After the glorious victory that shook northern Kalimdor, the dragons of Valinor—Geraint the wise, Velskud the fierce, Igneel ablaze with fiery spirit, Irene calm yet deadly, Argenta graceful, and Selene mysterious—flew back to their homeland. They did not return alone. With them came the companions who had survived the brutal battle, bearing wounds and memories that would shape the future. The skies of Valinor welcomed them with a gentle light that spread like golden mist, as if the land itself acknowledged the courage and sacrifice they had shown for a better world.
Elsewhere, Tyr and the five proto-dragons remained in the frozen tundra, still marked by the remnants of battle. Unmelted snow covered cracked earth and bloodstained stone. In the silence that hung heavy, Tyr stood tall, his presence radiating unshakable calm. In a voice both quiet and commanding, he began to explain to the proto-dragons their origins—of the ancient world that shaped them, of the Titans who created the Keepers, and of the great will that governs the flow of the cosmos from behind the veil of time and space.
While Tyr and the proto-dragons fought Galakrond, the other Keepers remained trapped in a long slumber of indifference, blind to the growing threat. When they finally awoke, it was nearly too late. They witnessed the devastation left behind by the corrupted monster and felt ashamed of their apathy. Yet Tyr never blamed them. He offered no rebuke, showed no anger. Instead, he called them to rise and make amends. He assured them that the five proto-dragons had proven themselves and were worthy of receiving the power to protect Azeroth from threats yet to come.
Only one opposed the idea: Keeper Odyn. Though he did not deny the bravery of the proto-dragons, he rejected the notion that the fate of the world should be entrusted to beings he deemed primitive. In his view, only Titan-forged had the strength and discipline to maintain the world's balance. He saw Alexstrasza and the others as wild creatures, not yet worthy of trust. As Prime Candidate, Odyn insisted that the final decision was his alone.
But Tyr was not alone. The other Keepers, who had witnessed the sacrifice and valor of the proto-dragons, stood with him. They rejected Odyn's view and chose to entrust the future to the winged beings who had proven themselves in the battle against Galakrond. Though Odyn continued to protest and argue, the plan moved forward.
After Galakrond's defeat, the Keepers gathered on the frozen tundra where the final battle had taken place. Even Ra, the High Keeper from the distant south, came to attend the grand ceremony that would determine the world's new direction. Acting as conduits of their creators' power, the Keepers present began to bestow the Pantheon's blessings upon each proto-dragon.
Ra channeled Aman'Thul's power into Nozdormu's body. Of all the creator's gifts, Nozdormu received the blessing to command time itself. He was granted the ability to see the past, control the present, and comprehend the possibilities of the future. From that moment, he was known as the Timeless One, guardian of fate's weave and keeper of the unbroken flow of time.
Freya, the gentle and compassionate Keeper, pleaded with Eonar to empower Alexstrasza. With her creator's blessing, Alexstrasza received the power to nurture and protect life across Azeroth. She became the Life-Binder, a figure devoted to safeguarding living beings and cultivating hope amid destruction. Having proven her courage and compassion in battle, she was crowned Dragon Queen and given command over her kind.
Freya did not stop there. She also asked Eonar to bless Ysera, Alexstrasza's younger sister, with deep influence over nature. Ysera was tasked with guarding Azeroth's wildflowers and forests from within the Emerald Dream, the subtle realm connected to the world's soul. Bound within eternal slumber, Ysera sank into an endless trance and became known as the Dreamer, guardian of the unseen wilds.
Loken, master of knowledge and mystery, requested Norgannon to grant power to Malygos. With his creator's blessing, Malygos gained dominion over magic and the infinite hidden secrets. He became the Spell-Weaver, ruler of the arcane currents flowing beneath the world's surface. His duty was to maintain magical balance and protect knowledge from unworthy hands.
Archaedas, the steadfast and powerful Keeper, asked Khaz'goroth to bless Neltharion with the strength of the deep earth. With a hardened body and resolute spirit, Neltharion received responsibility over mountains, caverns, and the hidden forces of the land. He became the Earth-Warder, companion and trusted ally of Alexstrasza, and protector of the world from within its depths.
Filled with the Pantheon's energy, the five proto-dragons underwent a magnificent transformation. Their bodies grew, becoming majestic and awe-inspiring beings. Nozdormu's scales turned to shimmering bronze, like golden desert sands. Alexstrasza's scales glowed deep crimson, blazing like embers. Ysera's supple form turned bright green, reflecting her new bond with nature. Malygos radiated icy blue, emanating limitless arcane power. Neltharion's hide became jet black, hard as stone and brimming with the strength of the earth.
From that day forward, these five extraordinary beings were known as the Dragon Aspects—the new guardians of Azeroth, bearers of hope, power, and balance for a world ever in flux.
The Keepers, having witnessed the grand transformation of the Dragon Aspects, did not stop there. They realized that to maintain the fragile balance of this world, the Aspects needed more than divine power—they needed allies, mates, and loyal servants. Thus began the creation of a new species, born from proto-dragon eggs that had been magically altered by the hands of the Keepers themselves. Hundreds of those eggs, which had once held only wild potential, were now filled with the essence of the Aspects.
From those eggs emerged creatures that resembled the Aspects in form and power, though smaller and more diverse. This new race became known as dragons, and they were divided into five flights, each reflecting the Aspect they followed: bronze for Nozdormu, red for Alexstrasza, green for Ysera, blue for Malygos, and black for Neltharion. Though each flight carried its own duties and characteristics, they were all bound by a single sacred oath: to protect Azeroth from destruction.
To strengthen the bonds between flights and establish a solid center of coordination, the Keepers built a magnificent tower in northern Kalimdor. The tower was named Wyrmrest Temple. With soaring architecture and walls carved from sacred stone, Wyrmrest became a sanctuary and cultural hub for all dragons. There, they gathered, debated, and devised strategies to safeguard the world. But more than that, the tower stood as a symbol of unity and hope—that despite their differences, they remained one in purpose.
After completing their great task, the Keepers returned to their respective sanctuaries, entrusting the Aspects with the duty of watching over and protecting the living beings of Azeroth. But not all Keepers were satisfied. In the cold, silent halls of Ulduar, Odyn sat brooding. He felt betrayed by his peers, who had acted against his will as Prime Candidate. He did not believe that dragons—creatures he saw as raw and untested—could guard the world against the threats to come.
For the sake of Azeroth, according to his own vision, Odyn decided to take action. He would create an elite force entirely under his command—a force he could summon at any time to defend the world. To fill its ranks, Odyn chose the vrykul, a mighty race he had long admired for their courage and strength. In his eyes, the vrykul were the perfect embodiment of warrior spirit, superior to any creature forged by the Titans.
When Tyr and the other Keepers returned to Ulduar and learned of Odyn's plan, they immediately demanded he abandon it. But Odyn stood firm. He remained steadfast in his belief and even invited the other Keepers to join him in forming the force. When none stepped forward, Odyn declared he would proceed alone.
Odyn then secured one wing of Ulduar and transformed it into the headquarters of his new army. To permanently separate it from the main fortress and the other Keepers, he summoned Helya, a Titan-forged sorceress whom he had long considered his adopted daughter. Helya cast a great spell that enveloped the fortress, then with full force, tore a massive chunk from Ulduar and lifted it into the cloudy sky. That floating stronghold, glowing with stormlight, would later be known as the Halls of Valor.
From atop his fortress, Odyn issued a proclamation to all vrykul. He promised that those who fell honorably in battle would be reborn in the Halls of Valor. Their souls would be carried to the fortress and given new, mighty bodies, forged from storms and divine will. These champions, known as the Valarjar, would become Azeroth's ultimate guardians. Their deeds would be remembered forever by all Titan-forged beings.
But one problem remained: how to transport the souls of fallen vrykul to the Halls of Valor. To solve this, Odyn studied the energies that permeated the Shadowlands. From the knowledge he gained, he created spectral beings known as the Valkyr—ghostly servants capable of traveling between the physical world and the realm of spirits, guiding worthy vrykul souls to the fortress in the sky. However, those who became Valkyr were cursed to live as phantoms forever, severed from body and light.
No vrykul volunteered for such a heavy burden. So Odyn decided to create his servants by force. Helya, who witnessed this decision, rebuked the Keeper for his willingness to enslave Titan-forged beings without their consent. The argument between Helya and Odyn escalated, nearly turning into a violent clash. Helya warned that if Odyn did not change his mind, she would return the Halls of Valor to Ulduar.
Odyn saw Helya's defiance as a grave threat—not just to his plan, but to the future safety of Azeroth itself. Blinded by ambition, he attacked Helya. Her physical body was destroyed, and her soul was twisted into the first Val'kyr. Her scream of pain and rage echoed across the surface of Azeroth and pierced the heart of the Shadowlands, creating a wound that would never heal.
This devastating transformation darkened Helya forever. But her suffering didn't end there. Though she hated Odyn for what he had done to her, she remained bound to his command. Under the Keeper's control, Helya began turning unwilling vrykul into cursed Val'kyr—eternal servants who carried heroic souls to the Halls of Valor.
For centuries, Helya and the other Val'kyr carried out their duties. The Halls of Valor were filled with Valarjar, cloaked in storms and battle spirit. Odyn trained and empowered each warrior with harsh discipline and a singular purpose. He never regretted abandoning the other Keepers or transforming Helya into the first Val'kyr. In his mind, everything he had done was for the salvation of Azeroth and the honor of the great Pantheon.
—
But it wasn't only the continent of Kalimdor that underwent great change. Across the ocean, in the sacred land of Valinor, something older than time itself began to awaken. The consciousness of the World Tree, which had long remained silent and voiceless, slowly began to rise. The tree was now inhabited by the soul of a man from another world—someone who had once spoken directly with Eru Ilúvatar, the creator of all that exists.
Darkness enveloped the roots and branches of the tree...
Silmalorë.
That name emerged, carved so deeply into my mind. A new name that replaced his former identity. A name that had now become part of the land itself.
Silmalorë opened his eyes. Strangely, what he saw was not the earth, nor the sky. What stretched before him was a vast expanse of clouds, rolling slowly, as if welcoming the rebirth of a soul long lost.
"Hmm~~~ where am I?"
The voice echoed within Silmalorë's consciousness, though no lips had spoken it. He felt his body couldn't move. He tried several times to shift something—anything—but nothing responded. No muscles, no joints, no nerves. Only silence enveloped his form. The sun began to rise in the distance, lighting the slowly rolling clouds. That light touched the tips of leaves that, somehow, felt like part of him.
Maybe I really did manage to travel through time, like that glowing orb said last time?
Silmalorë was still confused. He didn't know where he was. No walls, no ceiling, no floor. It seemed he wasn't moving either. All he could see ahead were clouds stretching as far as the eye could see, and a sky far too close for any ordinary human.
"So what the hell happened? Where is this?"
He kept looking around. The flora and fauna nearby looked strange—colors too vivid, shapes too symmetrical. But at the same time, something felt familiar. As if he'd seen all this before… in a dream, or in some vague shadow of the past.
In the distance, there was a calm lake, its surface reflecting the morning light. Near it stood two trees radiating bright light—one golden, the other silver. Further out, he saw towering trees and dense forests rising like natural fortresses.
"I think my body is really tall now… tall enough to see the clouds. But why can't I move? This is so weird."
Silmalorë tried to look down. All he saw were tree roots stretching deep into the earth, piercing layers of soil and stone. He thought hard—what exactly am I now?
He desperately wanted to see his own form. He tried to move his hand. But the only thing that moved was a tree branch, swaying gently in the morning breeze.
"Shit… what the hell have I become?"
He kept scanning his surroundings. The strange flora and fauna didn't feel strange to Silmalorë. Where… where had he seen this before?
The distant forest was breathtaking. Towering trees. And on the other side, a tranquil lake. Near it stood two glowing trees—one radiating golden light, the other silver. The view was beautiful… and completely unfamiliar.
"I think my body is really tall now… tall enough to see the clouds. But why can't I move? This is so weird."
He tried looking down again to be sure. All he saw were tree roots stretching into the ground. He thought hard. What am I now?
I really want to see myself.
I tried to move my hand. But the only thing that moved was a tree branch, swaying gently.
"Shit… this can't be real. I… became a tree?"
Silmalorë could only curse inwardly at his new condition. Others who experienced transmigration usually ended up as flesh-and-blood beings—a noble, a mage, even a hero. But why him… why a tree?
"Shit… this is insane. How am I supposed to live like this? I'm just… a tree?"
Frustration boiled over. He tried to move his body, tried to reach for something—anything. But only branches and leaves responded. No hands. No feet. No mouth to scream.
Suddenly, a message appeared before him. Like a transparent blue screen, with an image resembling a glowing letter. Silmalorë tried to reach for it, but of course… he couldn't. Because now he was a tree.
"How am I supposed to open this message if I don't even have fingers?"
"Shit. This is so ridiculous. This is the most absurd transmigration ever."
He cursed inwardly, using every foul word he'd ever learned in his previous life. And at that moment, the message opened on its own.
Turns out… to open the message, all he had to do was curse in his heart.
Silmalorë read the contents of the message with a mix of confusion and rage:
"To my son, Silmalorë,
I have transferred you to another world. You may only create two races, just as I once did in the world of Tolkien. Everything depends on your imagination. You must protect them well. If you wish to teach magic, you may use my song-magic. Or you may create your own magic, but it will drain your life energy. If that energy runs out, you will fall asleep until it recovers.
I have also created a dragon from your memory to accompany you there. May your second life be better.
From your loving father,
Eru Ilúvatar."
Silmalorë was speechless. That message… it really was from the glowing orb he'd once met. He really had been transferred to another world. But now, the most important question arose:
"So where exactly am I? What world is this?"
He looked around. The continent he was on looked very much like Valinor, and nearby he could see Middle-earth. But in the distance, he also saw land that resembled ancient Kalimondor.
Silmalorë shook his head—internally. Though his body was now a tree, his soul was still human. And his instincts screamed: something's wrong.
"This can't be… this clearly isn't… that world."
He refused to believe it. But all signs pointed to one terrifying conclusion.
"This must be… the world of Warcraft."
A world that, according to a Reddit poll, ranked third as the most unwanted destination for time travelers. Only Warhammer 40K and Warhammer Fantasy were above it—two worlds known for chaos, suffering, and absolute nihilism. But Warcraft… had a more subtle cruelty. More cunning. More painful.
In this world, death wasn't the end. Corpses could be raised as undead. Souls could be stolen, imprisoned, or destroyed. War never stopped. There was the Burning Legion, the Scourge, and entities so terrifying that even trees could become their targets.
"Shit. Even as a tree, I could be a target of the Burning Legion. This is insane. This… is the most horrifying transmigration ever."
Silmalorë couldn't do anything but curse all day at the glowing orb that claimed to be Eru Ilúvatar—the one who had brought him to the world of Warcraft… as a tree. Not as a druid. Not as a forest guardian. But as a literal tree. No legs. No hands. No voice.
He tried channeling his magical roots into the lake, sending out the magic energy he still possessed. The lake water felt ancient, as if it held memories of thousands of years. But his magic was slow. Hindered. Too vast for his now-still, planted body.
"Is this pointless? Looks like it'll take forever."
He started feeling bored living as a tree. He was a tree. A giant tree. Many eagles nested in his body. Some even laid eggs among his branches. Squirrels built nests. Mushrooms grew on his roots. He had become an ecosystem.
"Funny… I've become a home for little creatures."
But he didn't give up. He began creating a new kind of magic: light-song. A melody that would give birth to fairies—light-based entities that could gather wood and resources in preparation for building an elven race someday.
He didn't want to cut down other trees. He himself was a tree. Cutting down trees felt… wrong. Like hurting his own kind.
"Better to create something that can gather resources without damaging the ecosystem."
The song began to echo. A soft melody flowed from his body, blending with the wind and light. The notes didn't come from sound, but from energy vibrations traveling through leaves and roots. Fairies began to appear, glowing like tiny stars, dancing in the air.
Silmalorë watched the little glowing fairies born from his own song. They floated gently in the air, shimmering like newborn stars. But he felt… confused.
"Hmm… how do I move them? There's no way I can control them like in a PC game with a screen. This is the real world now… and I'm a tree."
He tried channeling his energy toward them. But his tree body was too large, and his branches couldn't reach the little glowing fairies.
"Ah~~ this is so annoying. How can I touch them?"
Silmalorë thought hard. He was no longer human. He had to think like a tree. If branches were hands, then roots were feet. He tried moving his roots in his mind… and it worked.
Carefully, he channeled life energy toward the glowing fairies that had been playing. They began to tremble, feeling joy as their parent tree gave them a command, responding as if with delight. Silmalorë tried giving them a simple order: gather wood.
And they moved.
"Shit… finally worked."
The little glowing fairies floated toward the nearest forest, gathering wood gently without causing damage. They touched tree trunks, summoned dead wood fragments, and brought them back to Silmalorë's roots. They didn't chop. They restored.
Days passed. He didn't know what else he could do.
"Being a tree is so boring. Can't do anything. Maybe I should start memorizing my surroundings."
Using himself as the center, he began mapping the area around him. Across the lake stretched a dense forest—tall glowing trees like the ones he'd seen in the movie Avatar in his previous life.
"Heh… I see woofsprites. There's floating grass like jellyfish. This really feels like planet Pandora."
He started thinking: wasn't this the seed of the Tree of Life from Pandora's world? He tried channeling life energy through his roots into the surrounding land. Who knows—maybe one day he could communicate with the flora and fauna of Valinor and Middle-earth.
Years passed. Silmalorë explored the world as a tree, absorbing knowledge, touching the earth, and waiting for the awakening of the elven race still sleeping in Lake Cuiviénen—a race created by Eru Ilúvatar, and now his responsibility.
But in a distant place, in the dark corner of the universe, Sargeras began to doubt the will of the Pantheon. He witnessed a darkness that could not be contained, and in despair, he began to betray his brothers.
One day, he would lead the Burning Legion, and the world that was now peaceful would be consumed by endless war.