Chapter 702: You... Actually Poisoned the Healing?!

The Scarlet Monastery lay to the northwest of Lordaeron, northeast of Tirisfal Glades, the cradle where undead adventurers first drew breath.

To the Forsaken players, those souls who possessed a keen urge to scout these lands had stumbled upon this domain early on. Yet, owing to its forbidding difficulty, conquer was all but impossible for those of the tenth or twentieth circle of strength; thus, even upon discovering this bastion, which loomed far grander than any previous delve, none had squandered their hours here before.

Only when they attained the thirtieth level of prowess did they possess the might to venture within and unravel its mysteries.

Furthermore, this dungeon sat a short distance from Southshore, a sanctuary where the Alliance gathered numerous commissions. Consequently, as the thirtieth-level Horde players began to flood the region under the guidance of their own tasks, players from Southshore gradually converged here too, happening upon the threshold while scouting and observing the movements of their rivals.

Unlike the earlier trials, such as the Deadmines which belonged solely to the Alliance or the Wailing Caverns claimed by the Horde, the Scarlet Monastery welcomed both factions beneath its arches under the guidance of their respective quests. Naturally, being nestled closer to the Forsaken bastion of Undercity, it offered a gentler journey for the children of the Horde.

The Scarlet Crusade had once been vanguard warriors holding the line against the Scourge. They were paladins and priests who had once marched in the sacred name of the Light and Justice; countless noble souls had pledged themselves to the order, their hearts brimming with honor, loyalty, and pride. They held the sublime ideal of purging every blighted creature from the face of Azeroth.

Yet now, driven to the brink of madness by their thirst for vengeance, they deemed all who did not wear the Crusade's raiment to be infected by the undead plague. Any innocent unfortunate enough to fall under their suspicion was subjected to ruthless torture.

This colossal complex comprised four distinct wings. The monastery had once stood as the pride of the Kingdom of Lordaeron, a holy place of pilgrimage, but after the war, it had transformed into a vital stronghold for the zealous Crusaders—the most ferocious foes of the undead, locked in bitter conflict across Tirisfal Glades.

It was a grand structure resembling a citadel, swarming with Crusaders, vast and cavernous. The portals leading to the inner chambers were nestled within the Graveyard, the Library, the Armory, and the Cathedral. Each entrance was barred by a shimmering magical gateway; players, charting them by their relative positions, dubbed them Gates One, Two, Three, and Four, though their difficulty escalated in the curious order of One, Four, Three, and then Two.

Because Gate One offered little challenge and meager rewards, the majority of players chose not to waste their breaths within its halls, especially since previous trials had already left the most diligent dungeoneers quite handsomely equipped.

Thrix's company naturally bypassed this lesser wing. Thus, Archmage Adolf, having observed Thrix’s pioneering efforts for a time, led his own band directly toward Gate Four.

"Follow me! Do not waste time if we encounter the Horde along the way; press straight into the portal!" Adolf commanded, evidently possessing some familiarity with the path.

Their fellowship comprised a Mage, a Hunter, a Warrior, a Druid, and a Rogue.

"Once inside, we shall clear the Scarlet Crusaders along the corridor first," Adolf instructed as he ran, speaking with the assured air of a veteran.

"Captain, you truly know the way of this place?" the Rogue inquired with careful reverence.

In these times, finding a guide acquainted with the intricacies of the Scarlet Monastery was no easy feat.

"Of course I do!" Adolf replied, his confidence boundless. As an Archmage of the Ninth Heaven who had just witnessed the entire stratagem unfold, how could a place like this possibly confound him?

"Follow my command, and we shall conquer at least two of these wings."

"Splendid! Weal or woe, we follow your lead!" the Rogue exclaimed, overjoyed at having found such a stalwart pillar of support.

"Frost Nova holds them fast! Loose your might!"

"Restore the vanguard's vitality!"

"A few have broken through! Hunter, have your bear intercept them!"

"..."

The opening gambit proceeded without a hitch. Though several within the party had never set foot in this dungeon before, they were masters of martial prowess in the waking world, and a handful of lesser zealots posed no true challenge to them.

Traversing the corridor, they emerged into a vast, garden-like courtyard.

The company crept cautiously along the white-stone cloister that hugged the courtyard walls, striving to rouse as few Crusaders as possible while systematically putting those in the courtyard to the sword.

Wave after wave of zealots caught sight of the intruders and threw themselves forward in relentless succession, their tide-like onslaught creating a suffocating tension within the narrow confines of the cloister.

Yet the Dwarf Warrior and Elder Sork’s bear used the terrain to their advantage, standing like an iron wall against these suicidal fanatics. As for the stragglers who bypassed the double bulwark to threaten the rear guard, Adolf froze them in their tracks with a Frost Nova, allowing the Rogue's daggers to flash with cold light. Against such stationary targets, every strike landed precisely upon a vital point.

Even if a stray zealot occasionally breached the rear, one or two scattered foes could pose no grave threat.

"Something feels... amiss. My vitality is not sustaining as it should..."

The Dwarven vanguard, bearing the brunt of the mob's fury at the front, naturally could not deflect every blow aimed his way.

He could feel the green radiance of Rejuvenation constantly washing over him, yet his strength waned steadily, and the gashes upon his flesh only multiplied.

"Ah—!" With a sharp cry of agony, the Dwarf Warrior collapsed heavily to the stone floor.

"How has the vanguard fallen?"

"But I am weaving the mending arts..." Elder Xivi murmured in bewilderment. Meanwhile, the remaining zealots, stripped of their distractor, surged directly toward the rear guard.

"I have frozen them!" Adolf bellowed in haste. "Bear, hold back as many as you can! Let us unite our strength to crush those who rush us!"

"Quickly! Double your pace!"

"Healing! We require healing!"

"???" Why was their vitality still draining away like water through a sieve?!

"Heal me!" Elder Sork roared, now encircled by a horde of Crusaders, his form bathed in crimson as he fought like a demon possessed.

A burst of green light blossomed above his head.

The wounds upon his flesh mended at a snail's pace. "???"

"A cure! Grant me a cure!" On the other flank, the Rogue had exhausted all his arts, yet several Crusaders still pressed hard upon him.

Just as she prepared to wave her staff, Elder Xivi heard another frantic shout. She turned to see the Mage blink out of a tightening knot of Crusaders, his face streaked with blood as he shrieked, "Heal me! Heal me—!"

"Heal me!" Elder Sork bellowed with a blood-drenched countenance, his voice thick with frenzy.

"Me! Heal me! I am at death's door!" Tears and grime stained the Rogue's face as he thrust a desperate hand from the throng of monsters, crying aloud.

"Heal me! Just one more draught of life, ahhh—!" Adolf was driven to the verge of madness by the relentless pursuit of the mob.

Her gaze darted from Elder Sork to the Rogue, from the Rogue to Adolf, and back to Elder Sork, spinning in a dizzying loop along with their frantic cries until her mind reeled. "...How am I to heal you all?!"

Her bright, beautiful eyes began to swim in circles... she was being driven mad by their demands!

Heal, heal, heal! Do I possess ten breasts to nurse you all?! How can I sustain this?!

Three minutes later, five screens faded to a uniform, lifeless grey.

"How could this be...?" They had watched Thrix execute this strategy with effortless grace...

How had they suffered total ruin in an instant, without so much as laying eyes upon the master of the domain?

After all, the calling of a Druid did not exist in the waking world, and they were a rare breed within the game. The party could not shake the feeling... that there was something profoundly wrong with this healing.

Within the silent confines of the graveyard, five translucent spirits manifested. "..."

"Why did it feel as though the healing had no potency at all...?" the Dwarf Warrior rumbled. "The more I was mended, the faster my vitality withered!"

"Cap... Captain..." The Rogue glanced at the envenomed daggers in his equipment cache, recalled the sickly green hue of that incantation, and offered his theory with halting breath. "I suspect... there was foul poison hidden within that milk of life!"

"What?!" Remembering the verdant, venom-like sheen of the Rejuvenation spell, Elder Sork—his face still stained with the crimson of the battle—clutched his spectral wounds and glared furiously at Elder Xivi. "You... you dared to poison our mending?!"