Victory

The battlefield was a swirling maelstrom of chaos, but the sight before Lothar's eyes was something else entirely – a spectacle so utterly bonkers, he didn't know whether to burst out laughing or tear his hair out. His face was stuck somewhere between bewildered awe and pure, unadulterated exasperation.

Duke, at first glance, looked like he owned the place. His short black hair, usually a well-behaved mop, was now a spiky testament to uncontrolled magical mayhem, standing on end like he'd just stuck his finger in a light socket. Clad in the regal, if slightly singed, robes of the Stormwind Royal Mage Corps, he stood smack-dab in the eye of the storm, casually juggling two pulsating orbs of blue-purple arcane energy. A veritable army of glowing white spectral hands danced around him like hyperactive fireflies, flinging arcane missiles with the relentless enthusiasm of a toddler with a super-soaker, all while Duke wore a grin that said, 'Just another Tuesday.'

He wasn't exactly towering – in fact, being a mere sprout, Duke was probably the shortest person on the entire damn battlefield. Yet, somehow, everyone felt like he was ten feet tall and bulletproof. His black eyes, deep as a midnight well and sharp as a tack, seemed to hold the wisdom of a thousand ancient librarians, even as he was busy turning orcs into purple dust.

Arcane fireworks erupted from his palms (and occasionally, from the spectral hands he'd conjured), zipping off to where they were most desperately needed. One moment, they were duking it out with Gul'dan's hellish fireballs, the next, they were snatching a human elite soldier from the jaws of certain death, just as an orc guard's axe was about to cleave him in two. Lothar had lost count of the times his boys had been staring down the barrel of oblivion, only to be yanked back by one of Duke's 'Multicast' lightning bolts – a blinding flash, a concussive blast, and suddenly, the bad guy was charcoal. Every save was a masterclass in understated cool, like he was just tidying up a messy room.

Anyone just parachuting into this nightmare would think Duke was some kind of indestructible superhero, effortlessly curb-stomping his enemies while simultaneously babysitting his entire team. But here's the kicker: Duke was supposed to be the underdog, for crying out loud! Lothar finally couldn't bite his tongue any longer. 'Hey! Duke!' he bellowed, his voice raw. 'You need a hand over there, buddy?!' The irony was thick enough to cut with a knife; nobody had a spare second to help Duke, but Lothar was chewing his nails down to the quick with worry.

'Keep your shirt on, old man,' Duke chirped back, a casual flick of his wrist sending a searing Pyroblast screaming towards Chieftain Blackhand's face. 'I might not be winning, but don't you dare think I'm losing. Give me a day and a night, and I could probably knit you a sweater out of these orcs.'

'Attaboy!' Lothar roared, seizing the golden opportunity Duke had just gift-wrapped for him. He lunged, his sword a blur, the tip sharper than a surgeon's scalpel. It slid into a chink in Blackhand's armor, just under the left rib, sinking in a good two inches. Lothar felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage and was dead certain he'd nicked the edge of the chieftain's lung.

'ROAR—!' Blackhand bellowed, a sound that could curdle milk. He spun, his bloodshot eyes fixing on Duke with the intensity of a laser beam. And then, to Lothar's utter disbelief, the hulking chieftain abandoned him and charged straight for the pint-sized mage! 'Holy smokes!' Lothar hissed, a cold dread washing over him. He knew, with gut-wrenching certainty, what Blackhand's hammer of destruction would do to Duke's scrawny frame. There was no choice; he had to give chase, damn the torpedoes.

Even if this wasn't the real Blackhand – just some magically conjured doppelganger – the sheer mountain of muscle and rage was enough to make even the most battle-hardened warrior wet their pants. Lothar couldn't even begin to fathom what would happen if Blackhand got his mitts on Duke, who, let's be honest, probably had more experience conjuring tea parties than dodging giant hammers. Duke getting splattered would be a real monkey wrench in the works, wouldn't it? As much as it galled him to admit it, the kid was the linchpin of this whole damn operation. In a twisted way, Duke was as crucial to this assault as Lothar himself.

'CRUNCH! THWACK!' Two brave (or foolish) Stormwind soldiers who tried to play human speed bump were sent flying like bowling pins. Blackhand's colossal hammers swung left and right with the deceptive ease of a grandfather clock's pendulum, but the sheer, bone-shattering force behind them was enough to turn ordinary humans into abstract art.

Suddenly, the path between Duke and Blackhand was clear – a highway to certain doom. And just to spice things up, Gul'dan's mirror image decided to join the party, unleashing a torrent of hellfire that swallowed Duke whole. From Lothar's vantage point, all he could see was a shimmering, fiery silhouette. But it wasn't just flames; a chilling sense of dread washed over Lothar as he felt the insidious tendrils of a curse slithering through the air. 'Curse of Pain,' 'Ignite,' and a smattering of other nasty, continuous-damage warlock spells rained down on Duke like a toxic hailstorm. Forget Blackhand – Gul'dan's magical assault alone was enough to turn a lesser mage into a puddle of goo. 'Oh, sugar!' Lothar thought, his heart doing a triple backflip into his stomach. He almost dropped his sword, his every instinct screaming at him to abandon the fight and rescue the mad lad.

But this, my friends, was the moment the chasm between mere mortals and magical maestros yawned wide in what should have been a blink-and-you-miss-it moment. Duke's wildly flaring arcane power, which had been radiating outwards like a supernova, suddenly snapped back, contained within his palm in less time than it takes to sneeze. Lothar didn't have a clue how that kind of arcane control was even possible. He'd only ever seen that level of magical finesse from Medivh himself, and frankly, even the grand poobahs of magic couldn't hold a candle to it.

If that sudden magical implosion was a trick of the light, then what came next was a full-blown magic show. The hyper-condensed arcane energy exploded outwards again between his palms, morphing into a shimmering, five-fingered giant hand that looked like it was made of pure thought. It then proceeded to bitch-slap the great chieftain Blackhand square on the noggin, sending the hulking brute cartwheeling backwards like a ragdoll. Lothar, despite the imminent danger, almost broke into spontaneous applause.

But hold your horses, folks, because that wasn't the grand finale. Orcs, bless their barbaric hearts, have fighting instincts sharper than a tack. Even though Blackhand, a walking mountain of muscle weighing in at over 500 pounds, was just sent flying, his body was anything but clumsy. Lothar watched, jaw agape, as Blackhand actually started to adjust himself in mid-air, twisting and contorting like a morbidly obese gymnast. Lothar knew, with a sinking feeling, that even if he got another swing in, he probably wouldn't find an opening.

Just then, Duke did his signature disappearing act: he Flashed. One moment he was there, the next he was a shimmering streak of light, vanishing into thin air. When he reappeared, he was practically glued to Blackhand's side, like a particularly annoying gnat. His right hand splayed open, and a cone of arctic sea breeze, so cold it made Lothar's teeth ache, erupted from his palm, engulfing Blackhand. This wasn't about raw damage; this was about the bone-chilling, movement-crippling slow-down that ice magic was famous for.

A visible, shimmering layer of frost instantly coated Blackhand's massive form, from his gnarly feet right up to his battle-scarred waist. All of Blackhand's mid-air acrobatics went belly up, his attempts to right himself hitting a brick wall of ice. And then, it hit Lothar like a ton of bricks: because Blackhand couldn't adjust, his entire back was angled perfectly towards Lothar. Through a tantalizing gap between the chieftain's armor and helmet, Lothar saw it – a bullseye, a golden ticket, a perfect chance to end this madness.

Now, this 'chess space' Blackhand was a real piece of work, relying on brute strength and a truly obnoxious fashion sense. The shameless brute was actually rocking two sets of armor: a thick, three-centimeter steel plate shell on the outside, and some kind of mystery leather armor underneath. It was like trying to stab a tank wrapped in a sofa. Finding a one-shot kill opportunity had been harder than finding a needle in a haystack.

But now? Oh, now it was a whole new ballgame. With Blackhand frozen in that ridiculous, vulnerable pose, Lothar's sword found its mark with sickening ease. 'SWISH—!' The King's Sword, a gleaming beacon of justice, plunged in from front to back, slicing through the thick muscle between Blackhand's gargantuan hindquarters and his shoulder blade, and then, with a final, satisfying thunk, it went straight into the chieftain's black heart.

For a split second, Lothar had a terrible thought: what if this bizarre 'chess dimension' decided to pull a fast one? What if it declared orcs were actually undead, or some other ridiculous loophole? But thankfully, Lothar's worries were about as necessary as a screen door on a submarine.

Suddenly, the heavens opened up, and hundreds of bolts of pure, unadulterated thunder crashed down from the empty sky, shaking the very foundations of reality. The 'BOOM!' was so deafening, it nearly rattled every warrior's brains out of their skulls. But, bless its heart, the chess level played by the rules. As soon as the last thunderclap faded, every single enemy – even the bizarre fishmen, nagas, and gnolls Duke had somehow managed to conjure – vanished without a trace, like a bad dream after too much drugs.

'Victory?' Lothar mumbled, still looking like he'd just seen a unicorn riding a unicycle. He couldn't quite believe it.