Chapter 11: The Final Plan

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Inside the stone house laboratory at Treasure Bay, the pungent scent of chemical reagents mingled with the sulfurous breath of dragonfire. Dren rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, revealing arms slightly roughened from prolonged contact with acid. Carefully, he scooped a spoonful of potassium sulfate powder, its snow-white crystals shimmering faintly in the firelight.

“Watch closely—” He poured the powder into a black iron crucible; the dry granules clinked softly against the metal. Then came a heap of strange powders—quicklime and various other minerals.

Onyxia stood by the crucible, her fingertips guiding the dark-red dragonfire to precisely lick the bottom of the vessel. She controlled the flame’s temperature within a minuscule range, causing the air to distort slightly from the intense heat.

“Raise the temperature a bit more,” Dren said without looking up, eyes fixed on the melting crystals.

The black dragon princess snorted softly, her draconic pupils narrowing, and the flame’s hue shifted instantly from deep red to a piercing orange-yellow. The potassium sulfate mixture in the crucible rapidly melted into a pool of liquid, its surface frothing with dense bubbles.

Chromie lay on the table’s edge, chin resting on folded arms. Her hourglass of time lay on its side nearby, the sand’s flow quickening and slowing with the experiment’s progression—an interest gauge unique to bronze dragons.

Dren grabbed an obsidian stirring rod and vigorously mixed the concoction. His movements were both steady and forceful, each stroke pulling a string of shimmering threads—the nascent silicate network forming.

“Maintain a constant temperature! Hold for thirty seconds!” Sweat beaded at his temple, but his eyes gleamed with intensity. “Then slowly lower the temperature at your slowest pace possible. This is crucial.”

The liquid had become clear and transparent, like molten crystal. While it still flowed, Dren poured it into a preheated mold nearby, instructing the black dragon to keep the fire going for warmth.

“It’s done.” Once the glass fully solidified, he exhaled deeply and held the stirring rod horizontally before his eyes. The solidified glass threads refracted a rainbow aura in the firelight, more luminous than the purest crystal.

Onyxia extinguished her dragonfire and picked up the cooled glass block with curious interest, though she saw nothing unusual about it.

“You can slowly heat it with fire and you’ll find it’s more heat-resistant than ordinary glass,” Dren explained. “Finally found a formula for glass with excellent heat resistance. Its melting point is several hundred degrees higher.”

Chromie had already produced a magnifying time lens and examined the glass from all angles. “The internal structure is extraordinarily stable… wait!” Her eyes suddenly widened. “What did you mix into the potassium sulfate? Why is it more heat-resistant?”

Dren and Onyxia exchanged a glance.

“Trade secret,” the human smiled, removing his protective gloves and pointing to a pile of bizarre ores.

Chromie quickly understood what Dren was trying to create: heat-resistant glass.

In the craftsmen’s hall of Ironforge, Prince Copperbeard’s booming voice shook ash from the ceiling.

“By my beard!” He waved iron tongs holding a piece of glowing glass just taken from the furnace after baking for over ten minutes. With a clatter, he threw it to the ground—it did not shatter.

“Not bad. More heat-resistant and tougher than ordinary glass. I’m intrigued.” Copperbeard nodded approvingly, then asked, “The formula?”

Dren immediately produced a parchment listing various minerals and data.

The prince snatched the parchment, squinting to scrutinize it. “Human, aren’t you afraid I’ll learn the formula and stiff you on payment?” His red beard trembled. “You’re not an idiot, are you?”

Dren smiled. “You have to keep your guard up with goblins. But dwarves? You can trust them like the earth itself.”

Copperbeard laughed heartily. Turning, he shouted to the craftsmen behind him, “Go to the furnace and make a batch!”

A dwarf engineer grabbed the formula and dashed out with apprentices. Dren calmly took a sip of his ale—he had long expected the dwarves wouldn’t trust him easily.

“Come, drink! We’ll wait here a while,” Copperbeard said, gesturing to a table laden with roasted meats and fine wine. He enthusiastically urged Dren to drink.

“As for this—” The prince grabbed Dren’s oversized reaction vessel blueprint, his eyebrows nearly touching his hairline. “You’re sure this is ‘agricultural equipment’?”

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The blueprint showed an absurdly large vessel, with bolt fittings clearly not designed for humans or dwarves—more like for some colossal beast’s claw.

Dren remained composed. “Kalimdor’s land is barren; we need to mass-produce fertilizer.”

Copperbeard snorted, tapping a detail on the drawing with his stubby finger. “And what’s this ‘corrosion-resistant dragonfire coating’? Fertilizer that resists dragonfire?!”

Onyxia standing behind Dren cleared her throat softly.

Dren replied calmly, “Just exaggerated rhetoric—a symbol of our equipment’s exceptional quality.”

Copperbeard stared at him for three seconds, then burst into laughter. He slapped Dren’s shoulder so hard it nearly sent him sprawling. “You’re either a genius or a con artist! But it doesn’t matter! As long as the glass formula is real, dwarves don’t care if the customer’s a madman or a demon!”

Two hours later, the craftsmen returned to the hall, faces alight with excitement, holding a freshly cooled glass panel.

“Prince! It’s done!” His black beard curled from the heat, but his eyes shone like he’d discovered a new mineral vein. “Melting point is 300 degrees higher than regular glass! This will have many uses!”

Copperbeard finally smiled. Turning, he extended his calloused hand to Dren. “Deal! Your equipment will be ready in about a month. For the formula, we’ll give you a 30% discount. How’s that?”

Dren shook his hand, lips curving slightly. “Pleasure doing business.”

“Good. You pay when you pick up the goods. You trust old dwarves, and old dwarves are happy and trust you.” Copperbeard gave him a bear hug that nearly took his breath away.

A few days later, inside the stone house at Treasure Bay, Onyxia’s draconic eyes glowed faintly in the dark. She tapped the tabletop restlessly, leaving a few scorched marks on the wood.

“Goblins’ tongues are sharper than a siren’s song,” she hissed softly. “And dwarves drunk on ale spill even their ancestral forge secrets!”

Dren sat at the workbench, jotting down the details of recent transactions. Hearing her complaint, he didn’t look up but smiled faintly.

“Let them spread it,” he said casually. “The more ridiculous, the better.”

Onyxia’s tail flicked sharply, nearly toppling a beaker. “Are you mad? What if Father hears—”

“What if Deathwing hears?” Dren finally set down his pen and met her gaze, eyes twinkling mischievously. “‘Onyxia farming in Kalimdor’—even bronze dragons would laugh at that.”

Chromie poked her head through a time rift, half a cookie hanging from her mouth. “He’s right.” She added indistinctly, “The most successful lie on any timeline is making everyone think you’re hopelessly stupid.”

Onyxia narrowed her eyes. “For example?”

Dren stood, retrieving a bottle of murky liquid from the shelf—the latest batch of their “fertilizer,” emitting a sharp ammonia stench. He shook the bottle, wearing an exaggerated, almost comical look of distress.

“Oh, honored Lord Deathwing! Your daughter has lately been obsessed with… uh, ‘agricultural innovation’!” He imitated the sharp voice of a goblin merchant. “She’s stirring stinky fertilizer every day and bought dozens of giant manure barrels from dwarves!”

Onyxia’s lips twitched involuntarily.

Chromie burst out laughing, cookie crumbs scattering. “Perfect! Even Enzoth won’t suspect a thing!”

Dren set down the bottle, expression turning serious. “The more people believe we’re just fooling around, the safer our real actions become.” He unfurled a map, pointing deep into the Dustwallow Marsh. “Once the equipment arrives, we’ll build the factory in your old lair.”

Onyxia stared at the map and sneered suddenly, “And Father will just think I’m using the ‘agriculture company’ to cover smuggling.”

“Exactly,” Dren nodded. “He might even be relieved—‘Ah, my daughter finally learned to make money through business.’”

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Chromie clapped her hands. “When hundreds of tons of ‘fertilizer’ pile up in the lair—”

“—that will be the end of the world,” Onyxia’s dragon eyes ignited with black flames, illuminating the spot circled in red on the map: Grim Batol, Deathwing’s frequent stronghold.

The night wind brushed against the window, and the three fell silent before simultaneously breaking into dangerous smiles.

Dren’s finger traced slowly across the map, from Treasure Bay’s harbor to Theramore’s docks, finally resting on the abandoned black dragon watchtower at the edge of Dustwallow Marsh.

“All supplies first shipped to Theramore,” he said quietly. “Then transported by a ‘third party’ into the marsh—we must never let anyone discover our direct link to the black dragons.”

Onyxia’s pupils narrowed. “Jaina wouldn’t allow black dragon influence in her city.”

“So we need a ‘neutral’ agent.” Dren glanced at Chromie, lips curling slightly.

Chromie sneered but snapped her fingers. Unlike before when she was a gnome mage, now she wore plain gnome engineer’s overalls.

“Milo Wrench,” she said in a deliberately lowered voice, “the new gnome alchemy supplier in Theramore, specializing in ‘high-efficiency fertilizer’ import and export.”

“Goblins only care about money,” Dren pulled out an employment contract. “So we hire an ‘independent transport team’ under the Sands Consortium’s name.”

The contract’s terms were airtight:

Transport route: Theramore docks → neutral caravan → southern Dustwallow Marsh (marked as “agricultural test fields”)

Disclaimer: Sands Consortium not responsible for damages caused by black dragon attacks

Special clauses: All employees must sign confidentiality agreements; violators face “commercial arbitration” (goblin slang for “feeding to sharks”)

Onyxia snorted. “Goblins’ confidentiality agreements? Not as reliable as trolls’ voodoo curses.”

“That’s why we have double insurance.” Chromie—now Milo—sprinkled a handful of bronze sand grains. “I’ll dust every contract with ‘temporal amnesia powder.’ Anyone who leaks secrets forgets their own name within three days.”

Dren’s expression suddenly grew grave. “The greatest danger isn’t Jaina, but Deathwing’s spies in Theramore.”

Onyxia’s claws unconsciously scorched a few marks on the table. “Father’s eyes could be disguised as merchants, sailors, even Theramore guards.”

“So Milo must achieve two things,” Dren raised a finger. “One, let goblins handle as much of the trade as possible; two, rely on magic to maintain perfect disguise.”

Chromie rolled her eyes. “Understood! I’m scared of Deathwing too, okay?”

Onyxia, transformed into her high elf form, said coldly, “In one month, I want to see the full equipment set in the lair.”

“Don’t worry,” Dren patted the dwarf order at his waist. “Prince Copperbeard paid an express fee.”

“Now, all that’s left is one ‘accident’… to lure Deathwing into the bomb stash.”