There were still a thousand things Duke wanted to do, and precisely zero he could actually accomplish.
Staring out the window at the smugly twinkling stars—those glittering bastards—Duke let out a long, exasperated sigh that practically steamed the glass.
The great cataclysm hadn't arrived yet, and strategic visionaries like Lothar were rare jewels buried in a field of pigheaded nobility. Most of the leaders of the Seven Human Kingdoms were still too busy guzzling wine, fondling goblets, and arguing over who had the most opulent codpiece.
Take roads, for example. Yes, roads. Duke just wanted to build a blessed road through Elwynn Forest, connecting Stormwind City to Redridge Mountains. Revolutionary idea? Apparently. He might as well have suggested building a teleportation gate using moonlight and pixie dust. The nobles didn't understand troop mobility or emergency evacuations. They only knew that roads meant access—and access meant someone might march through their hunting grounds without a proper invitation.
Duke knew civilians needed actual paths to flee when the orcs came stomping through the hills like angry, tusked rhinos. Orcs, with their meaty legs and suicidal terrain sense, could dance through forests and mountains like it was a summer frolic. Humans? Trip over a tree root and suddenly you're orc chow.
And the existing roads? Ha! More like decorative mud trails. Pretty in concept, horrifying in execution. When it rained, entire carts disappeared into the muck like they were being eaten by the Earth itself. On sunny days, it was passable—if you were a mountain goat.
Only a few forward-thinking nobles like Bolvar agreed to help, but they gave him the medieval version of "sure, buddy" and built cobblestone footpaths that looked like dwarves sneezed them into existence. Even with Duke footing the bill (pun intended), the whole thing crawled slower than a snail on molasses.
"Ah, cement... if only you existed here," Duke whispered wistfully, like a lover mourning his long-lost flame.
But infrastructure wasn't his only headache. No, life had decided to kick him in his magical ambitions too.
He'd hit a wall in his journey as a mage—a big, invisible, magical wall that occasionally zapped him with static. No matter how hard the system elf ran calculations, it couldn't decrypt the cryptic nonsense from his crotchety old mentor, Norton:
"Expand your magic circuit to the entire sky."
Oh, brilliant. Just casually loop your magical wiring around the stratosphere. No biggie.
Norton had explained:
"In earth magic, you're a beast. You draw elemental juice straight from the planet like it's a milkshake and you've got the thickest straw. But until you understand what it means to be a sky wizard, you're stuck."
"Can't I just brute force it?" Duke had asked.
"Sure. If you want to explode."
According to Norton, sky wizards had to channel magic like they were the sky—every gust, every cloud, every bolt of lightning had to be part of their spell matrix. But how do you meditate your way into becoming the atmosphere?
Duke didn't have the luxury of slow enlightenment. The Dark Portal event was only three months away. That ticking magical doomsday clock was practically shouting in his ear.
And then there was Gul'dan.
Duke clenched his fists. Just saying the name in his head made him want to punch a spellbook.
Gul'dan—orc warlock supreme, destroyer of worlds, and the reason Stormwind's Royal Magic Corps had historically been steamrolled like parchment under a boot.
This guy wasn't just some neighborhood necromancer with a skull fetish. No, Gul'dan was the real deal: he'd sucked up shamanism, swirled in demon juice courtesy of Kil'jaeden, and become the first warlock in history. He was like if Sauron, Voldemort, and a rage-fueled blender had a baby.
In the original timeline, Gul'dan's Shadow Council curb-stomped Stormwind's mages, while the orcs turned the army into barbecue.
Duke had made sure the army wouldn't repeat the same barbecue recipe this time—but the magic side? Still very much a dumpster fire waiting to happen.
He begged the system elf for help.
"This is unscientific. I got nothin'."
Gee, thanks, you digital disappointment.
Duke sighed again. Becoming the strongest wizard wasn't just a vanity project anymore. It was a necessity. A one-man countermeasure to Gul'dan's magical apocalypse.
Step one: set a goal.
Step two: find a way.
He was stuck, lacking the knowledge to progress. Stormwind's magical library was basically "Elemental Magic for Dummies" and a few outdated recipe scrolls.
"Karazhan..." he muttered, eyes lighting up like a kid who just realized the cookie jar was unguarded.
Yes! Medivh's tower! A repository of lost knowledge, forbidden scrolls, and magical relics galore.
If history still ran mostly true, Karazhan would open up after the Dark Portal. And when Medivh went full evil sorcerer and bit the dust, that place would be ripe for looting. Khadgar and his Violet Eye cronies had hoarded the loot last time. But this time?
"Oh no, Khadgar. This time, Daddy Duke's bringing the shopping cart."
Books, scrolls, artifacts—he'd take them all. And he wasn't about to let some self-righteous wizard frat scoop up the good stuff again. Especially not if it ended up getting lost when Dalaran turned into magical rubble.
But that was later. For now, he still had three months.
Three months to study, train, and prepare.
Three months to become strong enough that when Gul'dan showed up throwing fel fireballs like candy, Duke could catch them barehanded and throw them back with interest.
He took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles, and stared at the stars again.
"Alright. No more distractions. It's time... for a training montage."
Duke slammed the window shut and turned back to his desk, eyes blazing.
He was going into seclusion—and woe betide anyone who interrupted his magical grindset.