Lothar could feel it—the sword in his hand wasn't just trembling; it was practically vibrating with raw, furious resentment. The blood-stained blade, not yet wiped clean from the last orc it had kissed with death, reflected more than just the fading light—it mirrored the firestorm raging inside his soul.
What was this raging inferno?
Was it the fierce determination to defend the fragile human world, the only home they had?
Was it the stubborn refusal to be shackled by the stifling expectations of nobility, those polished lords with their silk gloves and empty words?
Or maybe, just maybe, it was the desperate wrestling against a fate that threatened to crush him and all his hopes beneath its heavy boot.
Lothar couldn't say for certain. But one thing was crystal clear: this blazing, indomitable spirit told him loud and clear that he—and the swords of every man under his command—were hungry to drink deep from the crimson river of orc blood.
Duke watched, an amused smile twitching on his lips, as Lothar charged forward. The Griffin Legion warriors roared their war cries, rushing like a thunderstorm at the floundering orc survivors scrambling up the muddy riverbank.
No one could swim with a sledgehammer or a tomahawk that weighed enough to fell a tree. Orcs were tough, sure—but stripped of their weapons and tricked into a watery trap? They might be strong, but strength alone doesn't win fights when you're clutching nothing but your bare fists and a desperate grimace.
Still, with the stubbornness of rabid badgers, the orcs lunged and roared, throwing themselves at the humans with savage desperation. But without those monstrous hammers and axes—the kind that could shatter shields and bones alike—their attacks were no more effective than the furious bites of rabid wolves in a dark forest.
"Shield strikes! Spear thrusts! Slice and dice!" The Griffin Legion's coordinated assault was a whirlwind of steel and precision.
Small battle squads of five or six men butchered orcs with terrifying efficiency.
Bolvar's cavalry thundered into the fray, like a stampede of death, sweeping downstream along the riverbank, turning the desperate orcs into squashed bugs under heavy hooves.
Upstream, where the forest soaked wet and the fire barely dared creep, an earth-shaking roar shattered the calm. Trees, thick enough to be hugged by a dozen men, toppled like matchsticks under a giant's boot.
Blackhand the Destroyer, the tribe's fearsome Warchief, appeared by the river. Surrounded by his most brutal warriors, he watched helplessly as the last great tree blocking his view crashed down.
What he saw was a nightmare writ large.
So painfully miserable.
Thousands of tribal warriors lay broken and dead along the riverbank—skewered by sharp wooden stakes tossed down by the flood, drowned in the rising water, shot by javelins, or butchered by human blades on the far side.
Across the river, the massacre continued mercilessly.
Massive waves, tens of meters wide, cut off any hope Blackhand had of sending reinforcements or rescuers.
He let out a guttural, enraged roar that echoed through the trees like thunder.
Beyond that, he was powerless—forced to watch as his warriors fought with desperate valor, only to be slaughtered in helpless futility.
History was mocking them both.
On opposite sides of this watery graveyard, two destined enemies locked eyes across the river.
Anduin Lothar—the future Lion of Azeroth—and the horde's Warchief, the deadly Blackhand.
The weight of fate hung thick in the air, a suffocating premonition whispering that only one of them would survive this war.
Blackhand, standing beside Orgrim, felt that chilling gaze like a knife.
When he saw Lothar plant his boot on the back of a struggling orc, Blackhand erupted in fury, bellowing in Orcish words that carried clearly across the battlefield:
"You tiny human! Kill another orc and I'll rip your head off and use it as a chamber pot!"
The threat was vulgar but effective.
On the human side, hundreds of eyes turned to Lothar.
Unfazed, wiping blood from his face with a grin, Lothar gave Blackhand a smile dripping with pure mockery.
Then, with brutal efficiency, he seized the flailing orc's head, slit its throat with a single smooth stroke, and swung his sword back and forth like a butcher cleaving meat.
Holding the dripping, grotesque head high with his left hand, Lothar bellowed a roar that shook the air itself:
"Light curse you, orcs! Long live King Wrynn! Long live Stormwind! Long live humanity!"
The human warriors echoed his cry, raising severed heads and bloodied swords alike. For a blazing moment, the riverbank was a hellscape for orcs—a paradise for men thirsty for vengeance.
"Light curse you, orcs! Long live King Wrynn! Long live Stormwind! Long live humanity!"
Their cries rang out like thunderclaps, the fiery spirit of mankind rejecting the green invaders with passion and fury.
Then came the taunts, the jeers, the laughter:
"Hahaha! All you green monsters go straight to hell!"
"I'll gut every single one of you!"
"Bring it on, you muscle-bound freaks!"
Human defiance needed no translator.
Blackhand's face, a dark canvas of rage and frustration, twisted as he slammed his massive war hammer into a nearby tree. The trunk exploded in splinters, sending shards flying into his own warriors like cruel hail.
But the gesture was empty. He was outmatched, outmaneuvered, and utterly helpless.
Meanwhile, on the shore, Duke refrained from further attacks. His mana reserves were nearly drained. Though the Arcane Fire Circuit hummed faintly, it was clear his mental strength was waning.
He had done more than well today.
Though the Orc Legion's overall power remained strong, Duke knew he had pushed the enemy to the brink.
In the darkness, a single, fragile spark flickered along the river of fate.
It was tiny, faint—insignificant compared to the roaring flames of destiny burning across Azeroth.
A new spark of hope in a land drowning under the shadow of orcish conquest.
Maybe this fire would be snuffed out.
Maybe it would smolder silently.
Or maybe, one day, that spark would ignite a blaze fierce enough to burn away the devil's claws.
Regardless, this was Duke's first defiant stroke at changing the course of history.
And it looked promising.
Stormwind lost this battle.
Tactically, strategically—they were beaten.
Three thousand elite Griffin Legion warriors and an equal number of garrison troops were buried forever in the Red Ridge Mountains pass. Their sacrifice doomed Stormwind to a desperate, almost hopeless position—no stronghold left to defend.
In this life, Duke fought fire with fire and water with water, turning Stone Lake into a battleground worthy of legends.
Still, the orcs' overwhelming combat power was not extinguished.
After this setback, Gul'dan sent waves of tribesmen crashing into Elwynn Forest on multiple fronts—faster, fiercer than the history Duke knew.
But some things were beyond even his control.
A few days later, the weary survivors of the Griffin Legion returned to Stormwind City.
In these times, respect for returning soldiers was brutally honest and unforgiving.
Victors basked in praise and glory.
Defeated dogs? They were spat on, cursed, and mocked without mercy.
The Griffin Legion received a mixed blessing.
Their faces told the story: pride tangled with exhaustion, hope tangled with bitterness.
War was never simple. And neither was honor.