Chapter Eleven: Departure

Patrick planned to leave Silvermoon City, to study and travel in order to broaden his horizons. He intended to be away for several years, with the main purpose of encountering other sources of arcane wisdom. In his mind, he was essentially going away to attend university.

A few years, he thought, would be enough. If not for the elves’ obsession with pleasure and indulgence, the development of Silvermoon City would be nothing short of astonishing. The title of “Magical Kingdom” was well-earned; all the city’s amenities were powered by arcane forces, as essential to its people as electricity is to the modern world.

In fact, thinking of arcane power as a kind of electricity wasn’t far off. The only real difference was that people on Earth couldn’t control electrical energy with their minds, while in Azeroth, people could manipulate the arcane with their will. (Both shimmered with the same pale blue hue, both emanated similar energy fields, and both allowed for the design of intricate circuits.)

Before setting out to study abroad, Patrick needed to consult his family, to seek their opinions. When his parents learned the reason for his journey, they were astonished. Both agreed that if he was going to study elsewhere, a few years seemed far too short.

From the perspective of the high elves, it took at least a thousand years, if not more, for a mage apprentice to become independent enough to serve as an assistant in a mage tower, and then to eventually master the arcane arts and conduct research of their own.

Patrick almost didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He couldn’t tell his parents that his soul was actually human. Nor could he reveal that within his body resided an ancient mage, one who had achieved immortality in ages past and was on the verge of ascending to demigodhood.

[What do you mean, “ancient mage?”]

“Didn’t you tell me yourself? During the War of the Ancients, as an archmage of the Royal Magic Research Association, you advanced to the rank of Transcendent Archmage with the power of the Well of Eternity—only a step away from demigodhood,” Patrick replied, raising his elegant brows.

[Indeed. If not for the explosion of the Well of Eternity, from ten thousand years ago until now, I would have advanced long ago. Back then, I had already achieved immortality, transcending the mundane in pursuit of higher arcane truths. You may call me Transcendent Archmage or Archmage of Truth, not some “ancient relic.”]

Setting aside Allen’s interjection, Patrick realized that humans and high elves held fundamentally different views on time and existence.

And perhaps that was only natural. If elves were as impatient as humans, they would surely rule all of Azeroth by now. Take his own parents, Phil Cabron and Ena Cabron—they had lived nearly three thousand years, yet had only two children: himself and his brother, Patterson Cabron. Such a birth rate was beyond words. If humans lived that long, they could populate an entire planet.

One conclusion was clear: the low birth rate among elves was largely due to the males. After all, when Ronin and Vereesa married, they had children within a few years—and twins, at that.

Furthermore, the entire high elf race was obsessed with the Sunwell. Regardless of gender or magical ability, nearly everyone could cast a few spells. This widespread fascination, especially among the men, seemed to dampen any interest in fathering children.

Lastly, the social atmosphere of the high elves was decadent. In pleasure-seeking Quel’Thalas, most parents were not eager for children. They cared only for their own enjoyment; children were little more than a side effect, and it was the process of creation, not the outcome, that interested them.

Leaving home, Patrick set out. Arriving for the first time at Silvermoon City’s main gate, he found it far grander than in the game. Statues of Kings Anasterian and Dath’remar flanked the entrance, guarded by spellbreakers. Statues of elven maidens encircled the magical fountain beyond, as if welcoming every visitor. The gate itself opened directly onto Salas Avenue, leading out to Eversong Woods.

In later ages, the main gate of Silvermoon would be destroyed, and Salas Avenue would become the Death Scar, splitting the city in two, haunted by endless wailing spirits and roaming ghouls—a blade of agony plunged into the heart of the high elves, a pain that could be felt with every breath.

Time was not the healer it was thought to be. It hadn’t helped the high elves forget their pain; it merely taught them to live with it, to accept it as an inescapable part of life.

Patrick’s first destination was the Eastern Sanctum, directly south of Silvermoon City—a renowned magical sanctuary of Quel’Thalas, situated east of Fairbreeze Village, west of the Forest of Life, and right beside Salas Avenue. It served as a crucial supply point on the kingdom’s main thoroughfare.

The Eastern Sanctum also watched over the Forest of Life, keeping an eye on the Zeb’Watha trolls, and provided logistical support and reinforcements for the Farstrider and Sendor rune stones, together with Fairbreeze Village. Its importance was self-evident.

Upon arrival, Patrick found the Eastern Sanctum not as he remembered. It now resembled a bustling small town, with many more ranger units than usual. The Zeb’Watha trolls had recently grown more aggressive, and sentries outside the town had noted their distant presence. The Farstriders were on high alert, increasing their patrols to strengthen the sanctum’s defenses.

His first task was to find the inn, intending to rest for a few days before continuing to Tranquillien in the Ghostlands.

The inn’s attendant hurried over to greet him, clearly unused to hosting a mage of the fifth circle. Resident mages in the town usually stayed in the tower, not the inn, and most non-resident mages left soon after resupplying. A solitary mage like Patrick was rare; fifth-circle mages usually traveled with attendants or at least a few apprentices. At this level, they were considered the middle tier among elves, with potential to become high arcane masters in the future.

After getting settled, Patrick walked the streets. Due to the troll threat, the town was much quieter than before—few people were out, and rangers patrolled everywhere, with sentries reinforcing the outer outposts.

By chance, he caught sight of their ranger leader—Alleria. Why was she here? Wasn’t she supposed to be commanding the campaign against the trolls at the Farstrider’s Lodge? Or perhaps the pressure there had eased, leaving only the Eastern Sanctum facing a steady advance from the trolls. As Patrick observed, the number of ranger guards at the outer watchtowers had clearly increased. Beneath the towers, rangers had set traps and trenches, while inside, the main thoroughfares were kept clear to ensure swift movement. Alleria seemed to have considered every possibility—no wonder she was the leader of the Farstriders, a master of troll-fighting tactics.