His body was a grotesque horror show, twisted by demonic corruption into something that looked like an orc had been merged with a nightmare. His claws gleamed a sickly, radioactive green, buzzing with raw fel energy like they'd just come out of a demon spa day from hell. Unlike Blackhand, who radiated the raw, sweaty valor of a pit-fighting warlord, this one—Gul'dan—oozed malevolence so dense it practically suffocated the air around him.
Every breath he exhaled carried the chill of undeath, and every unfortunate soul who dared venture too close found themselves gasping for air, their lungs rebelling against the evil pressing down on them.
His eyes weren't just glowing—they were practically spotlights of infernal red, radiating unholy judgment. In them lived the terrifying knowledge that this wretched, hunchbacked sorcerer had somehow become the beating, black heart of the orcish horde's destiny.
With eerie calm, Gul'dan raised his bone-clad staff and stabbed it into the stone floor. It should've made a gentle clack. Instead, the entire plaza of warriors—tens of thousands strong—heard the deep, echoing crunch like the gods themselves had just turned the crank on the machine of fate. It was the sound of inevitability, and it rattled every orc's spine.
As famine ravaged their land, and the last edible weed had probably been grilled weeks ago, Gul'dan, prophet of doom and shaman turned fel-junkie, dared to offer salvation.
He bared his yellowed fangs and spoke—not with a shout, but with a voice dripping with sorcery. It wrapped around their ears, slithered down their spines, and settled in their guts like a curse.
"Our world—our Draenor—rots beneath us! But we, the children of fire and fury, will not rot with it!"
The voice wasn't just sound—it was pressure. It hammered into their minds like war drums pounding against their very souls. It was maddening and intoxicating, a voice with the rhythm of destiny and the smell of blood.
Thousands of orcs roared back, weapons raised like lightning rods thirsting for chaos.
Gul'dan turned, dramatically of course, and pointed one crooked, talon-like finger at the colossus behind him—the portal. A gate forged in fel magic, shaped like a godless temple archway, large enough for dragons to moonwalk through.
And then the surface of the portal rippled.
Emerald waves pulsed through its stony maw, and like a cruel magic trick, the nightmare parted to reveal a mirage: a world not on fire. A world with blue skies, clouds that didn't taste like ash, and trees—honest-to-spirits, green-leafed trees.
Orcish eyes widened. Jaws dropped. Breaths quickened.
Gul'dan grinned like a fel-crazed car salesman. "Beyond this gate lies paradise! A world filled with weaklings! Their might is as laughable as our children! Their bodies are softer than our women's lullabies! Go forth! Slaughter! Conquer! Let your axes write sagas in the blood of these pathetic creatures! Raise new cities on their broken bones!"
He didn't need to say more.
The fel-infused horde was already boiling over with bloodlust. Their previous victory over the Draenei had inflated their egos to balloon animal proportions. Subtlety wasn't in fashion. Massacre was the new trend.
The air itself seemed to retreat from the blast of sound that erupted. Thousands of war cries rose, a tsunami of green muscle and madness rolling forward. Weapons slammed against shields, orcs beat their chests with such force it echoed like war drums from hell, and the stampede began.
The Dark Portal opened wide. Like a monstrous maw, it welcomed them with a grin as cruel as Gul'dan's own.
At the front of the charge, of course, was none other than Durotan.
Beside him, Orgrim Doomhammer jogged with murder in his eyes and his namesake hammer dragging a trench in the earth.
Durotan glanced over, deadpan despite the madness. "Remember the Draenei?"
Orgrim smirked. "Their city is ours now. Shattrath was... cozy."
"Cozy like a burnt-out latrine."
Behind them, Draka snarled, brandishing her dagger. "Stop chatting and move. I'm not letting you boys hog all the glory."
Durotan sighed theatrically. "You're pregnant."
"Pregnant with rage!"
And with that, the Frostwolf chief dashed into the portal, swallowed by green flame.
Meanwhile, far away in Stormwind City...
A man bolted upright in his dark chamber. Disheveled hair, Gandalf-length beard, and eyes that blazed with a terrible epiphany—this was Duke, the world's most anxious isekai protagonist.
His heart pounded with dread and exhilaration. After months of fruitless grind, vague omens, and prophetic dreams, the pop-up finally came: [The Dark Portal is Open.]
It was both a summons and a slap across the face.
His followers, who had spent weeks questioning whether their employer was mad, deranged, or just cosplaying wizardry, were suddenly filled with dread as their master's voice pierced the still air.
They rushed in to find Duke looking like a hermit dragged from a cave, but those eyes... those eyes were on fire.
Windsor shivered. "He's... back."
Duke stood tall, finally shedding months of brooding. "The catastrophe has arrived. But it's not the end. It's our beginning. I'll show Stormwind... and all of humanity, that my so-called paranoia was the truth."
Windsor gulped. He had once suspected Duke of plotting a coup. Now he wasn't sure which was scarier: that, or the fact that Duke had been preparing for the apocalypse the entire time.
And somewhere else, deep in the military quarters...
Lothar, the Lion of Azeroth himself, trained recruits as usual. New tactics, fresh spears, some Naga-enhanced training regimens. Everything felt routine—until nightfall.
A sealed scroll arrived. Waxed shut, bearing the lion sigil.
He cracked it open, read the message—and froze.
His eyes narrowed. His pulse surged.
"Sound the horns," he whispered. "We ride at dawn."
The storm was coming.
And this time, it had green skin, giant muscles, and a very large axe.