In that moment, as if even the sun itself recoiled in awe, the shallow water churned with the corpses of Nagas slain by Duke, their serpentine bodies strewn like abandoned props after a particularly intense underwater opera. From their still-warm remains, waves of psychic anguish erupted, not subtle tremors but roaring tsunamis of despair that cracked the morale of every fishman still dumb enough to cling to Grayscale authority.
"Gagaohalaoh... (That guy's the real Sea God! Grayscale Naga? More like Grayscale Fraud! We're switching teams, sharp teeth and all!)"
The murlocs flipped faster than a greasy fish on a hot pan. Thousands of them, once loyal, now charged the stunned Grayscale Nagas with clubs, rusty harpoons, and very questionable personal hygiene. The Grayscale Naga priestess blinked in sheer horror as she realized the fishy tide had turned. Her voice barely made it out of her throat:
"Retreat! Back to Stranglethorn—NOW!"
Duke, hovering above like a smug demigod with a master's degree in elemental overkill, sneered. His pupils were two obsidian chips of contempt. "Sloppy! Slow! You? My underling? Hah! You wouldn't qualify to wash my spell components."
Like some unholy hybrid of a real-time strategy player and a tower defense champion, Duke didn't even look down as he turned the bay into a murder sandbox. His system-guided wizard hands swiveled like radar turrets, each arcane missile a kiss of doom. The approaching Nagas on drifting icebergs didn't get halfway before being flash-frozen or exploded into stylish meat confetti.
Then – thwack! – an Ice Arrow hit him.
From three female Grayscale Nagas.
Duke tilted his head, his smile widening into full villain-mode. Level 1 Ice Arrow? Really?
He raised a lazy left hand and casually conjured an ice wall. The arrows hit with all the fury of a damp sock. The chill? Absorbed. The threat? Nonexistent.
"My turn," he said with the excitement of someone about to microwave popcorn... with napalm.
His body ignited in a column of flame, hair flaring upward like a fire demon's mohawk. He drew from the fiery realm itself, five massive fireballs swirling into being like rogue suns ready to ruin someone's whole lineage.
The priests raised shields. The toughest male Naga warrior threw himself into the line of fire with all the tragic bravery of a doomed background character.
Duke's arcane missiles launched first, an opening volley of blue death that cleared the field like the world's rudest leaf blower. With the path clear, the Pyroblasts began to fall.
The priestess slithered. She dodged. She weaved like an eel on espresso.
Fireball one: direct hit, magic shield shrieked and collapsed.
Fireball two: crispy skin special.
Fireball three: limbs? Optional.
Fireball four: goodbye torso.
Fireball five: artistic overkill. The sea hissed as the sheer heat vaporized water around her corpse, creating a steaming void like the world itself was holding its breath.
Thousands of eyes watched, jaws slack, minds broken. Duke stood on his floating throne of elemental dominance, his shout splitting the very air:
"WHO ELSE!? WHO ELSE WANTS SOME!?"
Even in Common, the message translated perfectly. Fishmen understood. The arcane missiles. The fireball facial. The dominance. Duke wasn't asking. He was daring.
First male Naga? Sushi.
High priestess? Grilled.
No one met his eyes. The battlefield became a frozen painting of absolute submission.
Then came the final blow. Not a spell, but a sentence.
"In the name of the Thousand-Handed Death God, I claim you. Submit... or die!"
Kneel, they did. Thousands of murlocs dropped like rocks, chanting "Ga Ga Ga Oh Oh" in chaotic chorus. The last two priestesses offered all six arms in reverent surrender. The few surviving male Nagas, thoroughly humbled and semi-fried, followed suit.
Duke glanced at the carnage and felt... oddly dissatisfied.
"Man, I should've done this sooner."
From the blood-drenched surf swam Zjara of the Angry Scale. Her scales were shredded, her body a living tapestry of wounds. She knelt, dignity bleeding alongside her injuries.
"Congratulations, Master."
Duke quirked an eyebrow. "You still alive?"
"Just a few scratches."
"Good. You're in charge now. One month. Move everything the Grayscale Nagas have into this bay."
Zjara hesitated. "So urgent... is something coming? Something... big?"
Duke stared off toward the invisible horizon. The Dark Portal loomed in his thoughts like a ticking apocalypse.
"Big? You could say that."
But all he said aloud was:
"Just be ready for war. Naval war. Think... world-ending."
Zjara bowed again, blood still dripping. She didn't question further.
"As you command, Master."