Go Ahead

The sky above them was a bruised, angry purple, with the skeletal outlines of the Mage Tower, its outer shell, and the annex clawing at the distorted heavens. But this wasn't the sky you'd see from outside Karazhan; oh no, this was a special brand of cosmic weirdness. The very fabric of time and space had apparently decided to tie itself in knots, meaning that when anyone peered out from the sprawling rooftop plaza, all they could see was a swirling, gray chaos. Evil energy roiled in the void like a witch's cauldron on full boil.

Strictly speaking, Prince Malchezaar had no business being here. The sight of him gave Duke the distinct impression that the big lug was a time traveler, or perhaps just seriously lost. Duke squinted at the gigantic demon, who stood as tall as three men stacked on top of each other, and a frown creased his brow.

This colossal brute, who was supposed to be the final boss of some future, far-off raid, now looked less like a formidable foe and more like a glorified guard dog, answering Sargeras's beck and call. He was here to loudly proclaim demonic ownership of this particular patch of rooftop to any poor soul who managed to claw their way up, and to represent the impending, soul-crushing power of the demon king, ready to punish anyone who dared to ruffle his master's evil feathers.

And, to his credit, Prince Malchezaar played the part to the hilt.

He scowled almost the instant his eyes landed on Duke, Lothar, and their ragtag band of adventurers.

The dark blue demon, sporting three rather unfortunate-looking tentacles dangling from his chin like a particularly bizarre beard, bellowed in a voice that rumbled like an earthquake: "Puny mortals! I haven't the slightest clue how you managed to crawl your way up here. But since you did make it, it clearly proves that the riff-raff I'd stationed out front have either been flattened, or you've pulled the wool over the entire defense system's eyes, leaving me completely in the dark about your little invasion!"

Lothar didn't utter a word. He merely held his shield steady in his left hand, twirled his sword with a flourish in his right, and then shot a knowing wink at Duke.

Your turn, hotshot! the wink clearly said.

Prince Malchezaar, puffing out his chest, took a ridiculously proud step forward, his massive hooves hitting the bluestone bricks with a "sizzling" sound, as if the ground itself was protesting his inexplicable high temperature.

"I don't know what trickery you employed, but it matters not one whit! What does matter is that you will all perish here, and your pitiful souls shall become my eternal playthings! Submit to me, mortals! Or your souls shall endure torment beyond your wildest nightmares!" The prince's booming roar echoed across the rooftop, the strange, warped space around him giving his voice a thrilling, almost guttural tremor that vibrated in their very bones.

The elite soldiers under Lothar suddenly shivered, a ripple of unease passing through their ranks. They were no strangers to courage, but some enemies, it seemed, couldn't be dealt with by sheer grit alone.

However...

"You're a pompous windbag, pal," Duke shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "If your boss Sargeras said those words, maybe he could put a scare into someone. But you? Not even close, buddy!"

"Ugh, I hate this guy. Can I just kill him already?" Garona practically vibrated with impatience, itching for a fight.

Lothar grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Alright, ladies first..."

"..." Duke rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck.

"..." A chorus of elite soldiers suddenly developed selective hearing, pretending they hadn't heard a thing.

Duke felt a moment of awkwardness. He hadn't realized before that Lothar wasn't exactly a saint himself, casually throwing Garona into the fray like that.

Then again, if it were Duke, he'd probably do the same thing. Garona, a blur of motion with her high agility and speed, was perfectly suited for scouting ahead and testing the enemy's mettle.

Yeah, Duke wasn't exactly a saint himself.

Garona wasted no time, launching herself forward.

The combat prowess of this female orc was absolutely off the charts. As expected, none of these heroes who had entered the realm of legends and carved their names into the "history" of Azeroth were anything but the real deal.

For some inexplicable reason, Duke felt that Garona's strength had apparently decided to level up, reaching a whole new tier of awesome.

Her figure was so blindingly fast that Prince Malchezaar seemed to be surrounded by a whirlwind of Garona's afterimages. If this was just a rogue's 'Sprint' and 'Slash,' it certainly wouldn't be this jaw-dropping spectacle.

This was clearly Garona's signature move, something uniquely her own.

Garona's bone dagger wasn't some fancy magical artifact, but perhaps it was infused with some arcane mojo, or something, because the dagger's attack power had clearly been cranked up to eleven.

Gaping wounds that would make a lesser demon faint kept appearing on the prince's body. After every lightning-fast dodge, several horrific scars, each as deep as two inches and over a foot and a half long, would appear on his exposed skin.

However, for a demon with such ridiculously strong vitality, this was, at most, a mere flesh wound.

"You green sow! Do you dare to face me head-on, you coward!?" Prince Malchezaar roared, absolutely livid.

The very next moment, he discovered, to his excruciating pain, that one of the tentacles on his chin – that rather unfortunate-looking appendage – was almost completely lopped off by Garona!

"AH—! How dare you do this to me, you wretched creature!?"

Prince Malchezaar had finally had it up to here with Garona's relentless, buzzing assault, which was more annoying than a swarm of gnats at a picnic. He threw caution to the wind and went full throttle. With his furious roar, four hulking stone giants, wreathed in crackling green flames, plummeted from the sky, taking up defensive positions around the prince, guarding him from front, back, left, and right.

Hellfire?!

No, to be precise, this wasn't the genuine article. The real 'Hellfire' had a certain malevolent intelligence, walking around like a person and actively hunting its targets. But Prince Malchezaar's 'Hellfire' was more like a quartet of human-shaped flaming bouncers.

Of course, the effect was still devastating.

An incredibly surging wave of fiery power immediately blasted outwards in all directions. For a terrifying moment, the entire rooftop square, with the prince at its epicenter, was engulfed by four continuously expanding, cascading inferno of shockwaves, exploding from the inside out.

These fiery shockwaves posed a grave threat to almost everyone on Lothar's side.

First, Garona couldn't withstand the impact of the ceaseless waves of fire, and she executed a quick flash and a backflip, narrowly escaping the inferno.

Next was Lothar. It was clear Lothar possessed some kind of magical item that shielded him from the elements – Duke wondered if he was saving it for Medivh. Anyway, when the flame shockwave reached Lothar, the power of the flame element automatically dissipated, turning into a gale that was only slightly stronger than a stiff breeze. It had no real effect, except perhaps to dramatically blow Lothar's long, flowing hair, making him look ready for a shampoo commercial.

Then there was Duke. A shimmering, almost ethereal ice shield materialized around Duke's body, protecting him from the scorching heat.

But for the ordinary Stormwind elite soldiers, the area swallowed by these four shockwaves became an insurmountable no-go zone of fiery death.

This was not a force that mere mortals could easily match. Among the elite soldiers who had just dispersed to prepare for battle, the one closest to the prince was the first to suffer misfortune. An ordinary shield might deflect arrows and swords, but it was absolutely useless against a wall of pure flame.

The poor guy who took the first hit was not only blasted away by the rolling flame shockwave but also dragged away another elite soldier who had tried to hold onto him. Everywhere you looked, bodies were hitting the deck. And that wasn't all; almost every soldier had flames of varying sizes clinging to their bodies, turning them into human torches.

The roars of agony echoed endlessly!

"Retreat! Put out the fire!" Lothar's face was grim, a mask of grim determination. Not only did this mean that it was now down to the three musketeers – Duke, Lothar, and Garona – to fight this battle, it also likely meant that these scorched soldiers would be cannon fodder for Medivh's inevitable grand finale.

The opponent's strength was completely beyond imagination.