Some things only become precious once you've lost them.
Take Medivh, for example.
Back when the Guardian of Azeroth, the world's mightiest wizard and ultimate mystical showman—was still around, King Llane could stare down the entire kingdom of Lordaeron without so much as breaking a sweat. No matter how many orcs charged, it was basically a casual pew pew pew , and the orcs got taught manners in under five minutes flat. Orcs learned to behave better than polite dinner guests at a tea party.
Well... talking about it just stings the eyes like a splash of bad ale.
At this moment, Lothar hadn't yet nailed down the fact that Medivh was the very architect of this nightmare, the puppetmaster behind the kingdom's plunge toward extinction. But one thing he did know like a boot in the gut: if the elite Griffin Legion was getting whipped like a greased pig at a county fair, the poor local garrisons and the high-and-mighty noble knights were toast on the barbecue spit.
If this carnage kept up, Stormwind would crumble faster than a gingerbread house in a goblin's hands.
Lothar had thought on this till his mind was a looped record — if he could only survive this hellstorm, he'd make sure King Llane dragged every one of the seven human kingdoms into one massive green-skin smackdown.
Yeah, just a thought.
Then, like a shadow dropped from the heavens, a figure appeared on the far mountain ridge—a black-robed wizard, floating like he owned the air itself.
Nobody noticed him at first, but then again, you can't exactly not notice someone who looks like they just walked out of a fashion shoot for "Arcane Vogue." This guy didn't just stroll into the fight; he froze orcs solid with a flick of his wrist while hovering above the carnage like some kind of grim reaper on a magic hoverboard.
But here's the kicker: he had more than a hundred magical hands. Not metaphorical hands—literal, spectral, floating wizard hands—all firing non-stop arcane missiles like a mystical Gatling gun.
Now, casting spells on the move is mage 101. But juggling a hundred wizard hands shooting deadly magic with near-perfect accuracy while floating gracefully? That's next-level sorcery, and probably cheating.
Anduin Lothar almost lost his mind watching the display.
"Wait... he's powerful, right?" Lothar thought, blinking rapidly, "But he's throwing around low-level spells? No fancy fireballs or apocalypse stuff—just arcane missiles? And yet, one guy doing this could flip the entire battle on its head? What kind of sorcery is this?"
For a moment, Lothar almost convinced himself this was Medivh, come back from the dead with a brand-new bag of tricks.
Spoiler alert: it wasn't. The weird arcane glow was all wrong, like trying to pass off a goblin as a nobleman.
"Lothar! Get your people out of here now!" The command came, cold and sharp like a blade through leather. "I, an old man with a few tricks left, have some big surprises ready for these rough green bastards."
Lothar blinked, stunned. Lothar doubted the old man's words, but he knew better than to ignore them. It was a wizard's message—coded, cryptic, but deadly serious.
He gritted his teeth and nodded.
"We pull back as a unit. Someone covers us."
Orders barked. No one believed every word from the mysterious wizard, but the alternative was worse: get swarmed and obliterated faster than a tavern brawl gone wrong.
As the battered remnants of the Griffin Legion retreated uphill, Lothar finally saw what the "cover" was.
Hundreds of what looked like bizarrely long arrows rained down.
Lothar squinted. These weren't bows or ballista bolts. No, these were something stranger—longer, sharper, and more menacing. At first, he thought elven rangers had suddenly unleashed a secret weapon. Then he realized with a jolt: these were heavy javelins, ancient weapons reborn.
Here's the kicker—these javelins had history. They were Roman heavy javelins, crafted with devilish cleverness:
The head's rivet was swapped for wood, so when the javelin hit, it snapped off inside the target, making it impossible to yank out and throw back (talk about "take that!").
Julius Caesar himself upgraded these babies with iron spear tips attached to soft metal rods, designed to bend on impact, sticking fast in enemy flesh.
Later versions added lead weights to extend range.
What Lothar saw was the pinnacle of these improvements, reborn in the hands of a ragtag crew.
On the mountaintop, a group of shirtless, dark-skinned fishermen hurled harpoons like seasoned gladiators. After months of grueling practice, they weren't hunting whales—they were hunting green monsters.
Light arrows bounced harmlessly off orc hide, but these javelins? Deadly.
They arced through the sky like lethal rainbows, sailing over the heads of stunned Griffin soldiers, and pierced orc guts with surgical precision.
Orcs stabbed through their vitals flew backward like bowling pins, tumbling down the hillside, knocking over their comrades in an unintentional game of orc bowling.
With the wizard's relentless arcane missile barrage paired with the fishermen's javelin storm, the orc charge was finally blunted.
The mountainside echoed with the screams of orcs, the triumphant cheers of Griffin Legion soldiers, and the whooshing whistle of death raining from above.
"Good! Well done! From now on, you're all brothers in arms!" the soldiers shouted, their spirits reignited by the sudden reversal.
Only Lothar kept his head cool, knowing this miracle couldn't last forever.
"Warriors, grab the weapons of the fallen! The recruits coming after us will need these legendary tools of war." Lothar had already realized Stormwind's blacksmiths wouldn't keep up with the demand for arms if this became a drawn-out war.
The path up the mountain was brutal, but Griffin Legion warriors still had fight left in them.
At the summit, Lothar peeled off his sodden helmet—and stared in shock.
These weren't battle-hardened soldiers protecting them—they were fishermen, dark-skinned and bare-chested, hurling javelins like angry gods.
The closest orc was pinned down a hundred meters away, quivering in disbelief.
Lothar approached Duke, the mysterious black-robed wizard.
"Master, what's your connection to Edmund Duke?"
"That kid? Just my apprentice for now," Duke replied with a tone dripping seniority and mock grandeur, using the voice-changing system he'd cobbled together with AI help.
Lothar was sharp and put two and two together: Duke had powerful allies behind the scenes. No wonder this black-robed wizard was rewriting the rules of the battle.