Chapter 544: The Twilight of the Horde

The west wind howled, and the autumn chill made everything on the Burning Steppes even more parched.

The barren and desolate land emitted an almost endless heat, sourced naturally from the towering active volcanoes of the steppes. This included Blackrock Mountain to the northwest. These volcanoes continuously oozed molten lava, with the fiery magma constantly reshaping the landscape.

Sitting on the eastern terrace of Blackrock Spire, nestled within Blackrock Mountain, Warchief Orgrim looked somewhat lost as he gazed at the distant horizon.

To call it Blackrock Spire was a bit misleading from the outside; the 'spire' wasn't so apparent.

The entire 'spire' was embedded within the soaring Blackrock Mountain. Numerous streams of molten lava flowed from the mountainside, creating vertical lines that divided the grey-black mountain into several segments.

Blackrock Spire would be more aptly named Blackrock Fortress.

Orgrim had no way of knowing that this very platform would one day be the final resting place of the black dragon prince, Nefarian. He merely stared out, lost in thought.

To the north was the equally blazing Searing Gorge. The Dark Iron dwarves, who recently allied with the Horde, were forging weapons day and night in their rudimentary forges within the gorge.

To the south lay the Burning Steppes, where over 150,000 orc warriors were encamped beneath Blackrock Mountain. These orcs, who had just crossed the Dark Portal to Azeroth, knew nothing of the Alliance's might or the terror of the Red Dragonflight. They eagerly awaited the forthcoming battle of glory.

Meanwhile, a hundred thousand orc laborers were excited about the superior weapons they were receiving, seeing this as a chance to change their status.

At that moment, Zuluhed the Whacked, chieftain of the Dragonmaw clan, approached. Glancing at Orgrim, who sat at the edge of the platform, he gruffly said, "Warchief, the new Horde warriors wish for you to speak."

"Speak? I'll go. But not now," replied Orgrim without turning his head.

"Why? You know our kin have little patience, especially after drinking that... stuff."

"Aye! Perhaps we should thank the demon blood for making our kind aggressive and warlike without worrying about morale," Orgrim said with undisguised sarcasm. "Yes, thanks to the demon blood, we orcs still have unwavering confidence in victory, and can tolerate a wretched chief like me. No warrior has yet challenged me in Mak'gora."

Zuluhed remained silent.

From Blackrock Spire, the orcs below, mainly newcomers to Azeroth, were simple-minded. They had never experienced the frustration of having the upper hand yet failing to secure victory, nor the agony of being pushed back by humans after nearly conquering half the continent.

Where are the once mighty clans of the Horde now?

The once dominant Blackrock clan was nearly annihilated after the battles of Elwynn Forest, Stormwind, the overseas campaign, and the Siege of Lordaeron. Now, with less than 5,000 members, they were weaker than even a minor clan.

The Warsong clan, once fierce warriors, were now hiding in the Tirisfal Glades, led by Grommash.

The Bleeding Hollow clan was nearly wiped out, mostly at the hands of the Alliance and the Red Dragonflight. Kilrogg Deadeye now had fewer than 10,000 clan members under him.

The Frostwolf clan, once exiled by Gul'dan, had severed ties with the Horde after the death of Durotan.

The Dragonmaw clan faced a brutal culling due to the Red Dragonflight's rebellion, leaving Zuluhed with fewer than 1,000 warriors.

The list went on, with each clan's fate more tragic than the last.

However, any orc with half a brain could see the writing on the wall: the Horde was doomed.

Orgrim didn't blame his lieutenants.

He sighed deeply, "I've been pondering the meaning of this impending, doomed war."

"Meaning?"

"Yes," Orgrim replied, looking up at the northern sky.

The Dark Portal's first year, as the humans called it, was the Horde's most glorious and ambitious. The Horde's territories expanded madly to the north, nearly equivalent to the entirety of the known world.

Yet, like all dreams, this grand vision of conquering Azeroth within three years met its reality. The Horde's unity fractured, seemingly by chance, but it was inevitable.

Orgrim sighed heavily, "Looking back, even without Duke Markus, we were destined to fail."

"Why?" asked Zuluhed, puzzled.

Orgrim's rugged face was etched with regret.

"We were too arrogant. Initially, we nearly exterminated every sentient race we encountered in this world, alienating nearly all against the Horde. If I could turn back time and lead the Horde sooner, I would have been gentler. I'd first occupy unclaimed wildlands, then eliminate weaker races for more living space for the Horde. Only when we had an absolute advantage would we destroy potential alliances."