In the war-torn realm of Azeroth, where legends are forged in the heat of battle and magic crackles in the very air, a seventh-level warrior stands as a paragon of martial prowess. This esteemed rank, a hallmark of seasoned professionals, traces its origins back to the ethereal grace of Quel'Thalas and its ancient high elven lineage. Millennia ago, under the celestial glow of the Well of Eternity, the Highborne delved into the arcane arts. To categorize the raw power they commanded, they meticulously charted spells into nine distinct levels, with whispers of legendary incantations beyond the ninth – spells capable of shattering the very foundations of Azeroth. This system, born from arcane study, eventually permeated the land.
When a faction of the Highborne faced exile, becoming the high elves we know today, they carried this structured system of professional standing with them. It was a legacy that would eventually be embraced by burgeoning human society. Yet, the channeling of power differed, particularly amongst human mages. While they too recognized a tiered system from One to Nine, culminating in the revered Legendary Hero tier, they often favored more evocative titles like novice, adept, master, and the hallowed legendary/hero to denote a professional's ascent.
For Galen, the crown prince, this moment had been long anticipated. A plan had already taken root in his ambitious mind. Steeling his gaze, he addressed his father. "Father," he began, his voice resonating with newfound resolve, "I was about to seek your blessing for a journey, an adventure to broaden my horizons. My sights are set on the dwarven stronghold of Ironforge, or perhaps Dalaran, the illustrious city of magic."
King Thoras, a warrior king with wisdom etched into his features, regarded his son with pride. "That presents no obstacle, Galen. Ironforge and our kingdom maintain a fruitful annual trade in grain. You may depart with the next caravan. I hold a cordial relationship with King Magni; I shall pen a letter of introduction and convey my warmest regards. As for Dalaran, your reception as a prince of Stromgarde by Archmage Antonidas of the Kirin Tor will be even more straightforward." Thoras had observed Galen's remarkable maturity, his unwavering dedication to martial training, and his innate drive for self-improvement. Intelligence and diligence had sculpted his son into the very image of a perfect heir.
"Understood, Father," Galen replied, a flicker of anticipation in his eyes. In his younger years, his inexperience and vital role as the kingdom's sole heir had necessitated caution. But now, as a seventh-level warrior, his honed strength could contend with most perils. A fledgling must eventually spread its wings.
Galen envisioned traveling alongside the two burgeoning trade caravans he had painstakingly established over the past few years. A personal guard of twenty seasoned men would ensure his safety. These caravans, funded by his own manor's yields and royal stipends, had proven surprisingly lucrative, the "royal caravan" moniker carrying significant weight.
Just then, the rhythmic footsteps of palace servants announced the arrival of the evening meal. A collective realization of their hunger settled upon them. Each selected their favored dishes. Galen, with a warrior's appetite, chose a succulent roast highland goat leg and a tender raptor tenderloin, devouring them with gusto.
Between ravenous bites, Galen's mind raced. He would take everything – the hard-earned gold from his caravans, a potential war chest. His past life, filled with the strategic intricacies of real-time strategy games, whispered of the crucial role these coins could play in establishing a future base of operations.
"Father," Galen announced, chewing thoughtfully on the tenderloin, "my caravans have been resting in Stromgarde. I intend to make preparations tomorrow and depart soon after. If the timing aligns, I could even accompany Danath."
Thoras, his movements refined by years of royal decorum, inquired with an air of composed curiosity, "Do you intend to journey north to Dalaran, or south to Ironforge, my son?"
"I believe my path lies first towards the dwarven kingdom, Father," Galen stated, though his true intentions lay elsewhere. The biting cold of Ironforge held little appeal compared to the familiar warmth of the Arathi Highlands. His real objective was the kingdom's border, a place to secretly establish a foothold, a Warcraft base from which to shape his destiny.
"Then come to me early tomorrow morn. I shall prepare a gift and a letter for King Magni, to be delivered with your greetings." "I will, Father."
As Galen and Danath stepped out of the council hall, the twilight had surrendered to a sky ablaze with starlight.
The Arathi night possessed a unique, almost perpetual twilight. From the lofty vantage point of the castle, perched upon the city's highest point, Galen and Danath could discern the shadowy outline of the outermost gate fortress.
Stromgarde, originally conceived as a formidable military bastion, was a city segmented by towering walls, each district secured by its own gate. As dusk deepened, these gates would close, a silent decree of the curfew that governed this world.
It was the hour when Stromgarde's citizens returned to the comforting embrace of their homes, their voices mingling with those of their children, the aroma of impending dinners filling the air. Galen gazed at the myriad of lights flickering across the cityscape, a sense of quiet contemplation washing over him.
"It's unusual to see you so still, Galen," Danath remarked, casting a sidelong glance at his often-impetuous companion. "You always seem to be brimming with restless energy."
"I haven't truly appreciated it before," Galen murmured, his gaze still fixed on the city below. "There's a certain beauty to Stromgarde at night. I'm simply observing." But as he spoke, a distant look clouded his eyes. "Danath," he asked softly, "we will protect this kingdom, won't we?"
Danath frowned, a hint of confusion in his voice. "Isn't that our very purpose?"
He couldn't fathom the weight behind Galen's question. He didn't see the spectral visions that danced in Galen's mind – not just the vibrant city bathed in the Arathi night, but the crumbling gates, the decaying walls, the scattered remnants of a future he desperately sought to avert.
He, Galen Trollbane, was a footnote in the original tales, a prince destined for tragedy. Transmigration, the unexpected gift of a new life as the kingdom's heir, should have been a blessing, a path to power and prosperity. Yet, the shadow of Azeroth's tragic princelings loomed large – Arthas, Kael'thas, even the ill-fated Liam Greymane – each a testament to a cruel fate.
Even without his own arrival, the original Galen of Warcraft was doomed. The seeds of patricide, like those that poisoned Arthas, lay dormant. Soon after, the twin scourges of the Scourge invasion and the orc internment camp riots would cripple the already weakened kingdom, extinguishing its vitality and shattering its once-mighty military strength.
The original Galen possessed a certain resilience, and Stromgarde, an ancient kingdom steeped in martial tradition, boasted a tenacious populace fiercely protective of their homes. This stubborn spirit allowed them to weather those initial storms.
But the tide of misfortune was relentless. Following the orc rebellion and the Scourge, a wave of despair washed over the people, leading to mass exodus alongside Jaina Proudmoore. Then came the brutal ogre invasions and the insidious Syndicate rebellions. The great era of upheaval had begun, plunging Azeroth into an age of cascading disasters.
No more. A silent vow echoed in Galen's heart. I will shatter this tragic destiny. I will safeguard this fragile peace. I will protect this kingdom. So it shall be!