The ground here was level, the view stretching for miles in every direction. To the north lay the vast Forest of Nature. To the south, the Hydraea Plains of the moon giants. To the east, the territory of the Raging Fury gnoll tribe. And far to the west rose the Kiso Mountains, rumored to be the home of the shape-shifting, Roc-blooded race.

This was the basic geography of the region, as explained to him by Aerin and Xylia. Of course, whether any of these races still occupied their ancestral lands after the Cult of Four's demonic invasion remained to be seen.

Orion suspected the Roc-blooded of the Kiso Mountains were the most likely to have survived, free and un-enslaved. The reason was simple: they could fly. They commanded the skies. The Black Tower's ground-based hordes would have had a difficult time cornering a race that could retreat into the endless sky.

But city-planning was only one part of his considerations. His true enemy was the Cult of Four. That meant the forces of his brothers—the Deputy Commander, Arthas, Alexander, and Leonidas—would inevitably descend upon this world. They would come not only to hunt the traitors but also to claim territory.

The question was, would they consolidate their forces and strike as one, or would they fan out, each carving their own domain? The decision had yet to be made, but Orion had to plan for the long term. With the Black Tower now under his command, the surrounding region was already firmly within the stoneheart horde's grasp.

He gazed down from his perch, watching the undead armies cleansing the land of the last demonic monsters, his mind lost in deep, strategic thought.

The Abyss, an unknown region.

In one of the Witch's many lairs, the atmosphere was different. The host of male servants that usually attended her were gone. More accurately, they were dead—flayed by the Witch's own hand.

In the center of her grand hall hung a massive crystal chandelier. Its arms extended downward, ending not in lights, but in rows upon rows of sharp hooks. Her male servants now hung from those hooks.

The Witch held a small, razor-sharp knife, and with meticulous care, she was carving strips of flesh from the body of a fallen angel. Carving flesh from bone: it was a hobby of hers, and a ritual she used to calm her nerves whenever she felt the icy grip of fear.

"Arthas... has ascended... to demigod..."

With each slice of flesh she carved away, she would pop it into her mouth, chewing slowly as she muttered the fragmented words to herself.

"Has the commander... awakened...? Has the commander... ascended to godhood...?"

Her hand trembled. Every time she spoke the title 'commander,' her knife would freeze for a moment. She couldn't even bring herself to say his name.

What do I do...? Arthas must have recognized me. Will they... be able to track me... to here? No... no... that was just an avatar. They can't find me. Yes. They can't find me.

She continued to mutter, her voice a low, continuous drone. Only when the fallen angel hanging before her was nothing but a clean skeleton did the storm in her mind begin to subside.

"It seems that powerful giant must be a new member of the Champions Alliance," she finally said, her voice clear and certain. A warrior with Orion's strength had to be one of the Awakened—a Survivor. It was the only thing that made sense. And if he was a Survivor who could channel Arthas's will projection, then his allegiance was clear.

"Damn it!" she hissed. "I knew it! To have my avatar killed in the very first exchange... it was never going to be that simple. So, the coordinates for the Silverwood Realm have been discovered by the Alliance. Was it a coincidence? Or... was the clown behind this, intentionally leaking my location?"

It wasn't baseless paranoia. She had, after all, recently rejected an invitation from him. Given the clown's ruthless nature, it wouldn't surprise her in the least if he had arranged this as petty revenge. But she couldn't be certain.

For the Witch, however, suspicion was more than enough to warrant a test.

Her eyes narrowed as she focused her mind and logged into the Survivor's Platform. She found the clown in her contacts and sent a single, direct message.

"Arthas has ascended to demigod."

It was critical intelligence concerning their old organization. She knew that if the clown saw it, he would respond immediately.

"You saw it yourself?" his reply came almost instantly. "Are you certain?"

The Witch fell silent. His reaction—his surprise—implied he didn't know.

Or does it? Is he just playing dumb?

"Witch," the clown's voice came again, sensing her hesitation. "Did something happen? Or are you suspecting me of something?"

"So you deny this was your doing?" she shot back.

"Witch, you rejected my offer, and yes, I was displeased," the clown replied, his tone even. "But you should understand, we are allies. Partners. We are the traitors who fled the Champions Alliance together. You are more useful to me alive than dead. I'm not stupid enough to sell you out and cut off my own arm."

His words, for what they were worth, rang true. Compared to his new 'allies' in the Cult of Four, the clown trusted and felt closer to the Witch. She was one of the few beings he had who could serve as a true confidant. In her presence, he could lower his guard, just a little.

"Traitors?" The Witch's lips curled into a sneer of pure derision. "Heh. How amusing to hear that word from you. Do you really see yourself as a traitor, clown? After everything the commander was to you... to all of us..." Her voice grew unsteady, and she began to ramble.

"Enough," the clown cut her off. "There's no point in dredging up the past. While I may have tempted you, the final choice was yours. Besides, we both got what we wanted, didn't we? There are no second chances."

His last words finally struck a chord with her. It was the one truth that was both her greatest triumph and her deepest regret.

"So," the clown asked again, his voice soft. "Arthas is truly a demigod now?"

"Yes."

A heavy silence fell between them.

An unknown realm, in a small wooden cabin in a forest.

Sunlight filtered through the canopy of green leaves, dappling the windows of a quaint cottage nestled by a meandering river. Inside, a puppet with the face of a clown sat at a table, its chin propped up on its hand like a human, silently watching the beauty of the forest through the glass.

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