The fallout, physical and otherwise, from the catastrophic event that left Dalaran in pieces has sparked numerous debates across academic circles in Azeroth. None, however, have been as heated as the recent exchange between Professor Finklegrin and Professor Hendelheim. These two intellectual titans clashed over one of the most pressing questions in magical physics: Was the destruction of Dalaran an explosion or an implosion? In the spirit of scholarly discourse (and, one suspects, the consumption of a considerable quantity of Stormwind stout), they held a seminar together to discuss the finer points of sudden, and often inconvenient, destruction, and I saw fit to attend and get a better understand of the topic, for myself and for our readers.
The Explosion Debate: Professor Finklegrin’s View
"In the beginning," Professor Finklegrin began with the gravitas only a gnome who’s seen his fair share of disastrous bangs can muster,
"there was nothing. Which exploded."
The assembled students, some wearing protective eyewear just in case, scribbled furiously in their notebooks. The gnome, head of the Department of Unexpected Sudden Destruction at Stormwind University, gestured broadly, his fingers tracing invisible trails through the air as if mapping out a diagram only he could see.
"An explosion," he explained,
"is the natural state of things when matter realizes it’s been packed too tightly. Imagine a dwarf after a third serving of boar sausage, or better yet, a pocketful of Goblin Rocket Fuel—overstuffed, over-pressurized, and destined to let loose with a bang that’s impossible to ignore." He chuckled, a sound somewhere between a giggle and a snort.
"Explosions are the universe’s way of saying, 'I've had enough!' It's a release, a declaration of independence, and a cry for attention all rolled into one."
Finklegrin continued, seemingly delighting in the metaphorical carnage his words conjured.
"But an explosion isn’t just a mindless blast. It’s purposeful, outward, and—most importantly—an excellent means of getting rid of anything you don’t need. Old buildings, unwanted enemies, inconvenient evidence… explosions are the ultimate clean-up crew. Sure, there might be a bit of a mess afterward, but who’s counting?"
The Implosion Counterargument: Professor Hendelheim’s View
Professor Hendelheim, a tall, wiry man with a beard that had seen more alchemical disasters than one cares to imagine, waited patiently for Finklegrin’s exuberance to wind down. He was the head of the Faculty of Wonky Combustions at the Research Institute into Big, Little, and Weird Bangs in Time and Space—a title he wore with a mix of pride and weariness.
"Ah, Finklegrin," Hendelheim said with a smile that could only be described as impishly scholarly.
"You see explosions as the be-all and end-all of destruction. But allow me to present a counterpoint, if I may." He waved his hand, and a small, crackling orb appeared in the air between them. It hovered there, shimmering ominously, before suddenly collapsing inward with a faint 'pop'.
"That," Hendelheim said,
"is an implosion."
He paused, seeming to savour the moment.
"An implosion, my dear Finklegrin, is just an explosion that decided it wanted to course correct, or change its mind, or simply became too self-conscious of itself. It’s the introvert of the destruction family. Instead of bursting outwards like an overeager gnome with a new toy, it pulls everything inwards, tidily, efficiently. An implosion doesn’t leave a mess—it leaves a vacuum. It’s the universe’s way of taking back what it’s given, like a mage reconsidering the consequences of an ill-thought spell."
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Hendelheim leaned forward, his tone conspiratorial.
"You might say an implosion is an explosion with manners, one that tidies up after itself. It’s not about making a scene; it’s about quietly unmaking one. And the best part? When it’s over, there’s nothing left to clean up. No debris, no singed eyebrows, just… absence."
The Snarky Showdown: Pros and Cons
"Ah, but Professor," Finklegrin interjected,
"implosions are all well and good if you’re looking for subtlety, but where’s the fun in that? An explosion announces itself! It’s the life of the party. It’s—"
"—reckless," Hendelheim cut in, his voice smooth as honey.
"Explosions are for those who can’t handle finesse. Sure, they’re flashy, but they lack the sophistication of a well-timed implosion. Why scatter your enemies across the landscape when you can just… remove them entirely? Implosions are efficient, clean, and, dare I say it, smarter."
"Smarter, yes, if you want to leave nothing behind," Finklegrin retorted.
"But sometimes, Professor, leaving a little mess is half the point. A good explosion doesn’t just destroy—it sends a message! It’s a work of art, a statement!"
"And implosions," Hendelheim countered,
"are the art of silence. They speak volumes by what they don’t say. They’re the black hole to your supernova, the quiet undoing to your noisy destruction."
"All well and good, Hendelheim, but if you were in charge, Dalaran would’ve just disappeared with a polite 'excuse me'."
"And if you were in charge, Finklegrin, Dalaran would’ve been vaporized, with bits landing in Gadgetzan for weeks."
The Conclusion: Dalaran’s Fate
As the two professors glared at each other, the truth began to dawn on me and the audience, and perhaps, even on the scholars themselves. The destruction of Dalaran, as dramatic as it was, had not been the showy explosion Finklegrin would have loved nor the tidy implosion Hendelheim championed. It had, in fact, been an implosion of spectacular magnitude—a magical city collapsing in on itself, dragging most of its spires and arcane secrets into the void.
"But," Finklegrin said slowly, as if tasting the words before he spoke them,
"it did leave some debris."
"True," Hendelheim admitted.
"But only because the implosion was so thorough, it left no other option. Even the best implosions can’t contain everything."
"Perhaps," Finklegrin mused,
"we’re both right."
"Or," Hendelheim suggested,
"we’re both wrong."
With that, the two scholars fell silent, each retreating into their thoughts. Around them, students whispered excitedly, papers rustled, and the room began to empty. Somewhere on a beach the remnants of Dalaran still lie scattered.
And in the beginning, as Finklegrin said, there was nothing. Which exploded.
Or perhaps, as Hendelheim might counter, there was something. Which quietly, impossibly, imploded.