Chapter 38: Pain and Pleasure (Please Vote for Recommendation)

Azeroth.

A certain unremarkable timeline, Mount Hyjal.

Gazing at the ravine ahead, where the lich "Reggie Winterchill" had been reduced to a pile of bones, and the dreadlord "Anetheron" had finally perished under the assault of thousands of elite soldiers, Jaina at last breathed a sigh of relief.

"Champions of the Alliance, the Burning Legion’s assault grows ever more fearsome. We cannot hold here any longer; we must retreat!"

"Now, we must set aside our hatred and support Thrall and his New Horde."

"Brave adventurers, thank you for your assistance. I am sorry—my mana and spirit are spent; I cannot bring you all to the Horde encampment. The night elf sentinels will guide you onward. We will go ahead."

With the help of human and high elf mages, Jaina began to cast her spell.

After several tense seconds, an enormous mass teleportation spell was finally completed.

Jaina exhaled, relieved.

Not yet ascended to legendary status, she found casting such a spell exceedingly difficult—yet it was necessary.

Mount Hyjal was vast.

From the Alliance camp to the Horde camp was dozens of kilometers. To teleport directly would not only save time but also conserve strength, allowing the exhausted soldiers to rest, the wounded to be treated, and everyone to regain their stamina.

As for those greedy adventurers?

They'd been paid what they were owed—nothing more was due. In a true crisis, they'd surely flee.

Unlike the champions of the Alliance, who were bound to fight to the death.

"Champions of the Alliance, follow me—we march to the Horde encampment!"

Jaina raised her staff.

Brilliant blue radiance enveloped Alliance soldiers one by one.

Everyone was cloaked in light, drawing envious stares from the adventurers.

"Let’s go!"

Jaina activated the mass teleportation.

The Alliance soldiers all felt relief wash over them.

And then—

A flash of light.

Everyone remained in place.

The mass teleportation spell vanished.

Jaina glanced at her staff, then at the baffled Alliance soldiers, then at the adventurers busily squabbling over the "Chronicle of Dark Secrets" and the "Unyielding Will."

She wanted to weep.

Father, teacher, Arthas, Kael’thas, Thrall…

Could any of you tell me where that enormous mass teleportation spell went?

Exhausted, she was in no condition to attempt a second one.

Jaina could only try casting a smaller teleport.

But even twice in a row, it failed…

No, the spells succeeded—but the teleportation simply vanished…

Jaina’s heart ached—she would not waste any more mana, and thus led everyone to retreat on foot.

The Alliance soldiers, weary and wounded, were no match for the tireless, endless demons of the Burning Legion.

Three hours later, the Alliance was annihilated; Jaina fell.

A day later, the Horde was wiped out; Thrall perished.

Three days later, the night elves were destroyed; Malfurion and Tyrande died.

Majestic and formidable, Archimonde finally appeared, climbed upon the World Tree, and greedily devoured its energy.

He grew ever larger.

At last, he drained the World Tree and the second Well of Eternity of all their power.

A year later.

Beneath a burning sky,

The world was reduced to ashes.

...

...

Sanctum of New York.

Ever since receiving Baron Mordo’s message, relaying the command of the Sorcerer Supreme, the temple guardian Daniel Drumm had been using the Sanctum’s very power to monitor all of North America.

Suddenly, his calm, dark face twitched.

His thick lips parted, revealing immaculate white teeth.

"Finally detected."

"Combining the Sorcerer Supreme’s readings, it can be confirmed—the unknown mage is somewhere in the western or southern United States!"

...

...

America.

A certain state, a certain district.

Some unknown place—a secret Hydra base.

Whitehall’s private laboratory.

Joseph lay upon a specially designed examination table, receiving the unique ministrations of a group of white-coated technicians.

On his head sat a peculiarly shaped helmet, not unlike the virtual reality headgear gamers had longed for—if one ignored the array of cruel, inhuman tools inside.

Fine probes pierced his skull, while a milky-white serum to enhance sensory nerves was injected into his body—9cc.

Faint currents sent intense sensations through him, not unlike an electric chair—though not as lethal, instead bringing an unprecedented ecstasy, as evidenced by a stubborn, unyielding bulge.

Surgical lights illuminated every crease on his face.

To Joseph, it felt as though he’d spent a century in a dream.

At times, he thrashed in agony—veins bulging, features contorted, drenched in cold sweat.

At other moments, he moaned in pleasure, his aged face flushing, his body writhing in movements almost shameful.

Several data cables connected him to various medical instruments, including an exceedingly expensive supercomputer.

Pulsing spectrograms tracked his vital signs and cerebral activity.

A full ten minutes passed.

Suddenly, Joseph’s eyes snapped open.

"Ah!"

He screamed in pain, then, as the agony faded, his gaze sharpened.

He stared in confusion at his surroundings.

Where am I?

Wasn’t I supposed to be tied to a table, being whipped by Eli?

That place was rather nice—how did I end up here?

What are you people planning to do to me?

Don’t!

"Excellent," Whitehall said, approaching the table, toying with a long, razor-sharp scalpel. He measured it thoughtfully against Joseph’s face, adjusting with care, a gentle smile curving his lips. "I ask; you answer. First question: where is the Book of Dark Gods?"

"The Book of Dark Gods? What are you talking about? I don’t know—you should check the library!" Joseph’s eyes flickered with panic and evasiveness.

Who is this man?

How does he know about the Book of Dark Gods?

Does he know Eli?

Is he one of Eli’s people? Or is Eli his subordinate?

Did Eli send me here because he couldn’t break me, handing me over to this man?

Heh.

Whips, ropes, candles—I fear none of them. Why should I fear a scalpel?

No one will take my Book of Dark Gods!

Wait, why does my face hurt so much?

No, it hurts a great deal!

With his pain senses amplified a hundredfold, Joseph experienced the agony of childbirth—a sensation…

Exquisite.

Whitehall smiled softly, deftly moved his fingers, and the scalpel traced a deep, long gash down Joseph’s cheek.

The left side.

From the corner of his eye to the corner of his mouth.

A fine line.

He raised the scalpel, watching a drop of blood slowly drip from its tip, listening to Joseph’s shriek, seeing the terror—tinged with pleasure—flood his eyes. His tone was as gentle as his smile: "Wrong answer. One cut."

Joseph’s fists clenched white, yet a wild exhilaration swept over him. From below, liquid with a sharp, acrid scent spurted forth, soaking the summer air.

Whitehall’s smile grew, and the scalpel flashed again.

A near-identical wound appeared on Joseph’s right cheek.

A perfect symmetry.

Neat and pleasing.

A beauty unconnected to art—one of mathematical perfection, the kind to delight an engineer’s heart.

"Polluting the air—another cut."

Whitehall’s smile deepened. "Don’t worry. I’ve dissected many bodies. A few years ago, I even studied the ancient Chinese practice of death by a thousand cuts. I guarantee each slice is quick and precise, thin as mutton. Perhaps not three hundred sixty, but in under one hundred twenty cuts, you won’t die. You won’t even be able to."

Joseph swallowed.

He felt himself enveloped by boundless terror.

He wasn’t afraid of being hurt.

Pain mingled with pleasure—something few understood, but he relished it.

But to be sliced into hundreds of pieces—now, that was not so delightful.

How could such a terrifying person exist in this world?

At that moment, Joseph’s fear of this man outweighed the lure of the Book of Dark Gods.

"I’ll tell—I’ll tell you everything!"