Lothar and his soldiers cast sideways glances filled with equal parts disdain and disbelief at their new "ally," a piggish brute who looked less like a warrior and more like a farmer who had accidentally wandered onto the battlefield clutching a pitchfork stolen from a vegetable patch. If they hadn't known this sorry creature was just cannon fodder hired by Duke himself, they might've been tempted to curse him out loud and tell him to go back to tending cabbages.
But the chaos of war, like a wild tempest, was about to flip the script in less than two minutes.
The orc ranks, once tight and menacing, shattered like cheap pottery.
See, after downing the devil's blood, every green-skinned orc became a turbo-charged beast fueled by raw, untamed ferocity. Sure, this was a "simulated" chess-level battle, but the primal savagery radiated as real as a charging mammoth.
The guards loyal to Chieftain Blackhand hefted their massive war axes and swung into the murlocs like a tsunami of destruction—only to be slammed sideways by the grisly arrival of the Grayscale Nagas.
These male Grayscale Nagas weren't exactly the elite strike force, but their bulging muscles and shockingly well-crafted weapons put them just a notch below orc-grade brutality. Though outnumbered, they masterfully drew the orcs' attention away from the main fight.
And then, like a thunderclap under Duke's mental command, the legendary Uncle Hogg—who'd died a tragic, ignominious death at Duke's hands—strode in with his gnoll minions from the left flank, back from the dead and looking more buff than ever.
Duke couldn't help but feel a weird surge of joy. Thanks to some demonic mojo, Uncle Hogg—the gnoll who had once tried (and miserably failed) to teach Duke how to be a "human"—and his pack had swollen like yeast dough, hulking out far beyond what Duke feared they'd be.
You see, Duke had worried he'd get some kind of weak, half-baked gnoll—like the original runt, barely a meter tall, more a pest than a predator, basically a whack-a-mole target for orc warriors.
But nope. The system delivered a supercharged Hogg, and Duke poured his soul investment into an even stronger version of the beast.
These gnolls, beefier than the murlocs and quicker on their feet, wreaked havoc by tangling up over a hundred of Blackhand's most fearsome guards. Even the mighty direct lieutenants of Blackhand couldn't wrest control from this furry whirlwind.
Lothar exchanged a knowing glance with Duke.
They say great minds think alike, and these two were no exception.
"For glory! Charge!" Lothar bellowed, raising the legendary Sword of Kings high.
Male lions might be lazy layabouts when it comes to hunting, letting lionesses do all the work, but few knew just how terrifying a male lion could be when he finally decided to pounce.
Lothar's charge wasn't a lightning strike—you wouldn't say "as fast as an arrow." No, it was a creeping avalanche, an unstoppable force of nature grinding inexorably forward like a flash flood mixed with a landslide.
The heavy footsteps thundered like war drums. His thick, wavy hair flared behind him like a golden lion's mane caught in a savage wind, each step exuding raw power and fierce beauty.
Lothar could see every bristle of the orc guard's tangled beard, every bead of sweat glistening on his furrowed brow, every fang in his snarling mouth—and he could practically smell the rank, fishy breath threatening to knock him over.
"Hah!" With a primal roar, Lothar launched himself into the orc line like a hunting lion, shield raised high.
For the elite soldiers trailing behind him, their beloved Sir Lothar was nothing short of a walking god of war—a blazing symbol of invincibility. Draped in the Stormwind banner fluttering behind him, he was a one-man herald of victory.
A fiery pulse raced through every warrior's veins, igniting them like kindling ready to blaze.
In the blink of an eye, Lothar had slashed down three orcs.
Their desperate counterattacks, which might seem fast to outsiders, looked to Lothar like slapstick clown acts in slow motion—laughably ineffective against his lethal precision.
Sword thrust, draw, rip—the kill was done in a flash so swift it blurred the senses.
If Lothar was a whirlwind, Garona was a ghost.
Nobody saw her attacks clearly—only the swift vanish and reappearance of the petite half-orc female, small yet lethal, delivering death with impossible speed.
Orcs crumpled, clutching their bleeding vitals, gurgling in shock and pain before collapsing.
Together, Lothar and Garona were a living legend, the brightest banners under which Stormwind's warriors rallied.
But wait, there's another dazzling star on the battlefield—
Suddenly, thirty-six ethereal wizard hands burst into existence, casting shimmering arcane missiles that rained down like a furious thunderstorm, hammering the orc guards trying to encircle Lothar.
Arcane bolts exploded alongside relentless lightning strikes—so fast and furious it was hard to tell whether Duke was unleashing Arcane Missiles or firing Thunderbolts.
His mastery was so flawless he even shot down Gul'dan's infamous rain of fire aimed at Lothar, arcane blasts slicing through flames like a hot knife through butter.
The collision of arcane energy, crackling lightning, and fiery explosions painted a spectacular aurora across the battlefield sky.
Duke's pinpoint cover fire reminded Lothar of the stakes: once surrounded, the humans would be swallowed in the orcish tidal wave and crushed beneath despair.
Watching the trio—Lothar, Garona, and Duke—the Stormwind elite felt time warp and space bend, their eyes glued in reverent focus.
It wasn't until the first orc screamed from a lightning strike that the soldiers snapped back to reality, bracing to throw everything into this fight—their very lives and souls on the line.
A blazing passion ignited in their chests. They couldn't wait to end this battle with a victory so legendary it'd echo through the taverns, the villages, the entire world of Azeroth.
Lothar raised his sword, ready for the kill.
The last orc guard before him roared a final, desperate scream—but collapsed like a fortress wall torn down.
Between Lothar and the dreaded Warchief Blackhand, there stood only silence—heavy and expectant.
Then, with a rumble that shook the earth, another mountain of muscle appeared—brown-skinned, wild-eyed, his war hammer raised like the hand of doom itself.
"King against king! General against general! Traitor Garona—your match is me: Orgrim Doomhammer!"
Beside him, leaning casually on his grim skull-topped staff, was Gul'dan.
His cruel eyes fixed coldly on Duke, voice dripping venom: "Boy, your fight is with me—Gul'dan."
Duke's pupils shrank, breath catching with a thrill he couldn't explain.
No matter how this chessboard played out, Duke knew one truth:
Among all these legends, he alone could stand toe-to-toe with Gul'dan.
"Come," he said, voice steady and fierce, ready for the final move.