Sowema looked up; the axe had hit the ground five seconds ago, but his hands were still trembling uncontrollably.
"You haven't improved at all." The orc in front of him rested his blade on his shoulder. "Don't challenge me again."
Early that morning, Sowema had called the orc to a small clearing on the left side of the cave. In their previous challenges, Sowema had always launched an aggressive first strike, only for the orc to easily block him. This time, he tried a different approach, planning to defend against the orc's initial attack, but he lost even faster.
"What are you trying to prove? You're an unfit warrior, Sowema."
"Who says I'm not a warrior?"
"Your attacks lack any form or technique—not to mention your stance. I don't think you're even comfortable wielding an axe."
"What are you talking about?"
The orc stepped closer, plunging his blade into the dirt. He grabbed Soelma's right arm, squeezed it hard, then relaxed and pinched his joints.
"You're strong enough," he said, "but this isn't the muscle tone of a tauren who's swung an axe frequently. I've fought many tauren warriors and know the structure of your arms. Even without considering your strength, a person who's dishonest with his weapon doesn't deserve to be called a warrior. You don't know how to use an axe. Admit it. Otherwise, at this rate, you won't be able to protect your employer—let alone yourself."
Sowema stood up, his head lowered. He picked up the axe, as if to swing it, but stopped halfway.
"Forget it," he muttered. "I'll improve."
"Why not use a bow?"
"A bow?" Sowema jerked his head up. "Why would I use that?"
"Windy mentioned that you were once a renowned hunter as a child."
"When did she…?" Sowema scratched the back of his head. He didn't plan to admit it but wasn't about to deny it either.
"I'm not offering to be your mentor because I'm an orc. If you want real guidance, you should return to your own people. But I'll give you this advice: Be honest with your weapon. First, you need to figure out what your true weapon is."
"It's been years since I've drawn a bow."
"It doesn't matter. Holding onto this axe, which is useless to you, is pointless. It's a good axe, but you've wasted its potential."
Is that so? Sowema glanced at the fine cracks on the axe. In fact, this was the third weapon he'd switched to in two years. He initially had a sword, which he traded for two tickets to a circus performance. After his failed attempt to ask Windy to go with him, he sold the tickets to try to get the sword back, but the resale value had dropped, and he couldn't afford to buy it back. So he bought a longsword instead. A year later, during a rare mission with the Allied Forces to combat the Scourge, the sword broke against the chains of an abomination. He had a familiar blacksmith melt down the broken sword to forge the axe. He didn't quite understand why he had done it, as if subconsciously believing that switching weapons might bring a turning point to his lackluster career as an adventurer. He never expected to become a famous warrior like his father, but at the very least, he considered himself a "warrior." And now, this orc was telling him he might not even be able to protect himself.
"Why do you insist on killing that creature? Do you think you're some sort of protector of Feralas Forest?" Sowema asked, though it was clear his anger was directed at himself.
"No," the orc replied. "I want to kill it because I see it as an adversary—a foe I can't defeat without killing. But right now, you aren't worth that effort."
Sowema wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Say whatever you want. I'm going back to check on Windy."
On the way back to the cave, he tried to push the thoughts from earlier out of his mind.
Windy was sitting at the cave entrance. The moment Sowema got closer, she said, "Challenged the orc again?"
"Yeah, but no injuries this time…" As the words left his mouth, he realized how accustomed he'd become to being the loser. Repeatedly challenging an unbeatable opponent and constantly getting injured—it was starting to seem a bit foolish. He half-expected Windy to scold him as she usually did, but this time, she said nothing.
Since the day she'd seen "Oyi," she had been unusually withdrawn, speaking less and often zoning out during meals. Yesterday afternoon, when Sowema and the orc went out searching for Oyi's tracks, she chose, for the first time, to stay behind and rest in the cave. Now, Sowema wasn't sure what to say, so he just sat on the wolf pelts, mulling over the orc's words: Be honest with your weapon.
"Sowema," Windy spoke up.
"What?"
"Why were you in Moonglade that time?"
"I…there wasn't much reason to stay in the Plaguelands."
"Did you follow me there?"
Sowema lifted his head. Windy was leaning against the rock wall, her eyes fixed on the bushes outside the cave.
"I asked Aimee, and she said you went to Moonglade. You see, there wasn't much for me to do in the Plaguelands anyway, whether as a warrior or sharpening my blade. I could do my work anywhere..."
"I've always operated independently, separate from the Council. I'm used to being alone in the wild."
Sowema couldn't quite grasp the meaning behind her words. "In any case, I at least need to accompany you back to Moonglade this time."
"Oyi must have thought the same way," Windy didn't follow Sowema's line of thinking. "Believing that, as long as he was embraced by nature, he could solve all the crises that come with traveling alone. As a druid, that's a common belief."
"What you saw that day... was it really him?"
"He spoke to me. It was a voice that only druids can hear."
"What did he say to you?"
Windy was silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her thoughts had shifted. "I think he must have retrieved the Felvine Shard. He sealed it in a box, intending to return to Moonglade to complete his mission—perhaps stopping by Feathermoon Stronghold for some rest beforehand."
"Did he tell you all of this?"
Windy shook her head.
"The Felvine Shard is incredibly dangerous. It's said that a group of satyrs guards it in Dire Maul, and it's filled with demonic power," she continued. "So a purification box is absolutely necessary. But there was a crack on Oyi's box—if the crack had been there when he first got it, he would've noticed. Maybe something happened during his journey after sealing the shard, causing the box to crack. He didn't realize it and kept carrying it around. To ensure he wouldn't lose the box, he probably never took it out to check."
"You're saying..."
"What I saw that day..." Windy straightened up, her eyes wide. "It wasn't just a druid in his panther form. His eyes were like cracked yellow gems. His back had fiery red, sword-like spines. There were barbs on the back of his paws. And his tail..." She paused, deciding not to list all the details. "Those were demonic traits—especially those of satyrs. The Felvine Shard had transformed him. There was no trace of the shard left in the box; it had already entered his body, maybe through a severe wound. I heard two voices—one was Oyi's, the other didn't belong to him. One voice told me to kill him, and the other voice wanted to kill me."
Even hearing this story from Windy, Sowema found it hard to accept. He had always been the type to believe only what he could see. Before going to the Plaguelands, he hadn't believed that abominations made of stitched-together flesh existed either.
"What should I do?"
"Huh?" Even though he knew Windy was more talking to herself than asking a question, Sowema still felt the need to respond. "You know we could just leave."
"And then what? When I return to Moonglade, how am I supposed to explain this to my mentor?"
"You could just not tell him."
"No! Someone has to know about this. My mentor needs to understand the consequences of his orders. The Council must be aware of what the Felvine Shard can do. Oyi's family and friends deserve to know what happened to him. But... first, I have to get them to believe me."
"Why wouldn't they believe you?"
Windy shook her head again.
"Sowema," she said, "I'm sorry, but could you leave me alone for a while? Just a few minutes."
"Alright." Sowema stood up and walked to the cave entrance. Looking back, he said, "Don't go wandering off on your own."
Windy didn't reply. He added, "I'll be with the orc over there," before leaving.
A night elf druid turned into a demon under the corruption of the Felvine Shard—it didn't sound any more believable than the greenery growing in the Plaguelands. Thinking this, Windy suddenly realized that her mentor must have known about the dangers of the Felvine Shard, which was why he had used a precious purification box. But did he know the dangers could be this extreme? In any case, Oyi certainly didn't know, which was why he had become a victim.
Windy knew she still had to rely on the Cenarion Circle. Revealing this story and making it believable would be difficult without being an official member of the Circle. Her mentor had once said she was too "independent." Yet in the end, to continue her research on plant species, she had to seek the Circle's help—and the Council didn't see her research as valuable.
Suddenly, she realized how much she had taken. She felt guilty for all that the Cenarion Circle had done to nurture her.
It had been some time since she'd left the Plaguelands and the plants she had so dearly cared for. After living on that corrupted land for over two years, returning to the outside world reminded her that, although Azeroth was war-torn, greenery still thrived, full of richness and beauty. Whether it was the quiet green of Moonglade or the overwhelming waves of green in Feralas crashing against her senses, they made her recall the first day she became a druid, when she could hardly contain her excitement. And now, the nameless plants she had devoted more than two years to seemed so insignificant in comparison to the outside world's green, even giving off a faint hint of decay. They withered and died in large swathes before her, her efforts draining away in an instant.
Maybe her mentor was right—her efforts had been in vain. It wasn't because war could destroy those plants at any moment, but because they had grown in the miasma's corruption. She had mistaken that for vitality. If her goal was to protect the green of the earth… there was more, so much more green out there in the world for her to protect.
As soon as this thought crossed her mind, Windy regretted it. She didn't want to fall into self-doubt so easily.
In the nearby forest, Sowema was searching for materials to craft a bow.