Chapter Thirty-Two: Contact

The alchemical potion had been improved by Patrick; this batch was intended as supplies for Sylvanas’s frontline troops. After being purchased by the council in Silvermoon City, it would be sent onward to the Ghostlands. Some of the materials were crafted into alchemical potions by the Sun Sanctuary. The healing potion Patrick was now producing was far more effective than the council’s distributed red potion. Once finished, he only needed to submit a price list to the council. The prices of various goods in Quel’Thalas remained fairly stable, but labor costs still provided considerable profit.

Currently, Sunspire Tower's strength was weak. The four mages stationed in the tower mostly handled basic tasks, and Patrick’s assignments to them were often completed with little enthusiasm, more sporadic than diligent. This had become a trait among the elves—a matter that could not be forced, only approached gradually.

Patrick already had plans for the future. Many enemies awaited: the whole of Azeroth was surrounded by threats. Since Medivh had been possessed, there would be the orc invasion, the Qiraji, the Scourge, the Burning Legion, the Old Gods, Deathwing, the Nightmare War, the Twilight War, and countless other villains striving to destroy Azeroth—yes, striving.

To gain sufficient political influence among Azeroth’s major powers, to have a voice that was equal and respected, strength was indispensable. None of the future enemies would be easy to deal with.

Night at the Sun Sanctuary was not like that in Eversong Forest; here, the evenings were noticeably colder. The Sanctuary’s defensive barrier was raised, magical lamps flickered along the elven streets, and the elves’ nightlife was vibrant. Below, the rangers’ parties were in full swing: many elven men boasted to the women about their valor and feats in battle, while the women blushed, listening to their companions.

The wind whispered atop Sunspot Peak, and Patrick looked up at the brilliant night sky where starlight mingled with moonlight. The night sky on Earth had once appeared just so. The ancients often spoke of being moved by sights; now he too felt their sentiment, thinking of family and friends who were far away, even in another universe. Old classmates and childhood friends—now all that remained was a sigh.

The more he thought, the angrier he felt. Surely, this was all the fault of Allen Moon-Sanctuary.

[How is it my fault? Besides, didn’t you always want to cross over to Azeroth? Didn’t you think this place was full of beautiful women and extraordinary power? By rights, you should be thanking me.] Allen immediately tried to shift the blame.

“I’m only expressing my feelings—why are you interfering?” Damn, just as he was building up some atmosphere, this ancient relic ruined it.

[I’m just expressing my feelings too—what’s wrong with that?]

Fine, this round goes to you.

Starlight poured down, illuminating the magical trees nearby. Golden leaves fluttered in the mountain breeze, harmonizing with the elves partying below—a beautiful scene, indeed.

All magical knowledge lay in understanding, sensing, and mastering the world’s energies. Thus, arcane magic was most distinctly represented in those ordinary spells. Low-level mages often lacked sufficient mental power, able only to shape spells directly through magical energy, a process that required a complete grasp of magical energies.

Each sigil reflected a mage’s arcane understanding; each magical pattern contained the mage’s pursuit of the arcane; each line of incantation spoke of the world’s arcane truths.

“Chief Patrick, General Sylvanas has come to requisition troops. The Mage Tower needs to prepare military supplies for them,” came Quelrintis’s voice.

Patrick instantly teleported to the hall and met Sylvanas.

“Good day, General Sylvanas!” Patrick nodded in greeting.

“Good day, Chief Patrick. My visit is as usual: some ranger units are rotating, and the frontline camp needs resupply.” Sylvanas was already seated in the hall, holding a cup of calming flower tea. Her bright red lips left a mark on the rim.

“The supplies are ready. I’ve revised the formulas for some potions, and their healing effects are improved.” Patrick produced the potent potions he’d prepared for Sylvanas’s inspection.

Sylvanas gently opened a bottle, poured out a little, and tasted it.

“This is an excellent potion. You added Sungrass and Blindweed, didn’t you? I don’t know how you managed it, but refining Sungrass and Blindweed and then fusing them with the original potion is remarkable. Chief Patrick, your presence at Sun Sanctuary is a blessing for the frontline troops,” Sylvanas said.

No wonder she was the military commander of the Ghostlands; a single sip revealed the addition of Sungrass and Blindweed. Patrick glanced at Sylvanas—the elf woman’s collarbone was exposed, somewhat eye-catching.

“It is indeed Sungrass and Blindweed. What does General Sylvanas think of this potion?”

“It’s excellent; its healing power is much improved, and it works faster than before.” Sylvanas was quite satisfied, immediately instructing several ranger soldiers to begin moving the goods, then handling the delivery with Quelrintis.

“A diligent, passionate mage,” Sylvanas thought as she looked at Patrick.

Patrick resumed his studies.

Sigils flowed from the tip of his pen as he immersed himself in the sea of arcane magic, forgetting all else. Incantations leapt onto arcane parchment, connecting arcane sigils. Each spell was the distilled essence of Patrick’s magic. As he wrote more incantations and sigils, the parchment became densely covered with his wisdom, and the allure of arcane energy was intoxicating.

His mental power began to spread, energy filling the sheets of parchment. The sigils and incantations seemed eager to escape, leaping beyond the paper, freely deconstructing and recombining into new sets of sigil-incantation combinations. Arcane wisdom was sublimating, evolving into new arcane knowledge, which returned to Patrick’s sea of consciousness.

Arcane magic mesmerized Patrick; its pale blue energy enchanted every elf. The newly formed combinations of sigils and incantations were absorbed by Patrick, the runes etched into his mind—memorized, understood, mastered.

The sigils and incantations in the air gradually faded. Patrick’s mental power receded as he carefully memorized the new knowledge in his mind. He rubbed his eyes, and his mental power lifted the teapot to pour himself a cup of calming flower tea, intending to rest a bit. The recent session had consumed much of his mental energy, and Patrick looked somewhat fatigued.