BOOM! "Enough! Shut up!" Anduin Lothar roared like a lion whose tail had been stomped, and the entire training field froze as if struck by a frost spell. Even the wind paused, unsure if it was allowed to blow.
He turned his sharp gaze toward the Naga—a tower of muscle and scales with four tree-trunk-thick arms and a wooden hammer so absurdly massive it looked like it was meant to build cathedrals, not smash skulls. In a flash, Anduin understood the problem: he had unleashed a monster into a playground.
"Get the injured to the priests. Everyone else, stand down. I'm taking the next round," Lothar barked. His words hit like command spells. Even the cockiest recruits swallowed their complaints and zipped their mouths. Their general was stepping into the ring. Silence followed. Absolute, religious silence.
Meanwhile, Duke, ever the theatrical one, clapped a reassuring hand on the Naga's boulder-like arm and boomed, "Listen up, champ! The guy you're about to fight is one of the best humans to ever swing a sword. Go all out or die trying. And don't come crying to me if you get wrecked."
Lothar didn't even blink at Duke's usual brand of madman provocation. He accepted an unsharpened longsword and a basic shield from an aide, casually weighing them like a blacksmith judging a new hammer.
"Come, Naga. Give me the same swing you gave that poor sod before."
The Naga obliged. Duke grinned. Oh, how he grinned.
Lothar braced himself, watching the Naga coil like a spring. When the serpent-man pounced with frightening speed and raised his hammer, Lothar's eyes widened ever so slightly.
The hammer came down with the screaming fury of a meteor. Lothar raised his shield instinctively—but deep inside, he knew: No human arm was born to block that kind of force with one hand.
He sidestepped at the last second, just barely avoiding becoming a heroic pancake. His longsword shot forward like a lightning bolt, pressing against the Naga's throat before the creature even registered he'd missed.
"I... lost," the Naga rumbled, clearly embarrassed.
"No. You did excellent," Lothar said, blinking sweat from his eyes. His under-armor shirt clung to his skin like wet seaweed. He'd just stared death in the face and asked it for a second round.
The cheers erupted behind him, but Lothar didn't hear them. He was too busy having an existential crisis.
He imagined a battlefield. Not one Naga. Hundreds. No space to dodge. No room to finesse. Just hammer, after hammer, after hammer. A sea of blunt death.
If ten Nagas could train his men , what would a hundred do?
He turned to Duke, desperation barely masked behind iron resolve. "Sir Edmund, you got any clever ideas up that spooky little sleeve of yours?"
Duke shrugged with the innocence of a guy who just watched a friend nearly die. "Ever consider using both hands on the shield?"
It was as if a window flew open in the dungeon of his mind.
"Again! Same swing! I won't counter this time!" he barked, now gripping the shield with both forearms, legs braced like a siege engine. The Naga struck.
The shield screamed under the force, the wood cracking like thunder. Lothar felt the jolt surge through his arms, his bones, his soul. For a second, he wasn't Anduin Lothar—he was a tuning fork. But he held.
"Again! Sweep this time!"
Another hammer blow. This time he braced the shield against his shoulder like a battering ram. The impact almost knocked the soul out of his body, but he stayed standing.
Lothar turned to Duke, panting like a man who'd just wrestled a boulder and won. He raised a trembling thumb. "You've just saved the kingdom."
Duke, ever the enigma, simply smiled.
This wasn't just a technique. This was survival. One small change, two arms instead of one, could mean the difference between life and instant death. Thousands had died in the old timeline before learning this. But now, not on Duke's watch.
Anduin turned to his officers and thundered, "Did you see that? That's how you defend! Train the recruits ! Don't worry about hurting the Nagas. As long as you don't go for the eyes or throat, they can take it!"
The officers saluted. Orders were already being shouted. Shields were raised. Practice began anew.
Lothar approached Duke, still rubbing his sore shoulder. "How many Nagas can you lend me?"
"Hundred. No more, or they'll start unionizing."
"I'll take them all. And I'll pay instructor wages. You don't need the money, I know, but honor demands it."
"No—Llane and I should be thanking you."
There was a pause. Then Lothar asked, more softly, "You sure you have nothing else to tell us? Not even a little prophecy? Secret visions?"
Duke shook his head. "Nope."
Lothar chuckled and tapped Duke lightly in the chest with a fist the size of a saddle. "I like you."
As the general walked away, barking orders and inspiring soldiers, Duke whispered to himself, "I've done what I can. Now let's see if the goddess of luck shows us her underwear."