The first thing I felt was the fall.
Not a literal one. It was as if my soul was being ripped apart, pulled in all directions by invisible hooks until the fabric of my mind tore. Then came the pain—not just a headache, but as if a hammer was carving me from the inside out.
I tried to scream, but the sound that escaped was a guttural, animalistic growl. Raw.
Primal. More fitting for a wounded beast than a human. My body thrashed as if I were drowning. Maybe I was. Not in water... but in memories.
Images exploded in my mind, jumbled. Open fields in Nagrand. The roar of war. Undead everywhere. A green-skinned orc smiling with pride. A city of iron and wood, echoing with victory cries.
— No... no, this can't be happening...
But it was. I remembered. I remembered everything. My life as David—thirty years old, tired, worn out by illness, struggling to keep a smile for my family. And the end. The hospital. The cold. The final breath.
— Shit... no... no!
I tried to stand and nearly fell off the bed. The floor seemed too far away, as if my body had tripled in size. I looked at my hands... and froze.
They were massive. Brown. Calloused and scarred. Veins bulging, muscles carved by sheer force. I knew those hands. I had seen them in promotional art, cinematics, and the lore archives I obsessively read on World of Warcraft forums.
I dragged my heavy body toward a crude mirror mounted on a frame of raw iron. For a moment, I hesitated. Part of me still thought it was a dream.
But it wasn't.
What I saw reflected there... was the ultimate shock.
Na orc. Strong. Wild. Curved, sharp tusks. Intense eyes. Brown skin, untainted by fel magic. A Hellscream. I was... him.
Garrosh. Garrosh Hellscream.
I swallowed hard. The name echoed in my head like thunder. Memories of the game, of what he did... what he became. The monster. The tyrant. The brutal warrior who dragged the Horde into the abyss and crushed any hope of redemption.
But now... he was me.
And I was him.
— I... am the new Warchief...
I backed away from the mirror, not knowing whether to laugh, scream, or punch something. Rage simmered in my muscles like lava. But my mind... my mind was David's.
I don't know how long I stood there, staring at the reflection like it might offer me answers. It didn't. It only stared back with that fierce gaze. It wasn't mine... but now it was.
The door slammed open.
— Warchief, the council awaits you in the war room.
The voice was firm. Clearly orcish. But there was a hint of uncertainty—or was it forced respect? The title was already being used. It hit me like a hook to the gut.
Warchief.
Shit. This is real.
I took a deep breath. David's instincts wanted to run. To crawl back into bed. To wait and wake up in a hospital. But something inside me... growled. A latent presence. Not a voice, but a pulse. Garrosh was there, like a caged beast, restless, trying to take control every time I hesitated.
I put on the heavy armor tossed over a reinforced wooden and iron chair. The shoulder plates swallowed me whole, heavy as concrete, yet... strangely comfortable. Garrosh knew how to wear them. And now, so did I.
When I reached Orgrimmar's war room, the tension was thick.
Vol'jin leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, eyes like daggers. Sylvanas, cold as a blizzard, scanned the room with disdain. Baine looked uncomfortable, almost out of place. There were others, but those three commanded the space.
"Breathe, David. Fake confidence. Pretend it's a LARP. Just with real consequences and a lot more blood."
I stepped forward, my presence hitting the floor like an armored rhino. Everyone turned. Vol'jin said nothing, but I knew what he was thinking. He sensed it. He felt something was off.
Sylvanas smiled. A thin, cold smile.
— Finally, Warchief. We've been waiting for hours, she said, her voice like distilled poison.
— Trouble doesn't wait, Sylvanas. And I'm sure we have plenty — I replied. My voice came out deeper, more... Garrosh than I expected.
Sylvanas raised an eyebrow. She noticed. And that sent a chill through me.
Vol'jin cleared his throat.
— What's going on with you, Garrosh? Your eyes... sharper today. Less rage, more calculation. You've changed.
I smiled. Or tried to. It probably came out more like a restrained snarl.
— Maybe it's the weight of the title. Or maybe I finally slept well for the first time in years.
Vol'jin didn't answer. But he kept watching me like a predator sizing up another. He didn't trust me. And honestly? I didn't trust myself either.
Before the silence grew too heavy, Baine cleared his throat.
— The situation in Gilneas is spiraling out of control. Sylvanas is demanding support.
— I'm not demanding, Baine... I'm informing. The Alliance is already on the move. And if we want to keep the upper hand, we must act quickly — she said, emotionless.
War. Always war.
The most ironic part? I knew every event that was coming. I knew what Sylvanas would do. I knew about the rot festering inside the Horde. But saying that? Telling them what was coming? That took more than courage. It took faith. Faith that someone would believe me.
And honestly? Not even I would believe me.
I placed both hands on the table. Heavy. Resolute.
— I'm not Thrall. I'm no diplomat. But I'm not blind either. Before we march, we need to understand what's happening in the shadows... and within the Horde itself.
The stares went cold. Distrust. Shock. Curiosity.
Vol'jin almost smiled.
I took a breath and decided this would be my first chance to understand how the current Horde operated.
Right now, there were only three leaders: Vol'jin, Sylvanas, and Baine. According to the original's memories, Lor'themar had returned to Quel'Thalas after the fall of the Lich King.
Gallywix... I honestly had no idea what that unscrupulous goblin was up to, but for now, I'd just ignore him. It was my first day, and picking a fight would only make me look even more like the original—which, honestly, wasn't exactly what I wanted.
— For now, we have some problems to deal with. The Horde has exhausted Durotar's resources, and many of you are facing the same. I'm open to hearing your ideas, so tell me — what plans do you have?
I could hear the faint crackle of the fire as silence reigned. We were still seated, most unsure of how to proceed.
"Was this normal, or was it because of the original Garrosh?"
— We're currently short on lumber for rebuilding. The night elves have been a problem — Vol'jin began, as I slowly recalled all the details. Honestly, Ashenvale was a major lumber source for the Horde, but heavily guarded by the night elves because their trees were "sacred" to their culture.
Annoyingly, I doubted we could reach an agreement — not after my father was the one who struck first, and worse, fell once again into bloodlust.
Even so, I should at least try a diplomatic approach — even if only for now.
— I see. Patrols being attacked? Any dead or wounded?
— There were some casualties, but most were among those who fought. Those who fled were spared.
I felt a flicker of irritation at the idea of retreat. It reminded me that the old Garrosh would have been outraged by Horde members fleeing from battle.
Still, I suppressed it. It was useless — and honestly, foolish.
— Understood. I'll send a letter to the priestess... Uh... What was her name again?
I heard Sylvanas's ghostly, chilling laugh.
— Tyrande, Warchief. I believe it would be wise to remember the names of our enemies — there was a mocking note in the banshee's voice, but I ignored it.
— Fine, whatever. I'll try diplomacy for now. If that fails, we take what we need.
— I don't think Thrall would approve of that. He always tried to negotiate peace — Baine finally spoke, and I could hear the slight nervousness in his voice. For someone his size, he was rather timid, but considering he was standing before the leaders of the Horde and was technically only his father's representative, I overlooked that small sign of weakness.
— Thrall negotiated when our resources weren't depleted. And he was the Warchief. I am not Thrall — and let that be clear to everyone — my voice came out firm, worthy of an orc and a seasoned war hero.
— But I'm not a fool, as many might think. We'll attempt diplomacy. If that doesn't work, we take what we must.
— Still, the elves' territory isn't enough. Not for the needs of the entire Horde — Vol'jin said.
He looked at me. His cold eyes and war paint might have been unnerving — if I were still human.
All I felt was the urge to test my axe against his spear.
I pulled the maps onto the table, forcing everyone to look at the full extent of Kalimdor. And unlike the game's maps, not everything had been fully explored.
— The Barrens can supply resources — hides, animals, and land that can be repurposed for livestock. Azshara is goblin territory, but it also provides us with ores and a surplus of timber we can use for shipbuilding. That alone gives us the chance to establish naval routes between continents — and possibly to territories useful to us in the Eastern Kingdoms.
I pointed at Stranglethorn Vale — an ancestral home of the Darkspear trolls before they were driven out.
I could almost see Vol'jin looking at the region differently.
— Go on, Warchief.
I smiled, satisfied. Now I had his attention. Baine looked at the map, still not understanding, and Sylvanas seemed to grasp it all — but I could still see the ever-turning gears in the mind of the elf cursed by undeath.
— We can get lumber from other places. And, actually, I believe we can expand the Horde's territory without a fight with the Alliance.
— No fight with the Alliance, you say, Warchief? Looks like Thrall "taught you well," — Sylvanas remarked, her voice dripping with irony and mockery.
I saw it for what it was: a test. The damned banshee wanted to see how far she could push — and honestly, I didn't like someone constantly trying to test my patience.
I wasn't a pacifist in any of my lives. But I had experience with these kinds of games. I might not have climbed as high if I hadn't gotten sick, but I still remembered my time in the corporate world.
— Yes, he taught his ideals. Unlike some undead who struggle to keep their own people in line, right, "Banshee Queen"?
I could almost see the surprise in her eyes.
Watching silently, the others clearly expected something more like a shattered table or a roar of rage — not a sharp verbal comeback.
— Very well... Warchief. I believe we can proceed with your plan.
Her tone changed, like a spoiled teenager being forced to swallow a lemon. But I could still see the irritation in her eyes. Her face might've softened slightly, but I knew I'd struck a nerve.
I didn't hide the wicked smile. I'd hit where it hurt.
— Good. Once we've at least stabilized things, I promise the Horde will send you reinforcements. For now, keep Gilneas under control. We don't need to spread our forces too thin just yet.
It was basic strategy — too many fronts would weaken the Horde. The right move was to expand gradually, build strategic outposts, reach a point of stability.
I wasn't blind. Even if I wanted to avoid war, it would come. Varian hated the Horde, and though I wouldn't blow up Theramore, I wouldn't tolerate a "friendly" Alliance presence so close to the Horde's center of power.
— I believe we all agree to begin expanding into neutral territories. We'll secure resources for the Horde and spread our influence across Azeroth.
— The Darkspear will follow the Horde, Warchief — Vol'jin was the first to speak. I could almost tell he wanted to say more.
Unfortunately, I couldn't read minds, and the troll wasn't easy to read.
— I'll have to speak with my father, but I believe the tauren will follow the Horde wherever it leads — said Baine.
— The Forsaken will prove we can be trusted again, Warchief. So long as our allies do the same — Sylvanas said last.
Accepting the truce for what it was, I rose.
My massive body — over two meters tall, strong enough to crush steel with bare hands — brown-skinned and untainted by Mannoroth's demonic blood.
I could almost feel the raw power of this new form. And I was eager to unleash it — but not yet.
— With that, I declare this first meeting as Warchief adjourned. All members will receive a report within the next three moons regarding our next gathering. In the meantime, the Horde will expand wherever it can — across Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms.
I struck my chest with a traditional orc salute.
— For the Horde!
They echoed it, a bit slow... but they still did.
— For the Horde!
And so, my first day as Warchief ended — without bloodshed, without death threats. Well... at least for now.