Chapter 191: The City Ablaze

Everyone present knew the significance of the Warchief's head in Lothar's grasp.

If King Llane were to be ousted from his capital and forced to flee to Southshore, no matter how many troops he preserved or how many citizens he saved, Llane would still be a disgraceful ruler among the six major kingdoms.

This immense humiliation would accompany Llane for life, and even possibly afflict young Varian.

In 'history', even if Llane had been assassinated, he would still be regarded as a protector of the kingdom, a hero in the hearts of his people. Even if Lothar and Varian were given the cold shoulder, no one would speak ill of Llane's death.

In this life, Llane survived thanks to Duke's efforts. Having saved Llane from Garona's assassination attempt, Duke would not allow Llane to die for honor while defending Stormwind City. Without Llane, the kingdom would lose its backbone.

Now the situation was completely different.

The Warchief's head and the Horde's Warchief battle flag, which Lothar had the guards pick up, were enough to prove that Llane's defeat was still honorable.

The battle flag, adorned with large ferocious beast fangs, stood out as unique.

Even in defeat, even after losing the royal city, every citizen of Stormwind could still say with pride, "Our great hero Lothar beheaded the Horde Warchief."

However, all of this was orchestrated by Duke.

Without Duke's 'orc expertise', no one would have thought to lure the Warchief out in such a manner.

Even the most critical people could only give Duke a thumbs up.

Lothar was indeed a hero, able to slay Warchief Blackhand despite the significant disparity in strength and speed. And everyone knew that Duke was the true hero.

"Give me the head," Duke gestured.

As Lothar ran, he tossed Blackhand's head to Duke.

"Flash Freeze!" Duke waved his hand, and an icy breath instantly enveloped the spinning Warchief's head in midair. The next moment, a mage's hand caught Blackhand's head, now encased in a transparent block of ice.

Carrying the enemy leader's head was a heavy task, naturally left to the guards below.

"You all go ahead with the head and battle flag. I'll cover our retreat with the first squad," Lothar said, not letting his guard down. He swapped to a shield, leading the rearguard with caution. In reality, Lothar was overthinking it, as the orcs were too busy fighting amongst themselves to pay any attention to the orderly retreating humans.

At the docks, Marshal Bolvar Fordragon was anxious. When he saw King Llane's banner and the royal guards appear at the city gate near Stormwind Harbor, he hurriedly led his troops to greet them."Your Majesty, your safety is more important than anything," Marshal Bolvar said, his eyes welling up with tears.

"You have worked hard, my loyal subject. Now, only the last two steps remain." Llane, clad in golden armor, gazed at the guards rushing over with the Warchief's head and the Horde's battle flag, his eyes filled with distinct excitement.

Beheading the commander and capturing the flag!

If it hadn't been for Duke, he would have likely died defending his kingdom.

Gratitude for Duke surged in Llane's chest.

Meanwhile, as Lothar's rearguard was about to withdraw from the cathedral square, Duke finally activated his trump card.

"Ambrosius Rhyza Magaroff..." A lengthy incantation echoed, and with the sound of Duke's voice, Lothar could clearly sense something changing in the air.

Numerous arcane magical runes appeared beneath Duke's feet, rippling out like waves in every direction.

As Duke stopped chanting and the magical fluctuations around him subsided, Lothar couldn't help but ask, "What did you do? If you wanted to burn down Stormwind, there's no need for such an exaggerated magic circle, is there?"

Duke mysteriously smiled, "You'll find out soon enough."

At the same time, the Blackrock orcs engaged in combat with each other suddenly felt a wave of terror in their hearts.

Much like rats fleeing a sinking ship, this was a purely animalistic instinct.

At this moment, every orc throughout the entirety of Stormwind, regardless of their actions, forcibly halted their movements—the ground beneath them conveyed a chilling sensation of dread that they couldn't ignore.

Once upon a time, the grand cathedral of Stormwind echoed with the synchronized nightly prayers of the priests as the bells tolled.

But since the siege of Stormwind, those evening bells hadn't rung in a long time. Every priest had been using their holy healing spells to tend to the wounded and soothe the frightened souls with their gentle voices.

Yet now, the long-silent church bells rang out in the night—

Three short rings! Three long rings! And another three short rings!

This was the agreed-upon signal!

Those who had long given up on the hope of survival and knew they were destined to die took swift action. They emerged from abandoned attics, inconspicuous closets, or hidden basements, dragging their broken bodies with determination.

They struck flint to ignite torches and threw them onto pre-prepared kindling.

Some were piles of firewood soaked in oil, others were massive heaps of whale blubber in corners, or storage rooms filled with dry straw.

More importantly, during the sweltering summer, brick and wood structures combined with a vast array of flammable materials made starting fires incredibly easy.

Banks, trading posts, residences, shops, noble mansions, government offices, and inns—all crucial and non-crucial facilities saw over a thousand fires ignited.

At first, the scattered orcs paid little attention to the spreading flames.

Pillage and arson were commonplace in any besieged city. Years ago, when the orcs had captured Shattrath City, they had done the same to the Draenei's city.

Moreover, orcs had no interest in human dwellings; they preferred their own tents.

They had no intention of even going outside to take a look, let alone put out the fires.

However, they soon realized their mistake.

The fire quickly spiraled out of control. A familiar terror, experienced not long ago, surged in their hearts. They suddenly remembered the scene where Duke single-handedly burned down most of the orc camp.

That inferno, akin to hellfire, had claimed the lives of tens of thousands of their brethren. They began rushing out to extinguish the flames by any means, but it was already too late—the fire had wildly spread everywhere.

One city block after another was effortlessly devoured by the raging inferno. In the narrow streets, they could find no place to hide from the firestorm, so they could only flee in disarray to the wider squares or jump into the moats surrounding Stormwind, staring in shock as columns of fire shot into the sky.