No, absolute provocation!
Like showing up at a family reunion wearing a shirt that says "I Hate Everyone"—that level of challenge.
Gul'dan's status in the tribe was basically second only to one person, like the tribe's celebrity grandmaster boss. In the Shadow Council, that secretive puppet-master group pulling all the strings, every warlock strutted around with an ego so inflated it could cause earthquakes.
Now add to this toxic mix the effects of Hubris infecting both Balsa and Duke, two stubborn magic users armed with nothing but raw arrogance and untamed spells, locked in a deadly staring contest.
It's downright hilarious: here they are, two seasoned warlocks with every trick in their magical arsenal, instead of charging and smashing, just throwing spells at each other from across the battlefield like angry teenagers on a spell-casting app.
Sure, wizard wars often involve spell-slinging at range, but this? This was something else a reckless showdown where defense was tossed aside like yesterday's dirty socks. No shields, no dodging, just full-power magic blasts flying like drunken fireworks in a dark alley.
What should have been a ridiculous magic duel quickly turned into edge-of-your-seat madness as both sides poured every ounce of power into devastating attacks.
Now, Balsa's staff? Oh, it wasn't just any staff. The skull on its top was the macabre trophy of a high-ranking Draenei priest. Not just a trophy—a twisted prison.
This poor Draenei priest had once been a beacon of the Holy Light, but Baalsar—the evil fiend behind Balsa's powers—had forced him to witness the slaughter of thousands of Draenei children, a nightmare so vile it would curdle the blood of the strongest souls. Then, like a scene from some infernal horror show, Baalsar tortured him mercilessly, soaked him in a pool of blood, drowned him alive, and finally trapped the priest's vengeful soul inside that cursed skull.
Anyone with an eye for evil could see the pulsating waves of hatred and sorrow leaking out of that skull-staff like toxic radiation.
The dark glow on the staff brightened, and then—mystical showtime: three faint black rings etched with mysterious runes lit up, spinning like bizarre carnival rides. The rings formed a cone that grew from tiny to massive—about a meter wide at its largest point—and started rotating in an eerie dance. The front and back spun clockwise, the middle one counterclockwise, like some sinister, magical drill about to rip reality apart.
With a guttural chant no mortal tongue could comprehend, an inky black beam blasted forth, slicing through the shimmering air barrier like a hot knife through butter. It swept away the battlefield's golden sunlight as if declaring, Day? Overrated. This was darkness incarnate, aimed straight at Duke, who stood stoic at the fortress gate atop the mountain.
The darkness was so thick, so utterly void of hope, it seemed to threaten to swallow the entire world and plunge it into eternal night. Every eye on the battlefield flinched—countless orcs instinctively ducked their gaze, afraid to stare into the abyss itself.
And then... the impossible happened.
A gust of blistering wind slammed into the battlefield, and the orcs felt hot breath on their faces.
Two suns? Had the world suddenly doubled down on daylight?
Nope. Not suns. Something way hotter—a massive fireball, the size of a small hill, glowing with the fury of a thousand infernos, radiating heat enough to turn a mountain to ash and reduce orcs to crispy critters.
Balsa's red eyes pinched to mere dots, his fang-studded jaws parting with heavy, uneven breaths. The orcs nearby thought he was nervous.
Only Balsa, the warlock who had survived countless brutal battles with Draenei, knew better: this "powerful wizard" was a total fraud.
What high-level wizard?
What powerful human being?
Anyone with half a clue could see this guy's magic was a steaming, low-grade mess, diluted like weak swamp water. A true master wouldn't tolerate so many impurities in his spells—not without vomiting arcane energy everywhere.
Old guy or not, Duke's magic level was a joke in Balsa's eyes.
Anger flared—real anger, the kind that makes warlocks throw tantrums the size of mountains.
Balsa jabbed his staff forward, releasing a torrent of raw magical power with a roar:
He meant to finish with "liar," but froze mid-sentence, eyes widening. The staff, once clenched in his powerful grip, slipped loose—like it had a mind of its own and was saying, Nope, not today, buddy.
The speed at which Duke gathered magic was unnatural. Balsa's own casting time was a slow and steady three seconds even when he poured everything into his spells. Duke? His magic flared up instantly.
Sure, warlocks trained to shave seconds off casting times, but Duke's speed was on another level—something terrifyingly fast and precise.
A giant fireball smashed down like a meteor, whipping up dust and howling winds that sent orc manes and battle-whips flying. The orcs were scared stiff, those tough-as-nails warriors who usually preferred face-to-face brawls.
Only Balsa's eyes betrayed disdain. He sneered, ready to brag: "Watch this—my Shadow Arrow will shatter that joke of a fireball, then turn him into shadow dust."
But the universe had other plans.
The Shadow Arrow was barely ten meters in flight when the massive fireball split—not into two, not ten, but a staggering 108 blazing orbs! Like a shotgun blast of fiery wrath, transforming Balsa's brute-force pyroblast into a dazzling, skillful Continuous Fireball attack.
That was like watching a sumo wrestler punch the air while a ninja did the real work.
The fireballs scattered in bright, deadly arcs, striking Balsa's body long before the shadow arrows could even get halfway.
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"—explosions erupted, building into a sonic boom that rattled the battlefield.
The fireballs, low on magical potency, couldn't directly harm Balsa's shadow-hardened skin, but the sheer blast force was unavoidable.
Balsa wasn't just a warlock; he could summon void demons, sacrifice them, and form shields from their shattered souls. Even thousands of fireballs wouldn't touch him.
But Balsa's pride? That was another matter.
He refused to win like some coward hiding behind tricks.
"Just a low-level spell? Bring it on!"
That's what Balsa thought.
Of course, he didn't realize Duke's soul was burning with Pride—one of the Seven Deadly Sins—and that it was twisting their battle in unexpected ways.
And so, in front of thousands of orcs, it happened: Balsa was utterly, embarrassingly owned.
Grin! Grin! Wait for my Shadow Arrow to land...
Neither warlock noticed the third player entering the game.
"What to do? What to do? Simulation says: Host will die in 3.98 seconds from a dark-arrow attack—because Pyroblast? Totally useless. If the host dies by demon magic, high chance of full humanity loss and ghoul resurrection."
"The host's rationality? Completely gone. This system AI? Also doomed."
"Normally, I don't interfere with host decisions, but... host is nuts! Emergency plan: Activate!"
Unnoticed, a wizard's hand slipped silently from beneath Balsa's wide cloak. No flashy spell—just a cold, brutal strike.
An elf had calculated it all: at Duke's current power, spells were useless against the orc warlock. So, instead, the elf grabbed a broken human warrior's sword lying on the ground and stabbed the warlock in the back.
A severe chill spread through the air...