The scene was downright weird — like a high-class fashion show crashed by a linen-clad vagabond.
There, in the middle of a dazzling sea of jewel-toned robes and glittering accessories stood a young man dressed like he'd just rolled out of a farmer's bedroll, awkwardly receiving the arcane badge of honor from none other than Medivh himself, the kingdom's most legendary and terrifyingly powerful wizard.
The contrast was so stark it practically shouted "What the hell is this?!" to every magic apprentice with noble blood pulsing through their veins. They wanted to pretend they hadn't seen it. Really, they wanted to just look away and pretend Duke was some invisible gnat buzzing past their perfect coiffures—but etiquette, that cruel mistress, forbade them. Bowing their heads would be a slap in the face to not just Duke but Medivh—the guy who just handed the badge like it was a participation trophy.
Then, like a volcano erupting, applause exploded around the hall. Whether it was sincere or fueled by envy so toxic it could rot teeth, nobody cared. The clapping was enthusiastic—the kind of applause that made you wonder if people were cheering Duke or just drowning their jealousy in noise.
"Congratulations! Sir Edmund!"
"Congratulations, congratulations!"
The compliments flowed like wine at a royal feast. Once you officially became a wizard, the world flipped upside down: the insults vanished, replaced by smiles so wide they threatened to crack faces in two. It was as if all the earlier snide remarks were some bizarre shared hallucination, like a bad fever dream Duke had.
Medivh, ever the gracious elder statesman, gave Duke a gentle smile, his voice smooth as silk. "Duke, you're young. The adult world is just... terrible sometimes. You'll get used to it."
At that exact moment, a sharp-eyed servant sidled over with a goblet brimming with fine wine. This should have been the royal debut of the chief apprentice—the highest honor in the Academy—but now, tossed to Duke like a leftover party favor, it felt slightly off. Still, the timing was perfect.
Duke lifted the wine glass mechanically. Medivh, the consummate court wizard and legend, clinked his glass against Duke's and downed his own in one smooth gulp.
The crowd saw it all. The respect dripping from Medivh's gesture was like a badge of honor far beyond mortal reach. Duke basked in the glow of that unspoken approval—a gift more precious than gold.
Then, as if a wizardly mic drop was required, Medivh said, "Ladies and gentlemen, I have pressing matters to attend to. I shall take my leave." And with a calm wave, he exited as if floating on clouds.
Medivh's reputation as King Llane's right-hand magic man was well-known. In the timeline Duke knew, this was the busiest, most pivotal moment of Medivh's career. The question that nagged Duke was: was this Medivh himself, the Burning Legion's puppet Sargeras, or some confused blend of the two? Because sharing a soul with an ancient demon? Yeah, that's messy.
But did this count as "pretend to be cool and vanish before things get awkward"? Or was it "boss-level dramatic exit after making me look good"?
Either way, Duke felt a wild rush of excitement bubbling in his veins.
Who would've thought? Using a supervillain boss as a shield was not part of Duke's grand plan—yet here he was, loving it. He felt some twisted thrill-seeker stir inside him, a newly awakened addiction to danger and drama.
Then the scene drifted away from Duke, as if his story was on pause.
A slick, overly cheerful announcer swaggered forward and declared, "Alright folks, it's time for apprentices and mentors to pick each other. According to Academy regulations, these mentors must recruit this year..."
What followed was a long-winded speech that Duke barely listened to, the kind of bureaucratic mumbo jumbo that made the whole process feel like a chaotic job fair.
Naturally, Duke had already politely declined Medivh's invitation to be his disciple—so, surprise! No other wizards were knocking down Duke's door.
In previous years, there'd be a big award ceremony for the chief magic apprentice, but since Duke had leapt straight to Earthwizard status, that awkward step was politely skipped.
Duke had hogged the spotlight so hard that the other apprentices and wizards, stung by the loss, melted away to lick their wounds.
Only then did Daniel and Anya—Duke's travel companions—step forward, looking like they were about to congratulate a ghost or an alien.
"Congratulations, Duke...uh, Sir Edmund," Daniel stammered, while Anya barely dared meet Duke's gaze.
"Just call me Duke," he said flatly.
Daniel hesitated but blurted out, "Duke, we talked with Mr. Norton, and we've decided to become his disciples."
Anya, summoning her courage like a tiny warrior princess, chimed in, "Duke, why don't we ask Mr. Norton for help? After all, he discovered you... Maybe he can—"
Duke raised a finger, cutting her off like a pro referee.
He thought to himself: If Norton had wanted me as a disciple, he'd have already swooped in. Maybe the old man's just scared or cautious.
Duke wasn't bitter. Not everyone is meant to be a hero. Epic legends are born from thousands of ordinary people battling fate, after all.
"Everyone's got their own path. Mine's different from yours. You should work hard with Mentor Norton. If anything good comes of it, I'll handle it," Duke said coolly.
The two nodded, clearly confused but respectful.
As the crowd dispersed, Duke asked a nearby waiter for directions. Led through a long marble corridor lined with portraits of grim-faced ancestors, Duke found himself at old man Norton's door.
The door swung open, revealing Sasha—a second-year apprentice with flaxen hair and warm brown eyes. Her smile was like a soft breeze.
"You're right on time," she whispered conspiratorially. "The instructor's been expecting you. He's not a bad guy, just... burdened with worries."
Then, with a loud announcement to the empty hallway, "Welcome, Sir Edmund Duke! The instructor is available. You may enter."
Duke nodded and walked inside, chest puffed and head high.
The room was surprising—not the cramped, dusty chamber Duke imagined, but a luxurious reception fit for nobles. A pristine white oak table with golden filigree and arcane runes edged the surface. The apprentice's chair, upholstered in plush red velvet, invited comfort and conversation.
But the mentor's chair stole the show—tall-backed with two softly glowing crystal orbs infused with arcane energy, silently proclaiming Norton's specialty.
Old man Norton wasn't sitting. Instead, he faced the massive window overlooking the lush college grounds, arms crossed, a deep sigh escaping him.
"I'm sorry to trouble you," Duke began.
"Alas," the old man sighed. "You've been trouble since the day I saw you, but I didn't expect you'd be this troublesome."
"Do you regret it?" Duke asked, grinning.
"If I did, I wouldn't have let you in this room," Norton said flatly.
"I'm taking a gamble."