Clash

The demonic energy radiating from the runes was twitching—no, pulsating—with maddening irregularity, like some drunken conductor waving a hellish baton. It wavered just enough to be unreadable by any sane mortal.

And it wasn't just energy—it was language. Eredun. The unholy alphabet of the Burning Legion, the linguistic equivalent of demonic acid jazz.

This was where 99.99% of the world's mages would weep blood and give up. But not Duke. Because Duke had something better than talent. He had a system AI—a magical cheat code wrapped in silicon smugness. This question-and-answer cycle, cursed to repeat every five minutes with minor cosmic spasms? A cinch for his machine overlord.

"Confirmed: pattern consistent. I can fake it better than a con artist at a noble ball," the AI chirped.

Duke flashed Lothar a grin. "Just a little wizardry to keep Medivh clueless while we carve up his minions like Sunday roast."

Lothar's eyes lit up like a kid handed a warhammer on Winter's Veil morning.

If they could get close to Medivh without being drowned in demon dogpiles, there was hope. The worst-case scenario had always been death-by-minion-overdose before ever swinging a blade at the real threat.

Their team? Strong. Tough. Gritty. But still human. Humans get tired. Humans make mistakes. And the longer the fight dragged on, the more the odds bled away.

Now? With Duke's magical sneakiness? The odds were flipping faster than a gnomish coin toss.

"We're going," Duke said, already striding forward.

"No, we go together," Lothar replied, hoisting his shield and drawing his sword.

Wait—that sword?

Duke did a double take. It wasn't the usual steel slab Lothar lugged around.

"That sword..."

"Family heirloom," Lothar said as casually as if he were discussing his favorite soup.

Duke's jaw unhinged like a rusty drawbridge. Emperor Thoradin's sword!? The sword of the Seven Kingdoms' founder?

Lothar read his expression and chuckled. "Not quite the royal relic you imagine. But enough to make Stormwind's nobles lose sleep if I ever wore it to a council meeting."

Duke wisely zipped it. Poke too deep and he'd hit the shadowy tangle that was Lothar's ancestry. No thanks.

So off they went. Into Karazhan.

And right off the bat, Duke felt something was wrong. Time and space weren't just twisted—they were doing the mambo.

It was disorienting. Reality folded like bad laundry.

Long ago, some ancient, catastrophic explosion had gouged a crater into the Redridge Mountains, birthing the Headwind Trail. The magical fallout made time itself hiccup. Naturally, Medivh thought, "Hey, great place for a wizard tower!"

After years of absorbing arcane juice like a sponge on steroids, Karazhan itself had become a temporal anomaly—a haunted mixtape of past, present, and future stitched together with the threads of lunacy.

Case in point: the books. All books. Wall to wall. Magic tomes, history texts, poetry, steamy romance novels—you name it.

But it was a lie.

"Step only on the math books," Duke ordered.

"The what now?" Lothar frowned.

"You want to be turned into stardust or end up in a lava pit in Outland? No? Then step on the damn math books."

Thank the Light for the AI's scanner. The floor was 90% illusion. One misstep and you'd be teleporting into the afterlife. A half-disintegrated corpse with a crescent-shaped wound proved that in gruesome detail.

So, armored warriors in formation began hopping from book to book like enchanted frogs. It was a deadly game of "The Floor Is Lava," starring heavily armed veterans.

Ridiculous? Yes. Laughable? Only if you didn't mind dying horribly.

They made it out, barely, and then Duke's senses twitched. A faint slope. A whiff of sulfur.

"Oh no," Duke muttered. "Satyr. Worse—a Satyr with ghost-seducing powers."

He was powerful, sure. He could throw down with most mages in the master bracket, but Karazhan was not a place for flexing.

He had skipped more levels than a speedrunner on caffeine.

Back when he was just a player, this would've been a death wish. But now? He had backup. Three hero-tier legends and 200 elite meat shields.

Still, he felt like a kid wearing adult armor.

"What do we do if this turns into a marathon battle?" Lothar whispered.

"We don't let it. Give the Satyr time and he'll spawn a demon legion the size of Stormwind."

"Then I go first!"

The voice wasn't Lothar's. It was Garona.

Before anyone could react, the half-orc rocket-launched herself into the red-lit chamber like a missile full of fury and questionable impulse control.

"GARONA!" Duke almost swallowed his tongue.

Lothar's face went pale. Even he hadn't expected that level of orcish YOLO.

There was no time to debate. The rest of the team bolted after her, descending into a chamber glowing with crimson runes and carpeted in demonic graffiti.

Duke's heart pounded.

Ready or not, Karazhan had officially gone off the rails.

The anticipated magical game of ping-pong—complete with zinging spells and chaotic acrobatics—did not begin as expected.

Instead, Garona, the battle-hardened half-orc assassin known for making blades dance like angry hornets, stood still, bone dagger clenched in her green hand, squinting suspiciously. The object of her hesitation? A clean-cut, golden-haired human youth standing nonchalantly in a chamber big enough to host a royal banquet. He had the pompous air of a Stormwind noble, the type who probably spritzed himself with lavender before battle. Garona blinked. Her muscles itched to kill, but her brain screamed, Wait a minute.

Unfortunately for Duke, he wanted her to be reckless.

Because in Duke's system-marked vision, the guy practically had flashing red neon above his head: [WARNING: ENEMY - SATYR - HIGH THREAT - DOOM AWAITS] And right on cue—

"KILL HIM!" Duke bellowed, a little too late.

The "noble" smiled.

No, not a smile—an oily, smug grin. Then he opened his mouth... and hell came pouring out.

Red smoke hissed from his lips, nostrils, ears, and even his tear ducts. The mist writhed like something alive, as if Satan himself was taking a joyride. Within seconds, the youth's features melted like a wax dummy left in a forge, and what remained twisted into a hunched, skin-shedding abomination. A rancid rune-circle erupted beneath him like a geyser of demonic graffiti, forming a barrier that snuffed out arrows, magic, and hope in equal measure.

Twenty warriors watched in horrified awe as the false human curled in on himself, skin tearing away like wrapping paper to reveal the real package: a Satyr, red-skinned and smug, reborn from a human meat suit.

Then the runes exploded.

Duke barely threw up an arcane shield before they hit.

The attack wasn't precise—it was like tossing a box of cursed runes into a blender and hoping for carnage. Still, a few unlucky warriors got tagged. Their enchanted armor barely slowed the insidious script before it scorched through like acid-dipped razors. One soldier howled as the rune branded itself into his arm. His skin hissed. He dropped his weapon, trembling.

A priest rushed in, holy magic glowing in his palms... only to recoil. The rune laughed at him.

"It's spreading!" someone yelled.

Lothar didn't flinch. With grim efficiency, he raised his sword—and chopped. A splash of blood, a scream, and one soldier now had one less problem arm.

"Demonic plague magic," Duke muttered, scowling.

A booming laugh filled the chamber, bouncing off the walls with mocking arrogance. "Ohhh hohoho! Tiny humans, why do you insist on marching to your deaths like this?"

And there he was. The Satyr in full form. Muscles rippling, horns gleaming, and a grin that could make babies cry. Instead of attacking, he gave a damn salute—left hand to his red chest, right hand tossing away a phantom noble cap.

"Allow me to introduce myself: Tristan. At your service. Or rather... your doom."

He spoke Common with a Lordaeron noble accent so crisp, Lothar nearly gagged.

"You were expecting me?" Lothar growled.

"No, not at all! Your little wizard's a bit too clever for his own good. But now that you're here... do me a favor, Sir Lothar. Let your friends die. It's nothing personal."

His tone was so casual, it almost sounded like he was ordering tea.

"I hate you," Garona snapped.

Then she vanished.

She reappeared mid-strike, bone dagger flashing.

What followed was less a fight and more an explosion of light and fury. Garona moved like a living blender. Blades shimmered like meteor showers, slicing air and stone alike. Her barrage was so rapid it resembled tracer fire from a machine gun—and the only thought Duke could form was: What if she were aiming at me?

Lothar blinked. Even he wasn't sure he could parry her.

And still—still—Tristan dodged.

Claw marks and dagger slashes carved gouges into the glowing runes on the floor. He slipped and twisted like a serpent on caffeine, barely evading mortal injury. Yet, it was clear—this Satyr was no pushover.

Tristan roared. Bookshelves trembled. Books rained down like suicidal birds. And then the room got worse.

From behind the shelves, blue-skinned lesser demons spilled out like demonic toddlers. Then came the portals—dozens of blood-red vertical gashes in reality. Some on the floor. Some on the ceiling.

Spoiler: They did not lead to picnic zones.

Imps and fiends spewed through like demonic confetti, each hurling fireballs the size of skulls. They screeched, cackled, and flung death with zero aim but maximum enthusiasm.

Stormwind's elite warriors, decked in shiny kite shields and arrogance, suddenly looked very exposed.

Dan, 28, grizzled veteran, murloc-puncher extraordinaire, froze for just a moment.

He'd seen monsters. He'd bled in swamps, deserts, and icy hellscapes. But as a fireball screamed toward his face, growing from pinprick to small sun, all his experience shouted: Too late.

He closed his eyes.

And then—

FLASH!

A brilliant bolt of blue surged behind him, burning brighter than a lightning strike in a wine cellar...