The voice of future Marshal Reginald Windsor cracked through the dawn air like a firework going off in a library—unexpectedly loud, and still a little too high-pitched to be taken completely seriously. It was the bark of a boy pretending to be a man... except this time, the boy was leading 200 elite soldiers into the maw of a demonic tower.
Why was he in charge? Who in their right mind hands the reins of 90% of their army's power to a teenager whose most commanding experience was probably yelling at squirrels?
But Reginald Windsor didn't ask. He didn't need to. Duke—his enigmatic mentor, arcane genius, and occasional headache—believed in him. And so did he—the Lion of Azeroth himself—Anduin Lothar. That wasn't just trust. That was legendary-pressure-mixed-with-anxiety-flavored responsibility stew.
"I leave my people to you," Lothar said with the gravitas of a man who could cleave a horse in half with a butter knife.
"A soldier who doesn't want to be a marshal is just someone in armor with commitment issues. Reggie, this is your moment. Go prove you're worth the headache." Duke clapped him on the shoulder.
Windsor blinked hard. Dust. Definitely just dust in his eyes. And maybe destiny. A lot of destiny. And some heroic music playing in the background, only he could hear.
When the agreed hour struck, Windsor raised his sword.
And not just any sword. Oh no. This wasn't a rusty piece of scrap metal passed down from some grandfather who once poked a kobold. This blade was glowing like it had swallowed the sun and burped holy fire.
[Enchant Weapon—Demon Slayer]A spicy little mid-tier enchant with the delightful side effect of occasionally slapping demons into next week. Stun, sear, and slice—three-in-one infernal insurance.
Normally, enchantments were reserved for paladins with trust funds or swordmasters with two dozen titles. But Duke? Duke had gone full Oprah with the enchantments. "You get a demon-slaying sword! And you! And YOU!" Two hundred swords. Two hundred glowing, sanctified blades, humming with righteous fury and possibly judgmental thoughts.
Windsor stood tall, the golden dawn gleaming off his sword, and the Stormwind elites—every last grizzled, scarred, and battle-worn one of them—fell in behind him. They raised their weapons high, eyes shining, teeth gritted, hearts thundering.
And then—"CHAAAARGE!"
No rigid formations. No elegant lines. Just glorious, messy, glorious chaos—skirmish style. Every warrior sprinted forward like they were racing for the last turkey leg at a royal banquet.
"FOR AZEROTH!""FOR HIS MAJESTY WRYNN!""FOR MY EX-GIRLFRIEND WHO LEFT ME FOR A GNOME—"Yeah. Slogans got personal. Fast.
The battering ram crew surged ahead like caffeinated rhinos, and with a crash that could wake the Titans themselves, the oversized iron gate of Karazhan folded like cheap furniture.
Karazhan—the haunted house of horrors, the wizard tower of doom, the gothic Airbnb nobody wanted—was now open for business.
And then... they saw them.
Half goat, half demon, half nightmare fuel. Twisted claws, tangled fur, and faces like someone shoved a goat into a blender full of evil. And those tails—long, whip-like things that screamed "I'll trip you and laugh doing it."
Once upon a time, they were human—servants, butlers, cooks, probably someone who just wanted to sweep a floor. Now? They were demonic party crashers at the apocalypse fiesta.
Windsor's eyes narrowed. One word escaped his lips like a knife drawn from a scabbard:"Kill."
Stormwind's warriors didn't just enter the fray—they exploded into it. Torchlight and steel turned the foyer of Karazhan into a concert of carnage.
The Satyrs screeched—grating, high-pitched yowls like someone strangling a banshee. But the enchanted blades didn't care about their backstory. [Demon Slayer] flared with every swing, emitting golden arcs of light that turned two-meter-tall Satyrs into one-meter-tall problems.
Windsor's first strike didn't just kill. It murdered physics. His blade extended in a searing arc of flame, slicing the front line like a scythe through paper mache demons. A row of Satyrs stood tall—and then realized they'd left their upper halves behind.
Victory began to brew in the air like morning coffee.
These Satyrs were newborns. Freshly transformed. Clumsy. Confused. Still figuring out their horns. Against Stormwind steel and enchanted fury, they were less "demonic elite" and more "goat-themed mosh pit."
"Kill all the demons!" Windsor roared, emboldened by the slaughter. Hope surged.
A new sound—hoofbeats. But not just any hoofbeats.
A flame-wreathed warhorse trotted out of the shadows like it owned the place. And on its back?
A red-skinned demon, tall, armored, and crackling with hellfire. Muscles like molten iron. Eyes like furnaces of spite. The kind of guy whose idea of foreplay was setting cities on fire.
He smirked. Actually smirked.
"Come on, Midnight. Let's wipe out this little riot." he said to his flaming steed.
Windsor gulped. Oh no.
That was the kind of demon you didn't just fight.That was the kind of demon you sent five pages of prayers to the Light before fighting.And worst of all? This was just the beggining...