Duke was not the kind of man you'd find skydiving, wrestling ogres for fun, or challenging fate to an arm-wrestling match.
He wasn't a gambler—at least, not with his life. Heck, he was the guy who triple-checked the expiration date on healing potions. But when the stakes changed from life and death to soul and damnation, even the most risk-averse city-raised nerd could feel a spark of madness light up inside.
Because when the will of Sargeras, the cosmic horror in golden armor and fel swagger, descended upon the council hall of Stormwind Keep, Duke's system—yes, that mysterious, snarky game-like system—lit up with an uncomfortably casual message:
[Major Humanity (Integrity) Selection Event Triggered]To the Demon Lord Sargeras, you are but an amusing little ant doing cartwheels in the corner of the universe.However, you—being a history-savvy transmigrant—realize this is a rare shot to flip the cosmic chessboard.Option 1: Save Sargeras from defeat at the last moment. 87% chance of becoming a top-tier demon boss. Soul stays (mostly) intact, body upgraded to "burning god-beef" status.Option 2: Assist Anduin Lothar in taking down Medivh and banishing Sargeras back to the Fel Abyss. 99.999% chance of regaining full moral integrity, soul power, and possibly getting your own holiday in Stormwind.Failure Option (Unstated): Try not to scream when your soul gets ripped out like a tangled USB cable.
This wasn't a game where you could reload from the last save. He'd always thought of himself as average. No holy saint complex, no cackling villain ambitions. Just a guy who liked coffee, strategy games, and not dying in fire.
But this wasn't "some people died far away" anymore.
This was his world now. His friends. His allies. His queen. And even if the timeline had been chewed up and spit out—Khadgar was dead, the Karazhan assault was off-script, and history was throwing punches like a drunken ogre—Duke knew one thing.
He wasn't going to let Lothar charge into Karazhan alone to get blendered.
Ever since that towering demon's presence rolled into the council hall like a fel tsunami, something inside Duke had snapped like a dry twig under a charging warboar. Screw the odds. Screw destiny. Screw Sargeras and his flaming shoulder pads.
Khadgar, buddy... I got your back. I'll rewrite fate with a middle finger and a fireball.
Of course, Lothar had no idea Duke was cooking up the world's most dangerous multi-choice essay in his head. Instead, when Duke dryly mentioned a 20% success rate against the universe's #1 soul collector, the old lion actually smiled.
"As long as it's not zero, I'm happy," Lothar laughed and slammed his bear-paw of a hand on Duke's shoulder hard enough to misalign his vertebrae. "See? Knew I made the right call bringing you. You've got brains, spine, and a healthy disrespect for statistics. Unlike those court mages—stand there chanting, get spell-sniped, then explode into glitter."
Duke tried to smile, but the truth was bitter.
Stormwind was losing the magic war hard. The orc warlocks weren't just nasty—they were nightmares wrapped in muscle and hellfire. Their magic didn't follow the polite rules of wizardry. It didn't sparkle. It bit. It summoned monsters that made warhorses scream. The royal mage corps had no idea what hit them—one was dead, the other missing. With no counter-spell defense, the human army was getting picked apart by fear spells, summoned felhounds, and the general cosmic cruelty of the Burning Legion.
And without mages? Human battle formations were just expensive arrangements of future corpses.
Still, even with odds stacked higher than Karazhan's tower, Lothar rode out—one man against apocalypse. And the elite troops followed. When Duke had casually asked a few of them why they'd volunteer for this kamikaze mission, the answer hit him like a hammer to the heart:
No theatrics. No drama. Just honest, heartfelt fire.
It echoed in Duke's ears. Like music. Like a war anthem played by gods.
It burned inside him, lit his blood on fire, and then—he snapped.
He leapt up onto a boulder like a caffeinated squirrel. "Alright! Everyone not doing something vital—get your armored butts over here!"
Lothar raised an eyebrow, but gave a nod. His knights—trained, professional, and mildly curious—gathered.
Standing high, cape flapping like he meant business, Duke shouted: "Listen up! You're about to face creatures that laugh at your sword skills, sneeze at your formations, and turn spells back on you like toddlers with mirrors. So forget the rulebook. Forget textbook formations. It's time to think dirty. I want you to fight like sewer rats with daggers made of spite and nightmares."
There was silence. Then confusion. Then smirks.
One knight raised a brow. Duke didn't give him time to speak.
"You see glowing crap flying at you? Dodge! You see a demon chanting in a dead language? Kick him in the runes! You see a fireball the size of a wagon? Don't catch it with your face! And if you get the chance—stab them in the back, the core, the eye, or the thing-that-looks-important-but-screams-when-poked. No honor, no duels—just kill them. Fast. Dirty. Smart."
Lothar's booming laugh echoed through the forest. "See? Told you he's got brains. Consider this a temporary vacation from military decorum, boys."
Duke bowed dramatically. "Thank you, Commander. I'll put it back when we're done saving the world."
In that moment, despite the looming darkness, the gathering despair, and the statistically unfortunate odds, the air shimmered with possibility. Not hope exactly, but defiance—a refusal to die quietly. A human middle finger to the infinite void.
They were going to Karazhan.
And if the universe wanted to make this a one-way trip, Duke was ready to rewrite the damn story—one stabbed demon at a time.