How Important Is the Karazhan Backdoor?
Oh boy. That's not just a question — that's the question. It's the kind of question that keeps strategists up at night, makes rogues salivate, and causes paladins to say an extra prayer just in case.
Duke stared at the looming spire of Karazhan, rubbing his temples like a man trying to calculate the square root of disaster. This world — Azeroth — was mostly like the "World of Warcraft" he knew. Roughly 80% familiar, give or take a few unholy abominations. But that remaining 20%? That was where nightmares got creative.
One thing Duke knew for sure: any idiot who tried to storm Karazhan through the front gate was either a legendary hero... or a certified lunatic with a death wish and an allergy to self-preservation. Probably both.
Like all respectable wizard towers, Karazhan followed the ancient magical real estate rule: The more important you are, the higher up you live. So naturally, Medivh — the greatest wizard in the land turned demonic puppet — was probably sipping void cocktails at the very top.
Now came the million-gold-piece question.
In the game, Karazhan boasted 12 terrifying, time-consuming, boss-fight-galore monstrosities, each one more likely than the last to make you reconsider your life choices. But this wasn't that Karazhan — the post-Medivh ghost zoo filled with banshees, infernals, and things that looked like they crawled out of an H.P. Lovecraft fever dream. No, this Karazhan was alive and kicking. Which made it way worse.
Outside the tower, the once-bustling servants' quarters now stood eerily empty. And if years of gaming had taught Duke anything, it was this: when human staff mysteriously vanish, they don't retire — they respawn as demonic murder machines. Best case scenario: zombie butlers. Worst case? A Sargeras-summoned hellbeast with a teacup for a hand.
Charging through the main gate was like diving headfirst into Sargeras' VIP torture lounge. Medivh wasn't just a boss. He was the boss possessed by the boss of all bosses — the destroyer of worlds, the original dark Titan, the guy who makes the Void Lords look like cosmic interns.
Even with legends like Lothar and Garona on the team, walking in the front door was suicide wearing a name tag.
That's why the backdoor was more than important — it was mission-critical. Tactical gospel. Holy writ. The golden goose of infiltration routes. According to Duke's scattered game knowledge, slipping through the rear entrance would let them skip half the bosses. That's six fewer abominations trying to rip out their spleens and floss with them.
Duke glanced sideways at Garona, who was striking a pose like she expected applause and fanfare.
She tilted her chin, hands on hips. "Well? Gonna thank me or what?"
Lothar, ever the showman, played along. "By the Light! One of my best thieves took one look and said, 'Nope.' And you just... waltzed in?"
Garona chuckled darkly. "Heh! When you've broken out of more cages than most people have had hot meals, locks stop being obstacles and start being polite suggestions."
Duke rolled his eyes so hard they nearly phased into another dimension. If you're so amazing, why not just sprout wings and fly in next time, huh? Still, credit where it was due — she was basically a dungeon-crawling Houdini with tusks.
Lothar unsheathed his sword with a shring! of righteous anticipation. "Alright, next puzzle piece. Duke, where does this back door lead? Any hints from your magical cheat sheet?"
Duke hesitated. Should I start listing boss names like I'm reading a raid guide out loud?
Shrugging like a man who knew the answer was somewhere between "maybe" and "I wish," he replied, "No clue. My mentor only said it bypasses the stables, servant quarters, and the noble guest wing."
Reginald Windsor, fresh-faced and still reeking of duty, frowned. "And why avoid those areas?"
Duke gave him the most dramatic eye-roll yet. Seriously?
"Well," he said with a sigh heavy enough to trigger a weather system, "those areas used to be packed with human servants. They're gone now. Which means they've either joined the 'Demon of the Month' club or are hosting tentacled parasites in their heads. Avoiding those spots cuts down on unexpected corpse accumulation. Obviously, we'll still need to create a diversion elsewhere."
"What's a diversion?" Garona asked, tilting her head like a curious puppy.
Duke slapped his own forehead. Why is explaining basic tactics to orcs always an uphill battle? "Windsor, tag in."
Turning back to Lothar, he laid it out plain. "If we go in the back way, I'd say we've got a 70% chance of skipping most of the mess and reaching Medivh within an hour. It's risky, but it's our best shot. Your call, Commander."
Lothar didn't even blink. "We go through the back."
"Wait—what?" Duke blinked, a small monologue dying inside him. He had speeches, diagrams, dramatic pauses planned!
Lothar just clapped him on the shoulder with the serene confidence of a man who had faced death and told it to make an appointment. "You're the arcane expert, Duke. You've proven your loyalty. That's enough for me. If this goes sideways, we take as many of them down with us as we can."
Duke nodded, jaw set. "Alright then. Everyone listen up — here's the plan..."
Meanwhile, at the very top of the tower, Medivh lay sprawled on a chaise longue like a cosmic influencer binge-watching the apocalypse.
Dozens of glowing screens floated around him, each showing scenes from different timelines and worlds. And every single one was a different flavor of doom — burning cities, screaming souls, exploding planets. A symphony of destruction. A visual buffet of obliteration.
Sargeras, riding shotgun in Medivh's body like the world's most malevolent Uber passenger, was beginning to feel bored.
With a lazy snap of his fingers, the cries and wails vanished. The only sound left was the eldritch humming of raw magic swirling around him — like a hurricane whispering in tongues.
Though dormant, Sargeras could feel it — his power pulsing across realms, his influence stretching into the very bones of Azeroth. He could see the planet, glowing with divine energy, its protective light slowly dimming.
The orcs were arriving. More demonblooded monstrosities, more contamination. The light that once kept pure demons at bay was fading — inch by inch.
"More," he muttered. "More corrupted souls. More filth. More despair. This world isn't dying nearly fast enough..."
A ripple in the wards. A subtle disturbance in the backdoor's protective enchantments.
Sargeras' eyes snapped open.
Intruders. Clever ones.