Duke's life... is utterly worthless!
Duke's integrity... barely registers as spare change on a morally bankrupt stock exchange.
Duke's oath? Well... that still packs a faint punch. A whimper of honor echoing in the cosmic void.
Then—bam!—a tremor quaked through Duke's soul like a dramatic soap opera twist he didn't ask for. Here he was, transported to Azeroth, and fate decided to prank him harder than a college frat house on April Fools'. As if the four Windrunner sisters weren't already an overpowered mess of plot and hormones, now the very laws of *magic* were breaking the fourth wall.
But magic... oh, magic was magic. And it just sucker-punched his brain into enlightenment.
The moment he opened that note, Duke didn't just read it—he *merged* with it. He felt it deep in his bones, like the first time you hear your voice on a recording and realize you sound like a confused goose. A tidal wave of clarity smashed into him. His narrow, game-defined idea of a "Mage"—a glass cannon turret on legs with a superiority complex—just exploded in a beautiful mushroom cloud of revelation.
His mind cracked open. A new paradigm surged in. The title "Mage" no longer meant a spammy DPS machine—it was *something bigger*. Something *transcendent*. A door opened in his spiritual sea, radiating dazzling, arcane light. Duke stepped through it like an awestruck intern discovering their cubicle has a coffee machine.
Boom. Spell list. Right there. Popped up like a floating HUD in his brain, all casual.
Magic had been *reclassified*. Nine categories. Count 'em:
Protection. Spell. Divination. Enchantment. Transmutation. Illusion. Necromancy. Transmutation again (yeah, apparently it's that important). And General.
Okay, most of them were still greyed out like locked DLC content, but holy crap—this was a *new system*. Not some fleeting hallucination, but a *legit breakthrough*. Azeroth's stodgy old rules were being ripped apart by the cosmic patch notes of fate.
And the System Ai? Oh, they were just casually letting him call up this magical UI whenever he wanted, like Google Sheets but for blowing stuff up.
That's when Duke realized something even crazier. The spells—whether it was old favorites like **Pyroblast** and Ice Arrow, or new toys like Dwarven Quenching Prison—were getting insane buffs.
Why? Because the System was pulling tricks from Duke's Earth memories. Thermodynamics, motion physics... movie-grade CGI crap.
Even low-level junk like Mage's Hand—normally the magical equivalent of a party popper—was getting juiced like it was on magical steroids.
System Prompt: "Detected: High-level motion capture knowledge in host memory. Integrating cinematic-grade articulation data... Added thought-node transmission to Mage's Hand. Flexibility up 180%. Strength up 230%. Spell level: ??? (estimated to exceed Tier 2)."
Yes, you heard that right. Duke's spell got buffed by *Hollywood tech*. Motion capture—used for giving realistic emotions to CGI orcs—was now turning magical phantom limbs into precision tools of mystical destruction.
Makaro was about to get front-row seats to this magical revolution.
Duke snapped his fingers.
A ghostly blue hand—like something out of a budget sci-fi flick—appeared in front of a wide-eyed mercenary.
The mercenaries recoiled. Swords came out faster than pay-to-win wallets at a loot box sale.
But then they noticed the hand was *mirroring* Duke's every movement. It was a magical mime. And suddenly, everyone chilled out.
Duke gave a sly, knowing smile, like a stage magician who just pulled a rabbit out of a hat full of live grenades. "Makaro, thanks for the generous gift. I owe you. Big time."
Makaro, still mentally rebooting, stammered, "N-no, no, no! Respected Sir Edmund! For me, my son is worth more than gold. If you are pleased, that alone warms my heart!"
Ah, human relationships. One moment you're trading gruff nods and pay slips, next thing you know, you're practically drinking mead together by the fire.
Duke insisted on dropping formalities. In private, Makaro could call him "Edmund." A bond forged by magic, motion capture, and mutual awe.
And Duke... could not sleep.
This world—so raw, so unprocessed—felt like camping in a prehistoric survival sim. No streetlights. No neon. Just firelight flickering weakly against the yawning black of the western wilderness.
The caravan camped near a hill's leeward side. Dinner came and went. Fires died down. Only a few flames and night watchmen remained.
But Duke, instead of sleeping, reviewed his boosted spells in the darkness like a kid scrolling through cheat codes.
"Charon? Did you hear something?"
"Something's coming..."
The system chimed in, cool as a cucumber.
"Warning: Host, hostile life forms detected. Classification: Jackals. Estimated enemy count: 50... 60... 100... 170 and climbing..."
From the darkness, tiny shadows sprinted silently. Fast. Too fast.
**"ENEMY ATTACK!"** The night watchman's shriek cracked the night like a starter pistol for panic.
Chaos. Mercenaries scrambled, half-awake, clutching weapons.
**"OH NO! IT'S HOGG!"**
**"BY THE LIGHT—IT'S REALLY HOGG!"**
Even the *name* made people lose control of their bowels. Hogg. Hogger. Elwynn's Nightmare. The boogeyman with mange.
No one grew up in Elwynn Forest without waking up in a cold sweat from *hog-cries*. The gnoll of legends. Supposedly just a name humans gave to a series of terrifying gnoll warlords. Maybe one creature. Maybe many. No one knew. No one wanted to know.
Some said Hogg could crush a shield like it was wet paper. Others claimed he outran horses. All agreed on one thing:
No one survived facing him.
If there was a "Wanted" board around Stormwind, Hogg was on it more than missing cats or tax notices. Adventurers who chased his bounty? Became bones in the underbrush.
Now, that beast was here. Not alone.
He brought his whole damn pack.
Let the carnage begin.