Chapter 31: Admiral Daelin

In the morning mist at the port of Theramore, the sea breeze swept across the flagpoles, carrying the salty scent of the ocean and causing the blue-and-gold anchor banner of Kul Tiras to snap and flutter. A sentry in the watchtower suddenly widened his eyes, and the brass telescope in his hand clattered onto the wooden planks.

"The fleet! It’s the Admiral’s fleet!"

Jaina’s fingertips tightened instantly on the stone battlements, sending a spray of dust and grit falling below. Even without a telescope, she could clearly see the steel behemoths approaching: a wedge formation composed of twelve Kul Tiran third-rate ships-of-the-line, their prideful anchor figureheads gleaming in the morning light. The *Proudmoore’s Pride* at the lead had already hoisted the Admiral’s colors—a black flag with gold embroidery, wreathed in ribbons of red that looked like jagged lightning.

Deren looked up, apprehensive. "They... they aren't planning to shell the harbor, are they?"

"Father prefers to call it a 'ceremonial salute,'" Jaina said, her lips barely moving, her voice squeezed through gritted teeth. "Provided he is in a good mood."

The sea fell silent for a heartbeat.

Then—

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The gun batteries along the decks spat fire in succession, the broadside of dozens of heavy naval cannons causing the ocean to tremble violently. Amidst the shrieking of shells tearing through the air, Deren instinctively ducked and covered his head, only to realize that the trajectories had been carefully calibrated to avoid the harbor, instead erupting into pillars of water dozens of meters high outside the breakwater. The brine fell like a torrential downpour upon the docks, soaking the Theramore guards who stood at the ready.

A cold sneer from Onyxia drifted from the shadows of the wall. Her slender fingers brushed the battlements, and the stone bricks, dampened by the seawater, immediately hissed with white mist. "Shall we return the favor?"

Nefarian, who had appeared beside her, wore armor of dark red flowing with volcanic veins. "Three against forty-eight. That seems fair."

Chromie popped out of a portal, chewing on a piece of honey bread. "Don't include me!" Her golden pigtails were still dusted with the sands of time, and the hands of her pocket watch were spinning wildly. "If I make such a public appearance, the Boss will definitely criticize me!"

"You can just say you were supervising two unruly black dragons," Deren said calmly. "After all, someone has to make sure they don't cause any trouble."

"That is a brilliant excuse," the little gnome said happily.

Before Jaina could stop them, three draconic silhouettes soared into the sky.

When Onyxia revealed her true form, every loose object in the harbor trembled. Her pitch-black wings eclipsed the rising sun, each scale shimmering with the cold light of elementium. Nefarian’s form was more akin to the apocalyptic dragons of classical oil paintings, his dorsal spines standing out like rows of crimson spears. Chromie assumed the form of a bronze dragon, the swirling sands around her moving in a peculiar, rhythmic cadence.

"Aim—" Nefarian’s dragon maw split open, "—fire!"

The crimson, violet, and golden dragonfire intertwined into a spiral pillar of light, ionizing the air into blinding arcs of electricity. When this torrent of destruction detonated a thousand meters directly above the fleet, the resulting shockwave tore the clouds into radial fissures. The sea surface instantly buckled into a hemispherical vacuum half a mile in diameter, only to be filled a second later by the crashing water, which surged into a ring-shaped wave five meters high.

"Hard to port!" Daelin’s roar echoed from the *Proudmoore’s Pride*. The warship narrowly avoided the crest of the wave, and the sailors on deck clung desperately to the rigging. A young officer’s tricorn hat was blown away by the gale, spinning past Jaina’s eyes before slapping onto Deren’s pale face.

After a long ten seconds of silence, a roar of cheers erupted from the harbor, led enthusiastically by the goblin welcoming committee. The Kul Tiran fleet then quietly pulled into the docks and moored.

The wooden planks of Theramore harbor groaned under the weight of military boots.

As Daelin Proudmoore stepped onto the pier, the sound of steel heels striking oak brought a sudden stillness to the entire harbor. The old Admiral’s white beard bristled in the sea breeze like a battle flag declaring sovereignty. Every brass button on his deep-blue uniform was polished to a shine, and the dense array of medals on his left chest recorded a lifetime of conquest.

*Click.*

Jaina heard the sound of her own nails digging into her palms. She hadn’t seen him in years; the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes had deepened, but those hawk-like, gray-blue eyes remained as sharp as ever. She subconsciously adjusted the collar of her mage robe, suddenly grateful that she had chosen this formal version with silver-threaded trim this morning.

"Father, welcome—"

Her ceremonial greeting was cut short.

Daelin’s gaze moved past her, locking onto the hunched figure behind her. The old Admiral’s pupils contracted violently, and veins bulged on the back of the hand resting on his sword hilt.

Derek Proudmoore stumbled forward two steps.

The sunlight finally bathed him completely—he wore an old-style naval uniform, revealing a crisscross of whip scars on his neck. His left leg was bent at an unnatural angle, clearly from a bone that had healed improperly. Most shocking of all was his face: while the right side remained relatively intact, the left side was covered in dark red burn scars, distorting his features like melting wax.

But those eyes.

Those gray-blue eyes, identical to Daelin’s, were brimming with tears.

"Re... reporting, sir," Derek’s voice sounded like sandpaper on wood, yet he stood rigid in a military posture. "Captain Derek Proudmoore of the Third Naval Fleet... requesting to return to duty."

Daelin’s sword clattered onto the pier.

The old Admiral rushed forward in two strides, his iron-grip arms locking around his son. Jaina saw her father’s back trembling—the man who had never retreated in the face of an orcish charge was now clutching Derek as if he were a lifeline, his knuckles turning white from the force.

"As long as you're alive... as long as you're alive..." Daelin’s voice was muffled against his son’s shoulder, repeating only those words. For a moment, Jaina suspected her father was crying, but when he looked up, his eyes remained dry and sharp, with only slightly reddened rims betraying his emotions.

Scattered applause broke out in the harbor, gradually swelling into a chorus. The Theramore guards spontaneously stood to attention, and several old sailors even removed their hats and pressed them to their chests.

The warm bubble was suddenly pierced by a wolf’s howl.

"For the Horde!"

Thrall’s delegation arrived at the entrance to the pier at that exact moment. The green skin of the orc infantry glistened in the sun, the worgs of the wolf riders bared their ivory fangs, and Cairne Bloodhoof’s totem pole struck the ground, creating spiderweb cracks. Most damning was the troll hunter in the group who was humming a war chant—hanging from his belt were ornaments made from human skulls.

Daelin’s body went rigid. Jaina watched her father’s expression freeze from sheer joy into ice, finally settling into the deathly silence before a storm. The old Admiral slowly bent down to retrieve his sword, the sound of metal scraping against leather setting one’s teeth on edge.

"Jaina," Daelin’s voice was soft, but it caused the temperature in the harbor to drop ten degrees. "Tell me why there are these green-skinned orcs here."

"It’s perfectly normal!" Deren explained from the side. "These are business partners."

"Who are you?" Admiral Daelin demanded, his tone hostile. Onyxia, who had transformed into the appearance of a high elf, flickered into existence beside Deren, her cold eyes fixed on him.

"Another black dragon? Is this my daughter’s city, or a lair of evil?" Daelin did not back down, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Deren was not intimidated. He performed a bow and calmly introduced himself: "I am Deren Lawson, a farmer from Stormwind. I am currently the agricultural consultant to Princess Onyxia. We are collaborating with Lady Jaina on agriculture. Everything is for the bright future of Azeroth."

"Yes, Father. We are engaged in an unprecedented cooperation, making the world a better place," Jaina quickly affirmed.

The old Admiral looked silently at the orcs, the black dragons, and the pile of goblins. He patted his son’s shoulder, sighed after a long pause, and said, "Hell, this is not the world I recognize."

Seeing that her father hadn't lashed out on the spot, Jaina breathed a sigh of relief. She invited him into the city to rest and dispatched a trade caravan to deliver supplies to the moored fleet.

In a quiet meeting hall in Theramore, the orcs, the goblin prince, the black dragons, and Deren were seated. Seeing the situation sour, Chromie opened a portal and slipped away.

The old Admiral’s sword slammed onto the long table, knocking over the teacup in front of Thrall. The brown tea seeped across the parchment map, staining the coastline of Kalimdor a deep, dark brown.

"I need an explanation. What exactly are you all doing?"

Daelin’s voice was like rolling thunder before a storm, every syllable wrapped in suppressed fury. His gaze swept over everyone present—Thrall’s stoic green face, the black dragon siblings, Deren’s cowering figure in the corner, and finally, it pinned itself on Jaina.

"Admiral, please don't be hasty," Deren had to bite the bullet and step forward. Aside from Jaina, no one else in the room could be considered a normal human.

"Fine, I’m listening. You, the one hanging around with black dragons, what can you tell me?" Daelin stared at Deren with an expression that clearly said he was waiting to see what kind of performance this was.

Deren steadied himself and gave a brief introduction: "My employer is Princess Onyxia of the black dragonflight. The Dustwallow Marsh near Theramore is her territory, which has been established much longer than Theramore itself. For certain reasons, she accepted an agreement with Prince Gallywix of Booty Bay to jointly produce an agricultural fertilizer that can increase crop yields by more than half. In some regions, it has even doubled production. This is an entirely beneficial endeavor for Azeroth. Lady Jaina, as Princess Onyxia’s neighbor, decided to jointly develop this fertilizer business. After all, as a neutral city, Theramore can play a vital role. For instance, one of the raw materials for the fertilizer needs to be imported from the orcs, while my employer’s brother, Lord Nefarian, can provide sulfur. Prince Gallywix is responsible for transport and sales. All of this relies on Jaina’s Theramore to build the connections."

Daelin listened with a darkened face, then turned to ask Jaina, "Is this true?"

"Yes, Father." A faint glow appeared at Jaina’s fingertips; the tea separated from the map, reconsolidating into a suspended droplet of water. "Because of our cooperation on the fertilizer, Lord Nefarian, under the suggestion of advisor Deren, took the initiative to search for the Kul Tiran prisoners of war held by the orcs. That includes my brother."

"Really?!" Daelin slammed his fist onto the table, the naval ring on his finger leaving a dent in the oak. "My son has been imprisoned and tortured by orcs for all these years! And now, he’s sitting here with these green-skins?"

Deren, in the corner, suddenly choked and hurriedly clarified: "Don't be impulsive, don't be impulsive. There are differences between orc clans. Don't blame the wrong people."

Onyxia’s dragon tail lashed out, striking his calf.

Thrall stood up slowly, the Doomhammer striking the table with a dull resonance. "Lord Proudmoore, those who imprisoned your child were the remnants of the Dragonmaw clan; it had nothing to do with the Horde."

"Ha!" Daelin’s white beard trembled with his cold laugh. "A green-skin is a green-skin!"

Thrall gave a cold snort and offered no further explanation. The council hall fell silent.

"Admiral, the current situation is that, with Theramore as the core, a cooperative fertilizer industry involving all parties has been established. The Horde is one of our suppliers. Increasing food production is entirely beneficial to Azeroth and advantageous to Kul Tiras. Am I wrong?" Deren interjected, shifting the tense atmosphere.

"Hmph, do you think I don't understand the stakes?" Daelin said dismissively, though his tone softened slightly.

Jaina saw her father’s gaze shifting between Deren and her. The old Admiral’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and the bulging veins began to subside. It was a calculating look she was familiar with—Daelin Proudmoore was weighing the pros and cons.

"Father," she seized the opportunity to persuade him, "fertilizer can double Kul Tiras’s wheat production. You can wait for the results before making a final decision. For now, please rest. Tomorrow, I will take you on a tour of Theramore."

"I am not so old or weak that I need to rest!" Daelin interrupted, but his tone was no longer furious. "Since this is what you have decided, I will say no more."