Violent explosions ripped through the battlefield like a rock concert gone nuclear.
Shockwaves slammed past the orc warlock's senses, so fast and brutal he barely had time to blink before everything got wrong. This cocky human standing in front of him wasn't just arrogant—no, this guy was downright despicable. Stabbing someone in the back? That's just dirty, even by battlefield standards.
And the worst part? He never even suspected it was the system AI pulling the strings behind the scenes. Nope, the warlock thought it was all flesh and blood skullduggery—how quaint.
Then came the blade. Sharp, cold, cruel, it slid past his shoulder blade and plunged straight into his heart, diagonally, like a knife with a vendetta. His face twisted in pure disbelief.
"You..." He tried to curse, to spit venom, but the system AI wasn't taking any chances. The sword hammered his heart several times in one breath, turning it into minced, magic-mangled mush.
Boom. Everything exploded, cloaked in a cloud of smoke and chaos. Outsiders couldn't see the grim details, only the aftermath of carnage.
The nearby orcs had pulled back, hoping to see their warlock flex his magic muscles. Instead, they got a front-row seat to disappointment. The Shadow Arrow that had been screaming toward the enemy suddenly veered off course, crashing into the mountain with a clumsy "thud," carving a smoky black crater.
Meanwhile, that mysterious human didn't waste time. His fireballs rained down relentlessly, bombarding poor Balsa like a pyrotechnic sniper on a vendetta.
One-third into the fireball barrage, Balsa's defenses wobbled. Two-thirds in, his magical energy evaporated like morning mist—yet the raw, potent magic still pulsing inside him fought tooth and nail against the onslaught of Pyroblasts.
From the orc warriors' perspective? This human was vicious. Why kill Balsa with one fiery deathball when you can show off by hurling a hundred-plus? It was basically magic theater, a cruel and fiery spectacle.
This wasn't a duel. It was a massacre wrapped in a pyrotechnic rave.
And then the final fireball landed. Balsa, now nothing but a charred heap full of rage and regret, collapsed—dead.
Quick on its digital feet, the system AI snatched Balsa's staff with a slick, magical Wizard's Hand before the flames swallowed their victim whole. Talk about tidying up your evil little mess.
Duke blinked himself back to reality. The very first thing he saw? His system AI handing him the enemy's skull-topped staff like a grim souvenir. He froze, then burst out laughing—a rich, arrogant cackle that sent shivers down every orc spine within earshot.
The orcs didn't understand the nuances of wizard warfare, but they did know one thing: that black-robed human just snatched their biggest prize right from under their noses. The orc warriors, tough as they were, felt a flicker of dread creeping in.
Fear? In a tribe of battle-hardened orcs?
Yes. Yes, they were scared.
Duke waved the stolen staff like a conquering warlord on a parade float. "Who else? Who else wants a piece of this?" His laughter echoed off the mountains, striking nerves sharper than any sword.
Then, with a flamboyant flourish, Duke threw back his cloak, spun on his heel, and vanished into the fortress like a ghost slipping through walls.
One minute. Five minutes. Ten minutes passed. Not a single orc chief dared to poke their head out and check if Duke had truly gone.
Then, like a storm unleashed, a towering figure burst from the rear lines—Blackhand the Destroyer, the tribe's not-so-nominal chief, was mad. Orcs scattered in panic like birds startled by a monstrous hawk.
"What are you idiots doing?! ATTACK! I said ATTACK! Kill every human you see! Where is your warlock? Where's the head of the human chief?!"
The flustered little chiefs stammered excuses, but Blackhand wasn't having it.
"You're a pack of trash," he roared, his war hammer carving a terrifying arc through the air. The sheer force smashed one poor orc's upper body into a pulp.
Blood, guts, and orc guts flew everywhere. Blackhand, dripping with rage and gore, pointed his blood-slicked hammer toward the mountaintop fortress.
"The Horde has no room for cowards! Chase them! Destroy every last human!"
Fueled by Blackhand's fury, the green tide surged forward like an avalanche of axes and teeth. They tore down human outposts, smashed through defenses, and stormed the mountain pass.
At the mountain's foot, the orcs saw their quarry—the tail end of the human army—moving into the dense woods of Elwynn Forest at a cautious pace.
Behind them, the chieftain's wrath roared, and shame turned into fury among the orcs. They charged down the mountain, weapons raised, roaring for blood.
This sudden storm alarmed Lothar, standing in the rear. He exchanged a grave glance with General Seamus, who had just returned, both men knowing that this fight was far from over.
Seamus muttered, "That lord is terrifying—not just for power, but for his understanding of these green monsters' movements."
Before Lothar could respond, a cavalry thundered toward them. Lothar recognized the noble riders instantly: Duke Bolvar Fordragon himself, leading the charge.
"Oh—Emperor Thoradin, Lothar! You survived!" Bolvar's voice cracked with relief. He reined in his horse, vaulted off, and grabbed Lothar in a bone-crushing hug. The clang of their armor was like a battle hymn.
"I thought I was a goner," Lothar admitted, touched that Bolvar risked everything, looting noble cavalry to make the ride.
Bolvar's eyes softened as he surveyed the battered Griffin Legion soldiers. "You did well. Now, you retreat. I'll hold the line before the enemy reaches the woods."
It wasn't ideal to charge uphill on horseback—but it was the only way to protect the remnants of the legion.
Then Seamus pointed out a black dot creeping down the mountain, interrupting the tense calm.
"That's... the Excellency. The 'Thousand-Handed Death God' the wizard's Message warned us about. Edmund Duke's teacher."
Lothar sighed. "A very powerful wizard."