Outside the bay, a dozen rugged fishing boats, each weathered like the faces of their captains, roared across the rising tide like they had a personal vendetta against the sea. They sped toward the bay mouth with such reckless urgency that the Grayscale Naga scouts stationed outside barely had time to blink, let alone raise an alarm.
Unfortunately for them, all elite Naga forces had slithered deep into the bay, leaving only a few unlucky souls to babysit the outskirts. And those poor leftovers? Turned into grilled calamari by Duke's opening volley of arcane destruction before they could even say "Wait, what's that glowing orb—"
As if auditioning for an extreme sports event, the fearless fishermen rammed their boats sideways into the bay's narrow throat. Then, like synchronized swimmers from hell, they popped the bilge plugs, letting the tide do its job and flood the boats. One by one, they leapt dramatically into the sea—some with a backflip flourish—and swam toward Makaro's pickup boat as if chased by a school of rabid tuna.
The operation was smoother than a dwarf's best whiskey, completed before the Grayscale Brigade even realized their retreat had been sealed tighter than a murloc's diary.
And atop the tallest, soggiest ship now blocking the exit, stood Duke—robes billowing, hair tousled by the salty breeze, the very picture of smug arcane swagger.
"I heard this is where the monster-spawning event is happening?"
The Grayscale Naga blinked, confused. Did this lunatic just sass them while standing on a sinking boat?
Then Duke raised his hands, and with a roar of magical bravado, unleashed the Level 2 spell: Dwarven Quenching Prison.
Now, normally this is the kind of spell you'd use to chill your ale or make ice cubes for a party. But in the hands of Duke—Arcane Engineer Extraordinaire with a tricked-out Arcane Circuit—it became something else entirely.
Frost exploded from his body, not gently, but with the full wrath of a winter god on a caffeine high. Instead of trying to freeze the sea directly (which is dumb, even for wizards), Duke pulled a classic magical life hack: use the sunken boats as scaffolding. Ice clung to the wreckage like gossip to court ladies, and in the blink of an eye, a massive glacial dam shot up at the bay's entrance.
From atop his newly formed Throne of Doom, Duke watched his enemies flounder like fish at a sushi buffet.
Then, as if to add insult to injury (and then some more injury), 1008 glowing wizard hands manifested in the air like a celestial choir of doom.
A particularly burly male Naga tried to charge—but his lower half was encased in ice faster than you can say "frozen seafood special." He roared, flailing wildly. Duke didn't blink.
One wizard hand casually extended a glowing finger. A single arcane missile shot out, so precise it made snipers weep. It zipped into the Naga's open mouth, pierced the back of his skull, and exited in a splash of cinematic gore. The Naga gurgled, twitched, and crumpled with theatrical flair.
Silence fell. Not the quiet of peace, but the "holy-shit-we're-screwed" kind of silence.
Even the crustiest old sailors on Makaro's boat stood slack-jawed. The salt wind smelled like victory and fish guts.
"Are all mages ?" one whispered.
"No," Macaro muttered, stepping in front of the stunned helmsman. "Only Sir Edmund Duke. Now stop gawking and steer! We're not losing a fisherman to hero worship today!"
Snapped back to reality, the boat crew turned tail and rowed like their pensions depended on it.
In the bay, all hell broke loose—again.
Just like the last time Duke met the old blind Murloc and his buddy Fish Spear, the murlocs turned into hysterical toddlers at the sight of wizard hands.
Wailing, squealing, making noises that shouldn't exist outside a haunted aquarium, they scattered like coins from a dropped purse. The old blind one and Fish Spear led a counterattack so enthusiastic it bordered on absurdist comedy.
"KAOHLAAA!" shouted Fish Spear, as he bisected another fleeing murloc. "IN THE NAME OF LORD , THE THOUSAND-ARMED SEA DEATH-GOD—ATTACK!"
Duke raised an eyebrow. "Overachievers."
Despite superior warriors, the Grayscale Naga Priestess saw the tide turning—literally. If Duke swiped her murlocs, her elite troops would be outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and out-meme'd.
She screamed orders, flinging her own warriors toward the icy blockade.
"Kill the wizard! Open the mouth of the bay!"
Duke smirked. "System AI, status on the arcane missile bombardment plan I mentioned last time?"
The system responded with calm menace. "Multi-cast confirmed. Recommended limit: 80 missiles per salvo."
"Let's keep it classy. Fire thirty-six."
Behind him, the arcane hands unfolded like a magical peacock on steroids. Duke raised his hand—then snapped it down like a maestro commanding the end of a concerto.
A rain of arcane missiles—each a glowing blue comet of death—launched in synchrony. Dozens. Then dozens more. Missiles soared in V-formations, lighting up the bay like a divine laser show.
No aim necessary. Just volume.
The hardened scales of the Nagas might have shrugged off arrows or spears, but Duke's arcane barrage turned them into Swiss cheese. Explosions. Shattered tridents. Screams. More blood joined the already chunky seawater soup.
If before it was Murloc puree, now it was Naga chowder.
The bay was red. The ice glittered. And Duke, perched on his frozen throne, looked down on the carnage not with satisfaction—but with a cold resolve.
"Next time," he muttered, "bring more bosses."