A prodigy so rare he only crops up once every millennium—or maybe once every cosmic century if you ask the right old wizard with a long beard and a suspicious twinkle in his eye.
Even Medivh's legendary apprentice, Khadgar, hadn't pulled off such jaw-dropping feats at the tender age of 13 or 14. No sir, this was a whole new level of ridiculous talent, the kind that made senior mages choke on their tea and mutter under their breath.
The only rival in the talent department? The modern-day world guardian himself—Medivh!
Wait. Who's Medivh? Strap in, because this guy's family tree reads like the royal dynasty of arcane badassery:
His mother, Aegwynn—the fiercest guardian the Council of Tirisfal had seen in over a thousand years. She was basically the secret weapon dreamed up by the Magocrats Council of Dalaran (the holy Hogwarts of human mages) and the Silvermoon Council of the high elves way out in Quel'Thalas. Their mission? Stop the world from burning, exploding, or getting totally wrecked by evil cosmic forces.
Oh, and his dad? Nielas Aran, a Stormwind court magician who's the kind of guy you whisper about in hallowed halls. Less flashy but no less formidable.
Pure red bloodline magic royalty.
But here comes Duke—this scrappy kid from some no-name mountain valley, probably famous only for goats and questionable mushrooms—breaking the mold with a talent so insane it had mages questioning reality and their life choices.
In the mage world, lineage usually mattered. Most wizards were born into bloodlines or schools—some families literally pumped out magic prodigies like a factory on overtime. The Stormwind Royal School of Magic, pulling apprentices from every corner of the human realm and even the high elf kingdom, typically didn't care where you came from. They were desperate for raw talent because, let's be honest, good mages were about as rare as a goblin who doesn't haggle.
If Duke became their apprentice? Oh boy. That would be the jackpot for any mage master. The kind of jackpot that launches careers, funds research, and inspires epic ballads.
Because a wizard is never just a solo act.
Every great mage has followers, a power base, a mini kingdom of loyal magical minions to ensure funding for cool new spells, crazy experiments, and probably a magical throne room somewhere.
Many wizards cozy with the powerful Brando family had their eyes locked on Duke—and immediately forgot whatever favors or deals the Brandos might have wanted. Forget Brando's petitions.
Whoever snagged Duke as their disciple was looking at skyrocketing fame, political power, and probably a lifetime supply of enchanted scrolls.
Duke's seventh level performance? So explosive it made mages' eyes glow red with a mix of rage, awe, and sheer jealousy.
While his opponent was desperately tossing down a raging Blizzard that crackled like a frozen lightning storm, Duke casually tiptoed around the outer edge, dodging hailstones and ice chips like a ballet dancer on ice—then shot an Ice Arrow through a tiny gap in the storm and nailed his opponent dead-on.
Seven levels? Smashed. Victory? Instant.
The crowd of mages in the observation room jumped to their feet, ready to throw Duke a parade. The one-in-a-thousand-years prodigy, the living legend.
Then came the shocker:
Duke moved on to the eighth level.
"What?! I thought there were only seven levels!" gasped every wizard simultaneously, their collective jaws hitting the floor like a synchronized spell gone wrong.
They started whispering wild theories—was Duke bending reality? Breaking the system? Cheating with some secret scroll?
Meanwhile, Duke blinked at the shifting scene, his brain struggling to keep up.
Seven grueling duels had almost erased from his mind the existence of Karazhan chess—and now, this chessboard wasn't a chessboard at all.
From the mages' perspective, they saw Emperor Thoradin leading the human alliance—centered around the Arathi tribe—in a desperate war against the fearsome Northern Troll Empire.
But what did Duke see?
A twilight prairie. The air thick with tension and raw power. The heavy breathing of soldiers, the frantic neighing of horses, and the low, menacing growls of massive black-furred wolves grinding their teeth.
Two colossal beasts poised for battle on a vast grassland, the kind of battlefield that would make any rookie pee their pants before the first arrow flew.
The setting sun draped the landscape in fiery orange and red, like the world itself was holding its breath for the bloodshed about to stain the earth.
Nearby, Stormwind's King Llane's hair caught the dying sun, glowing like a beacon of hope or, maybe, impending doom.
And Llane? Llane was the epicenter of this inferno.
If Llane fell, the tribe would claim total victory.
If Warchief Blackhand died, the Alliance would snatch the win.
Duke's gaze followed Llane's, tracing the battle formations etched across the land like war maps burned into his soul.
No longer a chessboard, this was a real battlefield.
Stormwind Commander Lothar's booming voice cracked through the tension:
"Prepare for battle! First formation: shield wall! Wheel the cavalry onto the flanks and prepare to counter the wolf riders!"
Stormwind's nobility might have been rotten at the core, but under Lothar's iron grip, the city guard had become a force of nature.
Facing orcs twice their size, those soldiers held fast.
Shields slammed into the ground, row after row locking into an impenetrable wall.
Spears glinted coldly in the dying light, forming a deadly hedge around the formation.
Any attacker would bleed dearly trying to break through.
Just five minutes—that's all the time Duke had before the clash.
King Llane raised his hammer, voice booming like thunder:
"Warriors! Will you let these filthy enemies trample Stormwind's lands? The enemy's arrival means war is inevitable. Behind you lies your home—Stormwind City! Many of you may fall here, but your kin will live because of your sacrifice! When we win, our names will echo through every tavern and every old man's tale in the Eastern Kingdom!"
"For the Alliance—fight!"
Llane's shout sent waves of courage surging through the troops.
Thousands of voices, tens of thousands of wills, merging into one unstoppable force.
Duke, knowing it was all an illusion, felt a spark ignite inside him anyway. Needed. Recognized. Important.
Then, walking up with the confident stride of a battle-hardened hero, Anduin Lothar himself—handsome, beard perfectly trimmed—patted Duke on the shoulder.
"The magic support strike depends on you," Lothar said with a smile. "With you here, Stormwind won't lose the magical war."
Duke's heart warmed, even knowing the man was just a mirage.
"Leave it to me!" Duke answered with a grin.
Behind him, a senior wizard from the Stormwind Wizard Corps stepped forward.
"Grand Wizard, the corps will follow your orders. Wherever your spells go, our attacks will follow."
Archers had their lead shooters; wizards had their Grand Wizard.
Duke smiled, feeling the weight of responsibility settle in.
But the Stormwind army soon learned harsh truth.
The Horde warlocks on the other side weren't messing around.
They unleashed relentless Meteor Shower spells, turning Stormwind soldiers into crispy critters.
Meanwhile, Duke's wizard corps looked like a bunch of drunken amateurs, firing spells in every direction like confused fireflies, clueless and chaotic.