The pre-dawn sky was leaden gray.
Plumes of grayish-black smoke billowed from the wound in the earth, as if something deep underground was panting heavily, exhaling breaths of pure decay into the air.
The smell here was strong enough to make one’s eyes water.
The first to invade his nose was the stench of rotting flesh, pouring down his throat with a sickening sweetness.
Beneath it lay a deeper odor, like sulfur mixed with burning plastic.
As the two scents swirled together and traveled down to his lungs, his body’s instinct was to reject it, his throat physically trying to repel the air.
The hawkstriders refused to go any further.
The beasts’ long, slender legs seemed bolted to the spot, their hooves scraping against the blackened soil.
Low rumbles vibrated deep in their throats.
In their round, wide eyes, Luo Xun saw the word “terror” written on an animal’s face for the first time.
“Dismount,” Halduron said.
His voice was incredibly calm, but Luo Xun could hear the underlying tension.
The elves silently dismounted.
No one spoke; they simply stared at the smoke-shrouded expanse ahead, their expressions taut.
Alice was the last to get off.
Her face, hidden behind the white veil, turned directly toward the rising columns of smoke.
Her golden eyes didn’t blink, her pupils reflecting the churning grayish-black haze in the distance.
Her hands were trembling.
Her fingers clenched into fists, then released, only to clench tight once more.
“This is the Dead Scar,” Halduron said, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel.
“Arthas and his wretched army slaughtered their way all the way to Silvermoon City from here.
Wherever they passed, the land died, the trees withered, and even the magical leylines were corrupted.” It was clear he was explaining this for the benefit of the outsider.
This general was indeed different from the other elves—cold on the outside, but warm on the inside.
The Ranger-General paused, his icy blue eyes scanning everyone.
“We walk the rest of the way.
The hawkstriders can’t cross; the air will rot their lungs.
The same goes for you all.
Speak as little as possible, and minimize your breathing.
The air here…
is toxic.” The elves complied.
They tore strips of cloth from their bags, dampened them with the last drops of water from their waterskins, and bound them over their faces.
Their movements were so practiced it made one’s heart ache.
Luo Xun didn’t have any suitable cloth.
He looked down at his dusty grey hunting gear and pinched his cuff, planning to tear off a piece to make do…
“Use this.” Alice handed him a white silk scarf.
It was soft to the touch, its edges embroidered with intricate sunburst patterns in silver thread.
Luo Xun took it and tied it over his face, copying her.
The scarf carried a faint fragrance, like night-blooming lilies blended with a hint of medicinal herbs.
“Thanks.” Alice shook her head without a word.
Having wrapped a second scarf around her own face, she left only her golden eyes exposed, her gaze fixed entirely on the smoke ahead.
The group began to advance on foot.
The moment they stepped into the Dead Scar, the temperature plummeted, bringing a deathly cold as if all vital energy had been sucked dry.
The ground was covered in grayish-white ash.
Every step sank halfway into the debris with a sharp, crunching snap, like crushing bones.
Hearing it repeatedly sent a shiver straight up the spine.
The surrounding trees were entirely dead.
In Luo Xun’s energy vision, the green light that should have flowed within these trees was gone, replaced by strands of slimy gray mist wrapping around every trunk and branch like maggots.
The houses were even more horrifying.
The once-beautiful spires and archways were now nothing but charred skeletons.
Some houses had been completely blown apart; among the piles of shattered tiles, one could see scorched furniture pieces, cracked ceramic bowls, and occasional glints of metal—traces of the lives some elven families had once lived.
Luo Xun spotted a cradle half-buried in the debris.
It was woven of rattan, with a few small copper bells still hanging on the side.
Now, the cradle was shattered, the bells were covered in thick dust, and the inside was empty.
This war hadn’t just destroyed a few houses and trees; it had erased the evidence of an entire civilization’s existence.
The group walked in silence.
The only sounds were the crunch of ash beneath their boots and the low wailing of the wind sweeping through the ruins.
But in Luo Xun’s vision, this dead land was still “speaking.” The gray mist wasn’t distributed evenly.
In some areas, it was exceptionally dense, such as the ruins of large buildings or open plazas.
Perhaps fierce battles had taken place there, leaving the energy of death pooled and stagnant like stagnant blood.
He also saw some…
footprints.
They weren’t physical tracks, but “footprints” on the energetic level.
Footprints radiating an icy blue frost stretched all the way toward the northeast.
Every single footprint was deeply etched into the energetic leylines of the earth.
That was the path Arthas had walked.
Traces left behind by Frostmourne?
Luo Xun stared at the line of footprints for a couple of seconds.
A rather inappropriate thought popped into his head: *These footprints look just like the “This Way Forward” arrows a tour guide would stick on the ground in a scenic area, as if he was terrified people wouldn’t know which way he went.* The column pressed onward.
The further they went, the more tragic the scene became.
Large numbers of corpses lay scattered—most of them incomplete—alongside blackened bone fragments, cracked armor, and broken weapons.
Most had already been weathered and eroded to the point where only outlines remained.
Yet a few still held heart-wrenching poses.
For instance, a skeleton leaning against a half-destroyed wall on the roadside was still holding a drawing-a-bow stance, even though its entire lower body was gone.
As the elves passed, they would lower their heads and press their right fists to their left shoulders.
It was a military salute, and a final farewell.
Luo Xun couldn’t bring himself to mimic the gesture, so he simply watched in silence, feeling the heavy sorrow.
“This place…
used to be Windrunner Village.” Alice’s voice suddenly drifted out.
It was very soft, almost swept away by the wind.
She stopped in front of a sprawling ruin, her fingertips lightly brushing a charred beam where faint carvings could still be made out.
“Where Lady Vereesa grew up,” Halduron said, stepping up beside her.
His voice was equally low.
“Now…
there’s nothing left.” Alice didn’t reply.
She just stood there, her golden eyes fixed on the ruins.
Her face was obscured beneath the white veil, but Luo Xun noticed a small patch at the lower edge of her silk scarf growing darker with moisture.
Windrunner.
In the game, the three Windrunner sisters were legends of the high elves.
But now, what stood before him wasn’t game lore; it was a real, destroyed homeland, and a group of people forced to watch its devastation, utterly powerless to stop it.
Luo Xun looked away, no longer watching.
The group passed the village ruins.
Where the plaza once stood, a stone well appeared.
Its rim was exquisitely carved, every curve telling a story of how this well had once been the beating heart of the village.
But now, the water inside was pitch black and as thick as crude oil, bubbles rising and popping on the surface to release a pungent, choking stench.
The moment Luo Xun switched to his energy vision, his pupils constricted violently.
A massive, swirling gray vortex was continuously drawing something up from the depths of the well, spewing deathly energy into the surrounding soil.
This was one of the pollution sources of the Dead Scar—a “machine” that converted life energy into necrotic energy.
“Do not go near that well,” Halduron’s voice sounded from behind.
“Any living thing that touches the water will have its life force drained instantly.
We tried to cleanse it, but to no avail.
The death energy runs too deep; it has already seeped into the leylines.” Alice stood a few paces from the well, refusing to step any closer.
Her golden eyes stared intently at the pitch-black water.
Luo Xun stood slightly behind her.
He didn’t approach, nor did he speak.
Sometimes, silence was the only appropriate response.
He watched the vortex in the well spin slowly, ever so slowly, like a half-dead heart lingering on its last, dying beats.