"This is an introductory handbook for high elf wizard apprentices," Alleria said, as casually as someone handing over a loaf of bread. "It's way better than the crusty old tomes from Dalaran. The only catch? It's written in high elf. So unless you're planning to grow pointy ears and attend one of our ten-thousand-year-old schools, you might want to get a translator. Or, y'know, learn it yourself."
Duke stared at the booklet as if she'd handed him the Necronomicon wrapped in silk. The words from the system popped up like a divine revelation: "You have obtained the [High Elf Wizard Apprentice's Getting Started Notes]. Estimated effect: DRAMATIC improvement in spellcasting ability."
Duke nearly burst into tears.
Me! A rookie! A living firework of mediocrity! Getting this cheat code of a book?! Alleria, bribe me any day!
But then a question itched at the back of his brain.
"Wait a minute," Duke narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Aren't you Windrunners supposed to be bow-slinging, forest-hopping rangers for generations? What's a ranger doing with a wizard's cheat sheet?"
Alleria's face instantly flushed, and she sputtered like a kettle on full boil.
"Y-You brat!" She huffed. "Do you want me to tell you that it was my third sister, Vereesa, who got bored one day and decided she wanted to be a mage? The stuffy old men from the magical academies practically wet themselves thinking a Windrunner might finally join their dusty little club. They scrambled to fetch this rare manual, practically drooling. Vereesa looked at it for three minutes, said, 'meh,' and tossed it aside like old lettuce. And you want me, her poor eldest sister, to drag this back to Quel'Thalas? Past Dalaran, no less?"
She crossed her arms. "I didn't steal it! I didn't mug a gnome for it! If you don't want it, hand it back."
"NOPE! It's mine now!" Duke clutched the book to his chest like a starving man guarding a ham sandwich. "You gave it to me! Finders keepers!"
Alleria laughed softly, amused by how he acted like she might pounce at any moment and snatch it back. Then, with a mischievous sparkle in her eye, she pulled out a leaf. A glowing, vibrantly green leaf pulsing with magical energy.
"Here. One more gift. Blow on this," she said. "Not for distress signals or dire emergencies. Only if something interesting happens. Remember: interesting." Her voice dipped teasingly. "And if you don't call me in a while, I'll come looking for you."
"PFFT!" Duke sprayed spittle like a broken fountain.
Wait a second! Is this elf hitting on me?!
He wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry, or check himself for hexes.
And just like that, she vanished. Like a breeze whispering through the trees. No sound. No fluttering cloak. One blink she was there, next blink—poof!
Duke rubbed his temples.
"Windrunner women. Gorgeous, terrifying, and absolutely allergic to acting normal."
"I heard that!" came a voice from the shadows.
Duke choked on air. "COUGH COUGH COUGH!"
Yup. Can't escape. Can't fight. Can't outwit.
This...this was fate, and fate had a longbow, a wicked sense of humor, and legs for days.
With Alleria gone, things got grim again. Duke glanced at the thief's corpse—or, what was left of it. Blackened flesh, charred ribs poking out like burnt twigs... It looked like a poorly done barbecue by a blind dwarf. His stomach turned.
The adrenaline faded, and horror hit like a delayed fireball.
He bent over and vomited violently.
Yes, Duke was technically a college-educated apprentice. But like most college kids, he'd never killed a chicken, let alone flambéed a man into human jerky.
When the retching subsided, he realized he needed to deal with the corpse.
Burnt corpse means Suspicious.
Suspicious means Guards ask questions.
Questions means Dungeon.
Dungeon means No snacks.
He looted the body while gagging the whole time, salvaging a few measly silver coins and tossing the corpse into the river like yesterday's trash.
"Let the murlocs enjoy their midnight snack," Duke muttered, trying not to imagine the squishy sounds of dinner being served.
Murlocs. The word made his spine tingle.
People mistook them for cute fishmen. Wrong. So wrong.
These grotesque swamp mutants had the torso of a keg, the arms of a toddler, and teeth like a rusted bear trap. Low IQ, high aggression, and the kind of breath that killed plants.
Following the monastery lights, Duke slogged his way through the darkness, stomach still unsettled. He could hear the crunch of bones in the distance, like celery being snapped in a torture chamber.
By the time he saw the wooden fence around North County Monastery, he felt like he'd aged five years. The fence was barely two meters tall—child's play for a guy who'd spent college years jumping dormitory gates.
He scaled it like a ninja librarian, flopped down on the other side, and made for his room.
What he didn't see was the man watching from the shadows.
The knight let out a breath he'd held for over an hour. He had seen Duke dragged away but lacked certainty. He couldn't raise the alarm on a hunch, nor could he abandon his post.
Now, seeing Duke alive—covered in soot, sweat, and half-digested lunch—Wilhelm smiled faintly and erased all traces of Duke's return. Footprints? Gone.
Back at the inn, Duke collapsed into bed like a dead starfish and slipped into blissful unconsciousness.
The next morning, he dragged himself to breakfast, looking like he'd gone twelve rounds with a warlock. But old man Norton was there, smiling wide enough to iron out his wrinkles.
"Duke, meet your classmates!"
Daniel was first. Built like a young mountain with the eyes of a confused puppy.
"Hello! I'm Daniel! I'm the lumberyard boss's son!"
Duke shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, mountain boy."
Then came Anya—a pocket-sized mage, seemed almost swallowed by her robes, which billowed around her like a tent.
"I-I-I'm Anya! From Elwynn Forest! Secretary's daughter! Adept-class magic qualification!"
Duke grinned. "Welcome to the club, Anya."
Just as he was about to ask what their favorite cantrip was, a loud, enraged scream tore through the inn.
"WHY ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?!"
Sir Brando had entered the chat.
Duke sipped his tea calmly.
It was going to be that kind of day.