The Sovereign knew brute force alone could not end the Black Horde.
He wove strategy deeper than any mortal mind could conceive.
He dispatched trusted forces, cloaked as members of the Horde, into the black heart of the enemy.
There they seeded distrust, fanned ancient rivalries, whispered betrayal into eager ears.
The Black Horde began to tear itself apart from within.
As chaos roared, the Sovereign unleashed his armies — vast, disciplined, burning with purpose.
The Black Horde fell not in glorious battle, but choked itself in madness.
Before the final blow, the Sovereign addressed them:
["A tree that grows twisted cannot bear straight fruit.
You have devoured yourselves from within.
Yield, and you may yet know life. Resist, and you will be remembered only as a warning."]
The Black Horde, proud and blind, chose death.
Their banners fell. Their drums fell silent.
The world exhaled, astonished.