The Portal

The disciples of all the Masters gathered in the Resource Hall first thing in the morning, most of them wide awake and grumbling. It wouldn't be long before we heard Arcan's voice explode in our ears with his various morning encouragements ("Come on, you pussies, stop drooling on the cushions!"). Then we'd all have to run in circles for an hour in the Hall, without stopping. He himself took the opportunity to run with us. Anyone who showed signs of tiredness could expect further encouragement ("The first one who flinches, I'll stick a spear up his arse and mop up my bedroom floor!). I, who after a month was still struggling to run half an hour, was of course entitled to enthusiastic prognostications about my future ("I hope you know how to hold a broom, Stropo, you won't have another weapon!"). We immediately moved on to various exercises, push-ups, sit-ups, squats, with a few variations depending on his mood. Then he'd send the future priests and mages back to their books ("You future cloth wimps can get lost!"). We'd then go to the nearby training weapons store and each pick up a copy of the type of weapon he'd asked for ("Come on, massage class today - one-handed mace!"). We lined up in rows. He'd either teach us a new technique, or remind us of one we already knew - and then we'd repeat it over and over. He'd go through the rows, stopping those who didn't execute the move perfectly and explaining their mistake ("Is that for striking or casting a hook? Are you tired? I'm tired too, of seeing such worms!). I was a year younger than the others, I didn't know anything about guards or leg movements, and I was discovering what was supposed to be known, so I was his favorite target ("That's a nice thing you're doing, what kind of dance is that?").

Suppliers and passers-by glanced at us, sometimes stopping for a moment. Some were even loyal spectators who came every morning to watch us sweat, and smile at the Master's roars.

As Arcan only taught the basics of fencing in the mornings, as the weeks went by, all we did was repeat one or more well-known movements, at his whim, and pass what served as a test: mock fights between ourselves. Finally, the lunch break arrived, and everyone ran off at the first sound out of Arcan's mouth to announce the end of the session. Training weapons were tossed unceremoniously into the storeroom. No one looked back, and a few "Good-byes" and "See you tomorrow" could barely be heard.

Arcan always refrained from commenting on the end of these sessions. Taunting and mocking all morning, he suddenly watched all the disciples leave, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes black as ever.

I wasn't in such a hurry to join my tutor Ondraiev for our daily lunch tête-à-tête. I stayed a while, waiting for the Hall to quiet down, then turned to Arcan and made the gesture that means "See you later" to us - before immediately lowering my head, fleeing his gaze. "Yes, see you later", he'd reply in a strange tone, and I'd slip away.

After ten days or so, I was a little less afraid of him, and finally found the reason for his strange tone.

When I gave him this sign, he'd give up his gloomy look. And he'd smile back.

In the afternoon, I was alone with Arcan.

I learned the basics of fencing with his favorite weapon, the long sword. On the first day, he waited for me at the entrance to the Hall for the pleasure of unexpectedly swinging a practice sword at me - which I received in the face - and laughing sadistically as I fell backwards. He was covered in full plate armor.

The guards. Legs flexible, knee slightly bent. "To be stiff is to be unbalanced at the first shock. The legs must always be ready to compensate for pressure, whatever side it comes from." The torso either facing the opponent, or in profile.

Delivering a blow. "If you move your blade while standing still, your blow will have no force, unless you risk imbalance or the creation of openings. If you strike by taking a step forward, your blow will benefit not only from the strength of your arms and the weight of your blade, but also from the weight of your body. And the faster you execute the stroke, the more you multiply the power added by your weight. In short, you have to be very strong, very heavy and very fast all at the same time."

Immediate demonstration on a crude dummy. First he gave a simple oblique blow while standing still - he cut deeply into the wooden shoulder. "Hey hey, that's because it's me, you'd scratch it." Then he took a step back, adopted the basic guard, and delivered the same oblique but lightning blow, perfectly synchronized with a forward step hammered into the ground. The dummy was thrown three meters away, completely pulverized. "It's to show you this that I took out the armor. To sum up, the first time the dummy took the three kilos of the weapon and a little of my strength, period. The second time, he was hit in the face by my two hundred kilos plus the ninety of the armor - a total of almost three hundred, not counting the force my arms were able to deploy freely and the speed of the blow, which doubled the impact. When I strike, an ordinary opponent had better dodge. Even if he parries, he'll be thrown, unbalanced or even disarmed." He fixed his eyes on mine. "If I'm going to teach you fencing, it's so that you become much more than just an ordinary opponent. You're going to learn all the counter-attacks and feints you can deploy against opponents of my stature. But you're going to have to do a lot of sport. Every other afternoon, fencing, and every other afternoon, weight training and gymnastics. The day you parry one of my blows without falling over or getting down on one knee, then you'll be strong enough."

I never did. Arcan was a monster.

After their hurried departure from Stormwind, the two travelers had once again enjoyed the tranquility of a long gryphon journey. Stropovitch tried unsuccessfully to doze off during the second half of the journey. When he gave up, the landscape before his eyes surprised him so much that he doubted for a second he'd stayed awake.

The vast marshes that laid behind him had suddenly given way to barren, cracked red earth. The contrast shocked the retina. They had arrived at the ancient swamp now known as the Blasted Lands - for the Dark Portal was like a tear in the fabric of reality, so that it had destroyed or corrupted all life in its vicinity and plunged its immediate surroundings into a storm of Shadow with flashes of Void straight from the distorted Twisted Nether. This was why the last Alliance stronghold still maintained and supplied was called Nethergarde Keep.

Unfortunately, the gateway to Stropovitch's home world was hidden from the draenei's view by a hill that looked like a gaunt carcass.

Moments later, the two companions entered the Nethergarde Keep inn.

Stropovitch was weary and dreamy. This was not to the gnome's liking - she was indefatigable. She said to him with a big smile:

"Have you seen what the region looks like? I assure you it'll be the same landscape on the other side. You're going to see the last remaining piece of your old world, and a completely devastated one at that." Such delicacy and compassion, it's too much! The warrior smiled sadly.

"Will you have something?" asked the innkeeper. The gnome didn't reply, but mumbled a few words of invocation and conjured up cinnamon rolls, bread pudding, waffles, croissants and a jug of clear water on the table - before smiling at him, showing all her teeth.

Just as the innkeeper's complexion began to match the color of the region, and it smelled like an invitation to go out or even a call to the guard, a small piece of paper appeared before his eyes, ordering a roast chicken and half a liter of local ale.

"You're not funny, Stropo, you've calmed him down", Thiwwina grumbled as she watched the waiter walk away. Then she put on a pleading face and asked in her most childish tone: "Will you give me some of your chicken please?" The warrior lowered his eyes under the assault and capitulated unconditionally.

The chicken and its garnish arrived. The dish was gobbled up. A hand reached out, announcing a price. Stropovitch frowned.

No need to reach for his belt, his purse had just disappeared. His eyes met those of Thiwwina. She understood.

In half a second, the warrior was on the stairs leading upstairs. She leapt into the middle of the room and froze the legs of all the customers. Cries of surprise and pain. But she'd seen it. Out of the corner of her eye, a shadow that had appeared and then immediately evaporated.

Not only had their adversary blended into the shadows, he had instantly escaped the ice trap. It wasn't just anyone.

In the blink of an eye, she teleported outside and unleashed a swirling wind of frost that could freeze everything within a ten-meter radius. Nothing. She thought for half a second before being stunned by a violent blow to the occiput.

Then Stropovitch jumped from the upstairs window and landed on Thiwwina's back, hoping to catch the thief. He failed, but felt he had touched something to his right. He turned instantly in that direction; a forward step hammered on the ground; two swords cleaving the air horizontally, 180°.

Hit. Four centimetres of blood on the tip of the blade. Serious injury.

Stropovitch searched the gloom with his eyes. Suddenly, a purse was thrown at his feet. The wounded thief was handing it back to him and asking him to stop fighting.

The warrior frowned, then nodded. He picked up the purse. Inside the inn, everyone was shouting. There was no point in trying to convince them that Thiwwina hadn't done this to leave without paying.

He sighed and took the gnome under his arm. It was time to hurry out of the fortress, and sleep under the stars - fortunately, it was the right season.

The next day, Stropovitch awoke at dawn, and the first thing he saw was the Portal.

A black stain on red, in the distance.

He shook with nervousness, woke Thiwwina and prepared to leave.

The gnome had two pages of notebook to read to learn the end of the previous evening's adventure. For an hour, unusually, she was not in a good mood. Being knocked unconscious by a robber, she the world arena champion! She was offended.

Stropovitch couldn't take his eyes off the Portal - even when he couldn't see it, he was peering through the relief. While Thiwwina slaughtered any mutated beast that approached them, he advanced, fascinated. A black spot on bright red. It seemed a symbol - but it was real. Or so they said. He knew that thousands of fighters had passed through this gate before, but his stomach knotted at the thought of passing through it.

As they approached, it became more apparent.

It was a dimensional portal, like swirling black, like hungry emptiness. Framing it was a monumental door, ten meters high. The two pillars were each adorned with a statue of a hooded man dressed in a long robe, his hands resting on the hilt of a sword, itself standing on the tip of the blade. A monumental carved snake's head protruded from the pediment. The gate was at the bottom of a kind of small valley, in which were a few siege machines and soldiers who didn't glance at them. "The battle is on the other side," indicated the gnome.

Stone steps.

The draenei climbed them, still fascinated by the portal's vortex, which made the air quiver with tenebrous waves.

And there it was. He stood facing the vortex. It was suddenly cold. It was as if the Twisted Nether was about to swallow him up.

"Boo the coward!" exclaimed Thiwwina as she jumped into the portal. She disappeared.

Stropovitch clenched his fists, closed his eyes and took a step. And another.

And another.