gems. The lavish, Eredar-style décor was luxurious without being gaudy—likely the result of their innate skill with jewels, lending an air of artistry to the opulent surroundings.

But was this really the time to appreciate art?

Damn it! Get your brain working and think of a way to survive!

Urged on by the little angel and devil in his mind, he finally reached out, his hand trembling from post-healing numbness, to feel his own neck.

The wound was severe—a throat slashed nearly through, though the attacker had failed to sever it completely. In any other world, this would have been fatal, but the Eredar, naturally attuned to energy, had, since the appearance of the Naaru, gained the ability to perform a healing magic known as “Naaru’s Blessing”—even children could wield it.

So being saved from near death wasn’t so unusual.

Besides, his robust body bore other injuries, none serious. The room was filled with the scent of herbs—pleasant, even calming, to aid the patient’s recovery.

When his hand moved lower, he paused, his expression growing odd as he checked himself. Only then did he realize something.

“No wonder that guy called me ‘Holy Lance Dick’ earlier,” he thought. “There really are only wrong names, not wrong nicknames. Even among the usually massive Eredar, this... scale... must be considered extraordinary. Quite a ‘holy lance’ indeed!”

Despite the extreme danger, discovering that his new life began with such an impressive “asset” brought a deep, almost involuntary joy.

Never mind whether it would be useful—even just the size was something to be proud of. Ah, men...

After this somewhat unsavory inspection, he struggled to sit up. His weakness allowed only a slow shift from lying flat to leaning against the jewel-encrusted bed.

But already, he was gaining a clearer understanding of his new body.

A male Eredar, standing around two meters sixty in height. Muscular, with years of warden combat training, and a mind filled with tactical knowledge. Like other males of his kind, his forehead was high and pronounced, crowned with a pair of imposing horns. His chin and neck, however, lacked tendrils—perhaps because this body was not energy-attuned.

A tail, characteristic of his race, protruded from his coccyx, and the previous owner had even adorned it with a golden sheath set with purple gems—a touch of vanity, perhaps.

His reverse-jointed ankles felt awkward, and the hooved feet seemed intimidating at first glance—but, as with all things, one could get used to them. The structure was clearly suited to both explosive movement and endurance, and the Eredar had no need for horseshoes; their ornate iron foot-casings were as common as shoes among humans.

He searched his mind for the identity of this body. As he massaged his distinctly non-human forehead, he must have triggered some “switch,” for suddenly a flash of light swept his vision, and a translucent golden interface appeared before his eyes—runes swirling to form Eredar script, listing his attributes as if in a game:

Name: Diakem Zastins
Nickname: Holy Lance Dick
Race: Eredar
Life Rank: Mortal
Status: Seriously injured [Throat torn, vocal cords damaged, toxins present, weakened curse, energy sealed]
Class: High Warden (Eredar-exclusive) [Original Path of Light invalidated, new Path of Light not chosen, class skills unavailable]
Power Affinity: Primal Light
Power Path: Paladin specialization, race-specific
Racial Talents:
Energy Affinity: Eredar excel at manipulating various energies and are more susceptible to their influence.
Heroic Aura: Their glorious civilization grants Eredar noble minds and sturdy bodies, with modest absolute boosts across life ranks.
Intermediate Shadow Resistance: Moderate mitigation of shadow-based attacks.
Personal Talents:
High Warden: Mastery of warden combat techniques; skilled in hammers, greatswords, and axes.
Protector: Years as Arcanum’s security chief; adept at safeguarding others.
Spellbreaker: Extensive training against spellcasters; has his own insights on countering them.
Elder’s Intimidation: Years of wrangling with unruly students; skilled at using fear (calling guardians, reporting to teachers, doubling athletic drills, docking safety points) to subdue troublemakers.
Overall Evaluation:
Weakling.

Additional Advice:
[Don’t worry about how this thing works—just use it. It’s not an outrageous cheat, only a tool to understand your condition. Trust me, without this, you wouldn’t survive Argus. Also, I’ve returned the memories you deliberately cast aside, for the same reason. With a start like this, heading out the door without your memory would just get you killed... Now, take a deep breath! Get ready for your first surprise. Turn around! He’s here.]

“Whoosh—”

Diakem turned instinctively, just as the door swung open. A fully armored Eredar sorceress entered, staff in hand, scanning the room before nodding coolly at the patient. Then, she tapped her gem-encrusted staff on the floor, conjuring a shimmering violet barrier to block eavesdroppers. With a graceful flip of her little tail, she left, and a moment later, another towering figure stepped inside.

A male Eredar.

Diakem had thought himself robust, but compared to this giant, he was a mere chick. The newcomer was over three meters tall, forced to duck under the standard Eredar archway, his shoulders as broad as the doorway, making his luxurious robes bulge with power.

Anyone’s first thought would be that this “giant” must be a formidable warden or warrior, but the spellcaster’s wand and tome at his waist revealed his true profession: an Eredar arcanist.

And the arcane sigil floating above his forehead, wrought entirely from pure arcane energy, marked him as one of the greatest spellcasters of Argus.

Even without the memories in Diakem’s mind, he would have recognized the man instantly. That stern, sinister face was unmistakable.

Archimonde?!

Diakem went numb where he lay.

He had no idea how to react before such a unique and extraordinary figure. Should he fall to his knees and proclaim, “Mighty demon lord, twin star of the Burning Legion, blessed by the Dark Titan himself, world-destroyer, galaxy-wrecker, supreme arboreal athlete, champion of Hyjal Mountain, savior of Dalaran’s little fountain, supervillain of the physical universe, master polluter—long live the great one!”?

Well, that thought vanished as quickly as it arose.

The reason was simple: Judging by Archimonde’s classic Eredar mage attire, he hadn’t yet found his way into the Legion. The sigil above his brow was arcane, not the stately “Eredar Leader’s Mark,” meaning he’d yet to betray his mentor and seize a seat among the ruling triad alongside Velen and Kil’jaeden.

In other words, for all his intimidating presence, Archimonde was currently just the headmaster of the Arcanum—the highest academy on Argus. Not exactly a position of ultimate power; in his soon-to-be-legendary but so-far undistinguished career, he was still biding his time. Compared to the two current co-regents of Argus, this guy was barely a blip on the power rankings.

Come to think of it, the other “headmaster” was also fond of mountain-climbing in his pajamas, earning both fame and a spectacular ending. So, maybe an affinity for climbing is the secret to becoming a “headmaster” in this legendary profession?

In any case, after a few seconds sorting out the situation, Dick concluded there was no need to reveal any “prophetic” powers to Archimonde. Foreseeing the future sounded impressive, but in a place with a genuine, millennia-spanning tradition of prophecy, playing the seer might just get him burned at the stake. The Eredar, for all their sophistication, still clung to some “rustic” traditions—like the annual oiled wrestling matches, or the notorious “phrenology” that circulated among arcanists.

Dick had no desire to lose his head to Archimonde on his very first day for being “too gifted.” Besides, with his throat cut, he couldn’t speak anyway.

“Diakem, my servant, I’m glad to see you awake,” Archimonde said, his villainous features arranged in a false, gentle smile—like a ruthless boss feigning concern. With a wave, he conjured a luxurious chair beside the bed, then sat and surveyed his battered underling with cool blue eyes.

“You’ve worked hard lately. I know how difficult it is to infiltrate the Awakener’s cult—especially since you’re not a spellcaster yourself. Yet you completed the mission and, as always, managed to surprise me. Tell me: what did you discover that made that old madman, now lost in fel-madness, send assassins after you himself?”

“Old madman? Fel-madness?” Dick blinked.

From Archimonde’s words, it was clear the esteemed headmaster was plotting something—and in that instant, Dick understood exactly when he was.

The “old madman” referred to Archimonde’s mentor, Sargier the Enlightened—the most renowned and powerful spellcaster on Argus, founder of the Arcanum. But this celebrated archmage, once the peer of the twin regents, had already succumbed to the Burning Legion’s allure.

The so-called “Awakener’s Cult” was the secret demon-worshiping sect Sargier had formed after his fall—a thoroughly evil cult, plotting a coup to make Sargier dictator of Argus and summon forth the demonic hosts. Perhaps even to bring the Dark Titan himself for “supreme glory.”

In established history, Archimonde’s rise to power came only after he betrayed his teacher and slew Sargier himself—thus earning the title of Grand Regent, one of the world’s three rulers.

With this in mind, Dick finally grasped the true identity of his new self. He was Archimonde’s spy, sent to infiltrate the Awakener’s Cult and gather evidence to help the headmaster prepare for his great “parricidal feat.”

A true veteran would know these obscure backstories by heart, so when Archimonde questioned him, Dick knew exactly what to do. He coughed weakly, pointed to his wounded throat, and gestured for something to write with.

Archimonde nodded, waving his hand, and a scroll and quill floated over, settling before Dick with perfect control.

He took up the pen. Though he remembered the Eredar script, his unfamiliarity made his handwriting clumsy and slow. Fortunately, as a patient, this was perfectly excusable.

When he finished, Archimonde took the scroll—and immediately frowned.

What atrocious handwriting! Even as Argus’ foremost headmaster, his professional pride was stung. Appointing this guy as security captain was one thing, but the man should show some initiative! Guarding students meant also teaching PE, but if your writing is this bad?

Eredar script was elegant, magnificent, a culmination of millennia of civilization. How could this be worse than a child playing with mud?

Still, Archimonde knew Dick was injured, and the message, though messily written, was clear and concise. He read it over, suppressing his irritation—

And then froze.

Archimonde shot to his feet, eyes wide in shock as he stared at Dick, disbelief etched across his face. Dick, in turn, gave him a look so resolute he could have joined the party on the spot, nodding fiercely to confirm every word was true.

“Sargier is about to launch his coup? So soon?” Archimonde’s eyes narrowed, shock, worry, delight, and a trace of trepidation flickering across his face. Under Dick’s subtle, probing gaze, the headmaster paced the room, agitatedly flicking his gem-studded tail.

After several minutes of silence, he turned back, as if finally steeling himself for some grim decision.

So, the drama of seizing power by betraying one’s mentor was finally about to unfold.

Ps:
A new book, desperately in need of support! The last one flopped, so this time I’m begging for more readers right from the start—it’s really tough under the current writing climate. Also, with the new recommendation rules, a book drops off the new release list at 200,000 words, so the longer it stays, the better. After discussing with my editor, I’ll update one chapter a day until then, then switch to two per day. With 6,000 words per chapter, that’s just over twenty days.

I’m updating two books at once; it’s unrealistic to expect explosive output right now—wait for the sales numbers. If they’re good enough, I’ll drop a 100,000-word binge for you all. Honestly, I’m down to eating dirt—please, for the sake of old times, help me out. I’ve learned my lesson—never again with the dogged originality.

In short, please support! Love you all.