Orgrim

"Human! Tell me, why in the blazes did you pull your punches?!" Orgrim roared, his voice a thunderclap of fury, his pride smarting like a fresh wound. He was keenly aware of Duke's deliberate restraint and felt utterly, personally insulted.

Another earth-shattering blast of arcane magic slammed into Orgrim Doomhammer, sending him careening across the Stormwind Fortress front square like a very large, very angry bowling ball. Duke stood casually at the gate, a smirk playing on his lips. "I'm not interested in you when you're not even trying, big guy! Come back when you're ready to actually throw down!"

At this point, many of Orgrim's direct subordinates, fueled by demon blood and a thirst for glory, broke away from the human warriors who were frantically scrambling to defend their king, and charged towards Duke like a pack of rabid dogs.

"Don't go over there, you idiots!" Orgrim suddenly snapped back to his senses, his roar a desperate attempt to rein in his berserk subordinates.

Too late! They were already gone, off to meet their maker.

Orgrim was one of the rare few, a true old-school orc who hadn't guzzled the demon blood, which was why he still sported the traditional brown-red skin of his ancestors. His subordinates, however, were a different story. The demon blood coursing through their veins made them stronger, more violent, and about as rational as a headless chicken.

They paid no mind to Orgrim's desperate bellow, instead charging forward in a blind, unthinking fit of rage, their eyes glazed over with bloodlust.

In the distance, King Llane and Bolvar were thundering on horseback, their eyes fixed on the unfolding carnage at the other end of the street – a scene so utterly insane, they knew they'd never scrub it from their memories.

One shimmering, circular magic circle after another unfolded in the void on both sides of Duke, spinning clockwise with an eerie, perfect precision. Purple-blue lines, crackling with raw arcane energy, expanded along the magic circles, rapidly weaving into patterns so mysterious, they looked like the universe's own secret blueprints.

At the same time, dozens, then hundreds, of spectral 'Mage's Hands' appeared like newly born stars on the periphery of the magic circles, forming a celestial bodyguard.

To any outsider, it looked like Duke had suddenly, with a dramatic whoosh, unfurled a pair of colossal, fifty-meter-long magical wings, shimmering with arcane power.

The ethereal wings flapped gently, and the usually calm river in front of Stormwind Fortress, which meandered through Stormwind City, immediately recoiled under the infusion of Duke's magic. The high waves churned, forming a monstrous water tornado, a sight so rare, most people wouldn't see anything like it in their entire lifetime.

A sharp, piercing whistle tore through the air. The water arrows, which had been falling like a torrential rain, transformed mid-flight into razor-sharp ice javelins, their killing power now comparable to steel weapons. The moment they broke away from the churning tornado, they poured down towards the charging orcs like a divine, icy judgment.

Orgrim was utterly stunned. This was the first time he had ever witnessed magic on such a grand, devastating scale. Even Orgrim himself had to swing his mighty 'Doomhammer' with every ounce of his strength, grunting with effort, just to smash the incoming ice spears that were hurtling straight for him.

He could handle it, but what about his berserk, less-than-bright subordinates?

"AAAAHHHHH—!" Countless screams of agony merged into one horrific, guttural chorus, a symphony of pure terror.

In the blink of an eye, at least two hundred brave orcs were impaled, crucified in the square in front of the fortress. Just as they had gleefully slaughtered the human warriors at the beginning of the siege, now they were the ones being slaughtered, a brutal reversal of fortune.

The sheer, unadulterated power of this human mage had completely blown Orgrim's mind, shattering all his preconceived notions.

Orgrim found himself calculating, his brutal mind racing: how could he possibly kill this infuriatingly young human wizard? But then, a more pressing thought surfaced: what would even be the point of killing this one wizard, when he seemed to be able to conjure death out of thin air?

In the distance, the thunderous sound of horse hooves rapidly grew louder, causing the very stone bricks on the ground to tremble slightly.

Orgrim snapped his head around, his eyes widening. He saw spears raised high to the sky in the south, their shining tips carrying an indescribable, fearsome glint. Orgrim recognized them instantly: they were the few enemies on the battlefield that the orcs, despite their bravado, were utterly unwilling to face head-on – human cavalry.

Under their colossal charge, the penetrating power of those spears was so devastating that even the strongest, most heavily armored orcs were unwilling to face them directly. It was like getting hit by a very fast, very pointy, very angry brick wall.

The leader of the cavalry, a figure of dazzling power, wore a gleaming golden helmet and golden armor. This blinding, almost divine outfit made him a living banner, a beacon of hope. Every knight following him, and every soldier behind them, radiated the same desperate anxiety and burning anger.

Orgrim recognized him instantly: the Warchief of humanity, King Llane Wrynn. And with that recognition came a grim, undeniable truth: this battle, this raid, could not be fought any longer.

Orgrim wasn't overly frustrated. He made a deliberate chewing motion with his jaws, a sign of cold calculation. The failure of this particular raid wasn't the end of the world. The Achilles' heel of the human city had been found, exposed for all to see. If he could lead his men over the mountain once, he could do it ten or twenty times. The weak defenses here were nothing compared to the hard bone that was Stormwind City itself.

Orgrim fixed his gaze on Duke, who was still standing defiantly at the gate of Stormwind Fortress, an imposing figure who looked like one man could block a thousand.

"Human! Tell me your name!" Orgrim roared, his voice echoing, as he gripped the 'Doomhammer' tighter.

"Duke... Edmund Duke!" Duke replied with a smug smile, answering in perfect Orcish, just to rub it in.

"I will remember you!" Orgrim snarled viciously, a promise of future pain.

"Of course you must remember me," Duke shot back, his smile full of a weird, unsettling mystery that utterly perplexed Orgrim. "Because I will become your worst nightmare, buddy!"

"Humph!" With a powerful enemy rapidly approaching, Orgrim had no time to waste in a verbal sparring match with Duke. For the orcs, true victory was always forged on the battlefield, not in meaningless trash talk.

"RETREAT—!" Orgrim raised his 'Doomhammer' high and roared, his voice a command that brooked no argument. The remaining orc warriors, seeing their Warchief's signal, immediately gave up their futile fighting with the humans and began to retreat, scrambling back in the direction they had entered Stormwind City.

Duke originally wanted to give chase, because in Duke's eyes, the only good orc was a dead orc.

But a sudden, unexpected accident interrupted Duke's ruthless plan. Not far behind him, the young Prince Varian came barreling out, running desperately, his small legs pumping.

"Attack the human child with javelins!" Orgrim wasted no time, barking a ruthless order to a team of death squads he'd strategically left behind.

Unlike Duke's refined, magically enhanced javelins, the orcs, who had suffered immensely from javelins on the battlefield, had also developed their own, cruder, but equally effective heavy throwing weapons – javelins simply made from sharpened tree trunks.

They looked ugly as sin, but under the orcs' incredible arm strength, they became extremely dangerous, capable of piercing armor and flesh with brutal efficiency.

Duke had to react instantly. He grabbed Varian and conjured an ice wall, a shimmering barrier of frozen magic, to block the incoming volley of crude javelins.

"Ugh." Duke sighed, a sound of profound exasperation.

If Varian had just stayed inside, he could have pretended not to see him. But now that Varian was out in the open, Duke couldn't exactly take King Llane's only precious son and run off to hunt down retreating orcs. That would be a diplomatic incident of epic proportions.

Varian, too, seemed to realize he'd done something incredibly stupid. He looked at Duke with a mix of anxiety and fear in his wide eyes, a clear expression of guilt.

Duke raised his index finger to his lips, a mock-serious gesture. "Shh! When your father asks you about this later, I will do the talking. Otherwise, you're going to get a spanking when you go back, got it?"

The little prince shuddered, his eyes wide, and nodded repeatedly, a silent promise to keep his mouth shut.

The golden lion head painted on Stormwind's flag was getting closer and closer, a symbol of hope and defiance. Looking at Llane, it was as if Duke saw the very ancestor who had led the kingdom's forefathers to this valley a thousand years ago, a figure of enduring strength.

Duke stood quietly at the gate of Stormwind Fortress, watching Llane gallop towards him. Llane practically leaped off his horse before the animal could even come to a complete stop, his urgency palpable.

"Oh – my God! Varian, you're okay! Where's your mother?!" Llane, a man over forty years old, who had never shed a tear when his country faced ruin, nor when the enemy was at the city gates, now burst into tears, crying like a child. His sobs were sincere, pure, and utterly heartbreaking.

"Mother is fine!" Varian quickly reassured him, his voice a little shaky.

But the very next moment, Llane raised his arm, a furious expression on his face, clearly about to deliver a disciplinary slap to Varian: "Damn it, you almost got Count Edmund killed!"

A spectral wizard's hand gently, almost imperceptibly, pulled Llane's arm down.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty, all the guards inside were killed in the battle," Duke said shamelessly, a perfectly straight face. "I couldn't possibly let the kingdom's only heir stay in danger." He conveniently omitted the part where Varian had charged out like a suicidal squirrel.