Windsor steps up

After that hellish battle with the demons, Windsor felt like he'd been through a spiritual washing machine and come out the other side as a completely different man. Especially when it came to tangling with oversized nasties, he and the elite soldiers who'd survived the nightmare that was Karazhan had developed skills that made regular elite troops look like amateur hour at the county fair.

He was cocky as a rooster in a henhouse and thought he had this red-skinned bastard's number.

Although he was genuinely surprised by the sheer balls-to-the-wall bravery of this crimson-skinned orc who stood out from the rest of those green-skinned savages like a cherry on top of a pile of moss, Windsor still charged forward like a man possessed, shield raised high and the King's Guardian blade gleaming with cold light in his right hand like a frozen lightning bolt.

He'd made the mother of all miscalculations about Orgrim.

Windsor couldn't have known in his wildest nightmares that he was squaring off against the future chieftain of the entire Horde—during this blood-soaked period, the Horde's undisputed number one ass-kicker, and even in the history books, it would be Orgrim who personally sent Azeroth's own lion Anduin Lothar to meet his maker in the final showdown.

If he'd known he was about to tangle with an opponent who was completely out of his league—like bringing a knife to a nuclear war—he might've chosen a strategy that didn't involve charging headfirst into certain doom.

Unfortunately, life doesn't come with do-overs or mulligans.

In Windsor's mind, anyone swinging around heavy weapons had to be some lumbering ox with all the grace of a three-legged elephant—slow as molasses in January, full of openings, and about as agile as a refrigerator on roller skates. So he rushed forward at breakneck speed, ready to exploit what he thought would be obvious weaknesses.

Windsor was wrong—dead wrong, wronger than a screen door on a submarine. Just as Orgrim had turned the previous guard into chunky salsa with his hammer, the muscles on his arm suddenly swelled up like balloons at a birthday party, and the red blood vessels bulging under his exposed skin looked like angry earthworms writhing beneath the surface. This was raw power that went beyond anything mere mortals could comprehend. Orgrim's Doomhammer seemed to bounce up by itself with a mind of its own, sweeping toward Windsor like a Category 5 hurricane made of death and pain.

"BOOM!" Even though Windsor was holding his shield up like a prayer to the gods and the hammer connected with the shield instead of his skull, the terrifying force of this walking mountain—measured in literal tons—wasn't something any mortal man could withstand. Windsor's left arm twisted and deformed instantly like a pretzel made of meat and bone, fracturing in multiple places with sounds like breaking branches.

The massive impact hit him like a freight train loaded with anvils, even bruising his lungs through the sheer force of the blow. After being launched through the air like a rag doll, blood erupted from his mouth and nose like twin geysers before he even hit the ground, leaving him hanging onto life by the thinnest of threads.

Behind Orgrim, the savage orcs were chopping down every human warrior in the hall like they were harvesting wheat, cutting through them easier than a hot knife through butter—no resistance, no mercy, just pure mechanical slaughter.

Between the queen who stood there silent as a gravestone and Orgrim, there was only Varian, trembling like a leaf in a tornado with nothing but a dagger in his small hands.

Finally, a single tear slid down the queen's beautiful face like a diamond rolling down marble, breaking hearts and inspiring pity in anyone with a soul.

Orgrim strode forward with his hammer resting on his shoulder like death taking a casual stroll, and every step he took seemed to make the very earth tremble beneath his feet like the footsteps of an angry god.

"Are you the mate of the human chief?" Orgrim growled in guttural Orcish that sounded like gravel being chewed.

The queen didn't catch every word, but after her previous encounter with Garona, she at least recognized the term "Warchief" when she heard it. The queen straightened her spine like a steel rod and declared in perfect human common tongue: "I am the Queen of the Kingdom of Stormwind. If you're looking to kill my husband, I'm afraid you're barking up the wrong tree—he's on his way back as we speak. But if you want to kill me and my child, then bring it on and let's dance!"

Orgrim couldn't understand a lick of human language, but he recognized and respected courage when he saw it—not just in this human female, but in the little cub as well. The kid had gone from scared as a rabbit in headlights to finding his backbone in the face of pure terror. Even though the little guy was only holding a measly dagger, Orgrim could sense that the boy was winding up to make his move.

"AHHHHH!" Varian roared like a lion cub trying to sound fierce, rushed forward with everything he had, and thrust out with his dagger like he was trying to slay a dragon.

However, this brave but futile gesture accomplished about as much as trying to stop a freight train with a feather duster—the courageous Varian was flicked away by Orgrim's finger like an annoying gnat.

"NO——"

There was no longer any barrier standing between his beloved mother and that brutal orc monster. He couldn't bear to imagine what that savage and merciless beast would do to the woman who meant everything to him.

No matter what happened next, Varian knew he couldn't stomach watching it unfold.

"Is there anyone out there?!"

"Is anyone else in this godforsaken place?!"

"Who can save my mother! Save the kingdom!?"

Varian's young but handsome face was twisted in agony like a mask of pure suffering. He was crying and wailing like his heart was being torn out through his throat, but all he could see around him were women and children—people who were cowering like beaten dogs, trying to postpone their appointment with the grim reaper for just a few more precious seconds.

Was he really putting his desperate faith in this collection of terrified civilians!?

Varian was desperate—truly, completely, utterly desperate. He'd reached the end of his rope and started shouting at the top of his lungs: "Uncle Anduin, aren't you supposed to be the guardian of this kingdom?! Brother Duke, aren't you some hotshot super wizard who claims to be better than Medivh?! The kingdom is falling apart! My mother is about to die! Where the hell are you?!"

Even though he couldn't understand the human language, a look of pure mockery spread across Orgrim's face like oil on water. Just as he was about to say something that would probably crush what little hope remained, a brilliant magical light suddenly blazed to life right in front of him.

"Well, well, well, who was calling my name just now? Was that you, Your Royal Highness?" A male voice dripping with playful sarcasm suddenly echoed from thin air, bouncing off the walls and filling every corner of the hall like the voice of a trickster god.

Orgrim hated magic with the burning passion of a thousand suns.

But right at this moment, he would've given his left arm to have a shaman or even a warlock standing beside him—anyone who could counter whatever supernatural nonsense was about to unfold.

A brilliant blue light flashed like lightning in a bottle, and a young man wearing the robes of Stormwind Kingdom's Royal Mage Corps suddenly materialized out of thin air, positioning himself between the Queen, Varian, and Orgrim like a human shield made of pure confidence.

What happened next knocked everyone for a loop—when the young man opened his mouth, he spoke perfect Orcish that would've made a native speaker proud!

"Orgrim Doomhammer, this ain't your playground, so get the hell out of dodge!" The command boomed like thunder rolling across the heavens, stunning Orgrim into momentary silence.

The very next second, the mysterious mage raised his right hand high like he was conducting a symphony of destruction, and a spiraling tornado of fire immediately swept toward every orc warrior standing near the hall's entrance like the wrath of an angry volcano god.

Dragon's Breath Spell?

Hell no! How could any Dragon's Breath Spell be this massive and devastating!?

The roaring dragon made of pure flame practically filled the enormous hall doorway that stretched six meters wide and ten meters high—a portal to hell itself. Even Varian, standing safely behind Duke, could feel the terrible power of those flames that could turn everything to ash, let alone Orgrim, who was staring down the barrel of this magical cannon.

Without hesitation, Orgrim slammed his hammer into the floor like he was trying to crack the earth in half. From the spider web of cracks in the shattered marble, a destructive flame that was completely different from the Dragon's Breath Technique erupted upward and collided with Duke's attack in a spectacular light show.

That was the raw power of the Doomhammer in all its terrible glory!

The two forces crashed together like titans wrestling, and for one heart-stopping moment, Orgrim actually managed to hold his ground against the magical onslaught. But in the next instant, the young wizard stretched out his left hand and struck a martial arts pose that looked like he was about to punch through reality itself.

A massive azure fist made of pure arcane energy—taller than a grown man and twice as intimidating—materialized out of nowhere, punched straight through the wall of dragon fire, and connected with Orgrim like a divine haymaker.

"WHOOOOO——" Orgrim was caught completely off guard and sent flying like a cannonball, launched back to wherever the hell he'd come from!

The rest of the orcs were reduced to charcoal faster than you could say "barbecue," and the entire hall filled with the unpleasant aroma of overcooked meat that would make a vegetarian out of anyone.

For a moment that stretched like eternity, the entire throne hall fell silent as a tomb.

Who in the Sam Hill was this young mage from the Royal Mage Corps?

After months of brutal warfare, the Royal Mage Corps existed in name only—more like a ghost story than an actual military unit. The mage corps that had once boasted over a hundred skilled practitioners had been completely decimated in their magical duels with the orc warlocks, leaving only a pathetic twenty survivors. The queen knew every single one of those remaining mages personally and remembered clear as day that Llane had taken all of them to defend the southern outer city wall.

So who the hell was this guy?

Looking at that vaguely familiar face, a name began forming in the queen's mind like morning fog lifting to reveal the landscape beneath. She suddenly remembered Anduin mentioning seriously that Duke's face had aged considerably because of some curse.

Could it possibly be that he was...

"Duke!?" the queen asked tentatively, her voice barely above a whisper.

Duke turned around with a smile that could've lit up the darkest cave. "I'm tickled pink that you still remember me, Your Majesty, even though I've changed more than a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. But this isn't the time for a reunion tour—let me finish mopping the floor with these orcs first."

It really was Duke!

But nobody could've predicted changes this dramatic. Not only had his face matured completely, shedding every trace of boyish innocence and transforming into a genuine young man, but his height had shot up by nearly four inches. He now stood six feet tall and looked like he could handle himself in any fight.

Without giving the queen and the starry-eyed noble girls time to process this miraculous transformation, Duke casually raised his right hand and snapped his fingers like he was calling for a waiter.

Under the control of his pure magical power, a strong wind suddenly whipped through the massive throne hall, blowing away every trace of blood stench and barbecue smell like nature's own air freshener.

The next second, a freezing aura spread at a speed visible to the naked eye, and every corpse instantly transformed into a snow-white ice sculpture that belonged in an art museum. The terrifying atmosphere that had filled the throne room vanished like it had never existed.

"Master, I'm sorry, I..." Windsor coughed up blood and tried to struggle to his feet like a wounded but determined soldier.

Duke used his Mage's Hand spell to gently hold Windsor down, frowning with genuine concern as he turned around: "Is there a priest anywhere in Stormwind Keep?"

A thirteen-year-old girl standing nearby suddenly piped up: "Yes, my family's private chaplain is in the side hall."

"Much obliged for the information." Faced with powerful enemies on all sides, Duke didn't have time to properly acknowledge this noble girl with a face as delicate as a porcelain doll.

Duke strode into the massive corridor and found Orgrim getting back on his feet like nothing had happened—tough as nails and twice as stubborn.

"Human, how in blazes do you speak our language!?" Orgrim demanded in Orcish that sounded like rocks being ground together.

"Garona was kind enough to teach me."

"Garona? That backstabbing traitor!?" Orgrim bared his teeth like a rabid wolf, his face twisted with disgust that ran deeper than the Grand Canyon.

"Just ask her about the Shadow Council and leave the poor girl alone," Duke warned with the tone of someone who wouldn't repeat himself.

"Hmph! You don't have the right to give me orders, you little whelp!!" Orgrim roared with the fury of a caged bear.

Duke didn't bat an eye: "Orcs are all stubborn as mules who won't learn their lesson until someone beats it into them. Alright then, bring it on! Let's go for Round 2!"

Duke crooked his finger at Orgrim in the universal "come and get some" gesture.

"HAAA——" Orgrim's massive form suddenly accelerated like a rocket-powered freight train.

Orgrim had convinced himself that he'd just been caught with his pants down the first time, and this punk in wizard robes wasn't some terrifying spellcaster at all—just a lucky amateur who'd gotten one good shot in.

Orcs often possessed intuition sharper than a razor's edge.

Unlike Gul'dan, who made people feel like they were being eaten alive by corruption just by standing in the same zip code, Duke's total magical power was impressive but Orgrim instinctively sensed that the concentration of magical energy in this young human was still nowhere near Gul'dan's overwhelming presence.

"If that's the case, I can take this sucker down!" Orgrim told himself with the confidence of a man who'd never met a problem he couldn't solve with violence.

He was about to discover just how wrong a person could be.

Maybe if he could get close enough to grab this wizard by the throat, Duke would crumble like a house of cards in a hurricane.

However, Duke's fighting style was as different from his youthful appearance as night was from day.

WHAM! A shockwave erupted from Duke's position.