No criminals, no straw men, not even a charred stick left. Just two unlucky dudes coughing up smoke and the vague outline of where scarecrows used to be—all turned to powder. The blast zone looked like a barbecue gone nuclear.
Lieutenant Wilhelm looked like he'd just seen his mother-in-law pole dance. Mouth wide open, egg-sized. SPEECHLESS.
Not far off, Sir Fam Brando and his entourage had collapsed like a deck of terrified dominoes. All flat on their backs, staring up at the sky as if divine retribution had just dropped out of orbit.
"Oh my God, what am I seeing!?" Wilhelm blurted, eyes wide, brain clearly buffering.
According to legend—or at least Wilhelm's predecessor's predecessor's drinking tales—if a rookie mage could blow up a single straw dummy using the crystal ball, that was a sign of greatness.
Duke? Duke didn't just blow up one.
Ash everywhere. One guy even tried to sweep it up before realizing it was the scarecrows.
"Cough, cough, cough..." Duke and the old wizard sounded like two frogs in a smokehouse. The blast had them hacking up their lungs.
"Sasha!" the old wizard barked, eyes wild with joy. "Fetch Old Mike and the vintage wine from under my bed! I found a treasure!"
"Treasure!? What treasure?!" yelled a breathless assistant who arrived just in time to inhale a lungful of ash.
The old man Norton yanked Duke closer like he'd just snagged the last PlayStation in a Black Friday sale. "This boy! He's not just a wizard. He's a once-in-ten-thousand-years prodigy!"
Boom. Northshire Monastery trial grounds exploded into chaos.
Gasps, screams, people slapping each other to check if this was real. Among commoners, soldiers were a dime a dozen—muscles over magic. But mages? Mages were unicorns. Glittery, powerful unicorns who could blow you up with a sneeze.
And this unicorn was from the slums.
Duke could feel it. Every eye on him. Some with awe. Some with jealousy. A lot with unfiltered envy.
Even the two guards who used to sneer at him were now face-down, groveling like trained poodles. Lieutenant Wilhelm twisted their ears like he was wringing wet rags.
But none of that compared to the full-blown meltdown happening behind Brando's eyes.
Then came the sentence that shattered Brando's soul:
"Boy, from this moment, you are a master wizard apprentice of the Stormwind Royal School of Magic. And yes, you'll receive knight-level privileges."
In Brando's world, Duke's face now looked more hideous than a tax collector. The words master qualification rang in his ears like funeral bells.
Why? Because only one other person had ever scored that high in the kingdom's history: Medivh. You know, that Medivh. The magical GOAT. Son of Aegwynn, the Guardian of Azeroth.
Brando was having an existential crisis on fast-forward.
He was a adept level prodigy! In the upper echelons! A walking success story!
Until Duke walked in and turned his legacy into confetti.
The old man gripped Duke like a prize tomato: "What's your name, boy?"
Then, it hit him. A name. A legend. The words etched into his mind 'Where'd you study tactics, boy!'
"Edmund. Edmund Duke."
Norton hoisted Duke's hand into the sky like a championship trophy: "Behold! This year's wizard trial Rookie King is born! Edmund Duke !"
Silence. Then, chaos. Screaming. Wild cheering. You could hear people clapping from the rooftops.
Over a thousand mouths dropped open. The collective breath of the crowd could've powered a windmill.
Then the focus shifted. All eyes snapped back to Brando.
You could practically hear his ego cracking. Malicious glares, smirks, disdain, you name it. He was marinating in public humiliation.
Apologize? HA! Nobles don't apologize. Even if they commit arson, they just buy the building.
Even with Duke having knight-level status, he was still technically an apprentice. Brando could keep up his noble sneer for now.
So, he did what all proud villains do when they lose without losing: he huffed, he puffed, and he ran like a toddler denied candy.
The moment Brando vanished over the horizon...
Roars, whistles, people hugging, girls crying, men lifting each other. It was a party without music.
"Did... did Duke actually win?"
"Won? He obliterated Brando's score. Master class versus adept class. Bro, it wasn't even close!"
"A commoner beat a noble! In public! With fireworks! Literal fireworks!"
"Is he going to the Royal wizard Academy now?"
"He is! First commoner ever admitted since the kingdom was founded!"
A beefy young man with arms the size of tree trunks yelled, "When Duke becomes a full mage, I'm gonna be his number one follower!"
Another dude shouted, "Don't wait, you idiot! Get close now! He'll be the next Guardian!"
And the girls? Oh, the girls.
They stared at Duke like he was chocolate dipped in gold, wrapped in diamonds, served on a unicorn.
"Edmund Duke," someone whispered reverently, "Remember the name. That boy's gonna set the world on fire."
Quite literally, if the scarecrows were any indication.