Forestn't

As the ancestral heartland of Stormwind Kingdom for thousands of years, Elwynn Forest had always been a veritable gold mine in the eyes of the nobility. Not only did its bustling agricultural activities – the logging, the farming, the pig and sheep raising – ensure the common folk lived a stable, if unexciting, life, but it also poured a continuous river of tax revenue into the nobles' coffers. It was the gift that kept on giving.

On top of that, Elwynn Forest itself was absolutely bursting with high-grade copper mines and other precious mineral resources. To put it mildly, Elwynn Forest was practically synonymous with living the good life, never having to worry about where your next meal was coming from or if your breeches had holes in them.

If it weren't for the thousands of years during which every single inch of that verdant forest had been parcelled out by successive kings, no sane person would have wasted so much effort trying to develop the barren Redridge Mountains to the east, the spooky, shadow-drenched Duskwood to the south, or the monster-infested, godforsaken western wilderness. It was like buying a fixer-upper when you owned a mansion.

In the meeting room, the nobles' first, gut reaction was that Duke had officially lost his marbles. They instinctively wanted to veto his insane proposition, probably before he even finished speaking.

Their second reaction, however, was a slow, dawning realization... it actually seemed to make a twisted kind of sense.

What had become of Elwynn Forest now? What did it have to do with them?

Nothing!

Absolutely nothing!

No matter how much they stomped their feet and denied it, they couldn't change the cold, hard fact that Elwynn Forest had completely fallen into the grubby hands of those damned greenskins. The once abundant natural resources, the very lifeblood of their former wealth, had all become raw materials for those savage beasts to raise their ugly offspring.

Every noble gnashed their teeth in impotent hatred at the thought of their beautiful mansions, their sprawling estates, their rich territories, now being defiled by those barbaric brutes. It was enough to make them want to chew nails.

One of the nobles, a young man whose voice was barely a squeak, dared to ask weakly: "Will setting fire to the forest anger the druids?"

Then, a chorus of older, more jaded nobles looked at the young noble as if he'd just suggested they hold hands with orcs. They were up to their eyeballs in hot water, facing total annihilation, so why in the blazes would they care about a bunch of tree-hugging druids who'd probably gone to hell anyway?!

The nobles fell silent, the sheer absurdity of the situation hanging heavy in the air.

Lothar, ever the pragmatist, was honest enough to cut through the bull: "What about the orcs' spellcasters, the ones they call warlocks?"

"I got absolutely ironclad information from my master," Duke replied, his voice oozing confidence. "Gul'dan, the orcs' most powerful warlock, can't go to battle in the short term for some reason. The same goes for the Shadow Council. So, as long as you give me a griffin, I'll be safe as houses."

Lothar suddenly had an epiphany. He realized that in the ongoing, brutal battles with the orcs, the human side had been almost completely steamrolled, not just because of the orcs' individual combat prowess, but because of their crippling lack of understanding of the orc warlocks. The Stormwind Royal Family Mage Corps had been utterly decimated in their duels with the Shadow Council, leaving the Mage Corps almost dead in name only.

However, in recent days, there had been a noticeable, almost eerie, absence of attacks from orc warlocks. Thank the heavens for small favors, because otherwise, the only remaining master mage in the country would have to protect Llane, and with only three archmages left, they wouldn't stand a snowball's chance in hell against the Shadow Council.

Lothar nodded to Llane, a silent acknowledgment of the grim reality and Duke's crucial intelligence.

Llane stood up, his face resolute. "Okay, Edmund, I approve of this plan. But I have only one request for you, Count Edmund."

"Your Majesty, please speak," Duke said, standing up and saluting with impeccable manners.

"You must come back alive!" Llane said earnestly, his voice thick with emotion. "The fact that Stormwind is on the verge of destruction is not your fault alone, Edmund Duke. For a fifteen-year-old like you, you have done more than enough, and you've done it exceptionally well. If the kingdom is truly destined to be destroyed, I will choose to accept it calmly. But in the future, rebuilding Stormwind from the ashes will require the tireless efforts of young people like you."

"Hiss——" It seemed that every noble in the room took a collective breath of cold air, a sound like a hundred snakes hissing.

If it had been anyone else being given this kind of suicidal mission, Llane would have at least issued a stern military order, making them swear on their lives to die for the country if they failed. But now it was Duke's turn, and Llane was so unbelievably tolerant, so utterly forgiving, that he was even willing to bet on the kingdom's early destruction if Duke didn't make it back alive! What in the blazes?!

How much did Llane truly value Duke? It was a level of divine favor that was truly unprecedented. Even when Medivh was alive, Llane had never shown such overwhelming favoritism towards him.

But when you thought about it carefully, it actually seemed... normal.

Did Duke still have anything left to prove today?

He was the youngest archmage in recorded history, the richest businessman in the world, the sea king who controlled the very lifeline of the kingdom, the hero who killed the demon king Sargeras, the man who had saved the lives of the queen and the prince, the king's personal benefactor. If Duke hadn't been worried about running out of future rewards, and if he hadn't been stopped by a gaggle of jealous nobles, he would already be a duke with an honorary title.

Even so, everyone in the aristocratic circle knew that Llane had already given the nod to the only remaining master mage. As long as the situation stabilized even a little, Duke would inherit Medivh's position in the kingdom and become the Chief Court Mage of Stormwind.

Duke's rise was unstoppable, like a runaway train with no brakes. Before Duke returned from Karazhan, no one was truly sure of his fate. Now, many nobles had secretly decided that if Duke's audacious plan to hold off the orcs for ten days succeeded, they would completely hitch their family's wagon to Duke's rising star.

Compared to other nobles, King Llane had one fatal flaw: his royal bloodline was thinner than a supermodel. Not only was he not a direct descendant of Emperor Thoradin, but Llane also had no brothers or sisters. Similarly, his only heir was Prince Varian. The queen, for reasons unknown, hadn't given birth to any more children with Llane.

But for the other nobles, it was a different story. Wasn't she just a noble's daughter? As long as she married Duke, even if her family lost their territory, they could still live comfortably. And if they could somehow get their territory back in the future, well, that would just be the icing on the cake.

Unconsciously, the nobles all set their sights on Duke, their minds buzzing with match-making schemes.

Duke, blissfully unaware of the matrimonial machinations swirling around him, simply thanked Llane for his concern and prepared to set off.

But after stepping out of Stormwind Fortress, he unexpectedly found a small group of old friends waiting for him.

"Teacher Norton, I'm glad to see that you're still radiating good vibes," Duke greeted the wizened old mage.

Yes, it was old man Norton, and Daniel and Anya were trailing behind him. Duke noticed that these two former magic apprentices were now sporting the formal robes of the Royal Mage Corps.

"Huh? You got promoted!?" This time, Duke was genuinely surprised, his eyebrows shooting up.

Daniel grinned innocently: "Anya once said, 'Either rise in war or perish in war.' I was promoted to a first-class Adept Mage last week. Anya was promoted two months earlier than me and is now a third-class Adept Mage."

Anya, with her freckled face, gave Duke a fairly standard lady's greeting, her expression still a little stiff, like she was trying not to crack a smile: "Teacher Norton said that we should be able to help you."

Old man Norton hobbled over and took Duke's hand kindly: "Duke, don't you dare refuse. My old bones are practically falling apart. I have to thank God for surviving this battle. There's no future for these two following me. I'm not trying to save my reputation today. If you don't accept them, I will kneel right here for everyone to see, so help me!"

"No, no, no," Duke quickly interjected, knowing the old man was dead serious. Daniel and Anya, commoners by birth, had already been unofficially branded as Duke's protégés. If Duke, their supposed patron, didn't take them in, these two would truly have nowhere to go, no future to speak of.

Duke turned around and faced the two young mages. "Okay, enough with the dramatics. You two will follow me from now on. I want to ask you, do you want to be my followers? Or retainers?"

Daniel rubbed his head, looking utterly confused. "Is there... a difference?"

Anya kicked Daniel lightly in the shin: "Of course he's a follower, you dolt!"

As for followers, their loyalty transcended nationality, faith, ethnicity, or even race. The only person they were loyal to was Duke, the mage.

This was not the case with retainers. After all, retainers were just direct subordinates of a noble. Even though the nobles of this era had a tongue-twister saying that "the subordinates of their subordinates are not their own subordinates," meaning the king couldn't directly control a noble's retainers, the king still held ultimate authority. If retainers turned against their noble, they could still claim loyalty to the king.

In terms of relationship, followers were closer, more binding, and ultimately more in line with the long-term interests of the two young mages.

Although Duke knew that Daniel and Anya had limited magical qualifications, he still accepted them as his followers. The establishment of this master-servant relationship was also a perfect, almost poetic, ending to their shared fate of coming out of the North County Monastery together, a neat little bow on their journey.

"Okay, now I'm going to give you a task..."

After arranging all matters in Stormwind City, Duke didn't go out that night and enjoyed a well-deserved, deep sleep.

When Lothar asked him why he was so sure that the orcs wouldn't launch an attack tonight, Duke simply replied: "Because the current Warchief of the Horde is Blackhand."

Lothar was completely baffled by this, a look of utter confusion on his face.

Duke merely shook his index finger, a smug, satisfied expression on his face.

This, my friends, was the ultimate benefit of being a time traveler. Only time travelers could truly grasp the stark differences in leadership styles between Blackhand and the next Warchief, Orgrim Doomhammer.

Blackhand was indeed an outstanding orc leader, but his excellence was reflected primarily in his sheer ferocity and personal bravery. He was a brute-force kind of guy.

Blackhand, who had guzzled the demon blood, possessed the common weakness of most green-skinned orcs: he was irritable, prone to fits of rage, and not particularly rational. He had no second thoughts, no cunning plans, just a single-minded desire to fight head-on, consequences be damned.

But Orgrim was a different breed entirely. He hadn't drunk the demon blood, which meant his mind was remarkably clear, sharp as a tack. This gave Orgrim a natural advantage in the deployment of troops; he was far more wise and rational. The same was true of Orgrim in history. As one of the most intelligent orcs, Orgrim had once given the entire Alliance a run for their money, practically beating them single-handedly. If he hadn't encountered someone who betrayed his teammates, perhaps the Horde wouldn't have been defeated in the First Dark Portal incident.

Duke's confident conclusion that the Horde couldn't send troops tonight was based entirely on his intimate understanding of Blackhand's predictable, hot-headed nature.

At this very moment, in the tribal camp...

Blackhand's giant hand, which had become a little carbonized and unnaturally hard due to the chaotic power of nature, slammed into Orgrim's face with a sickening thud.

Even though Orgrim had already tensed his muscles and braced himself for a heavy blow, his resolute face was still severely deformed for a short period of time, looking like a mashed potato.

Orgrim's huge body, weighing hundreds of pounds, was sent flying out of the tent by Blackhand's punch, landing in a heap outside.

"You coward!! The Horde doesn't need spineless cowards like you!" Blackhand roared, his voice shaking the very ground.

"The other side has very powerful spellcasters! Where in the blazes is Gul'dan when we need spellcaster support the most?! Where are the warlocks of the Shadow Council?!" Orgrim roared back, unwilling to back down, his voice raw with frustration.

Although orcs were brave and not particularly rational, they still had rules, an unspoken code of conduct.

The mysteries remained mysteries, and the warriors remained warriors.

Since ancient times, the shamans in the Horde had been responsible for dealing with the opponent's spellcasters. After the shaman profession withered away, it was replaced by the more sinister warlock.

The chief was speechless for a moment, then stammered: "Gul'dan has more important things to do, like repairing the Dark Portal!"

This was a strong argument, a convenient excuse, and a good one.

If the Dark Portal was repaired, the Horde would have an endless supply of reinforcements, a bottomless pit of green bodies. Although the Horde warriors left in that destroyed world weren't the most elite, they were numerous.

Orgrim shook his head, a stubborn glint in his eye, and stood up, dusting himself off. "Blackhand! Tomorrow! Give me another twenty thousand elite Blackrock Clan soldiers! If you still can't defeat them, you'll have my head on a platter!"

"Okay!" Blackhand roared, ready to act recklessly, his bloodlust overriding any semblance of strategy.

Mirror Lake was located to the south of Stormwind City. If you journeyed to Stormwind City from Goldshire, southeast of the city, you would easily spot this massive lake on the left side of the road.

Now, Mirror Lake had also become one of the lifelines of the orc army, a crucial watering hole.

It was the height of summer, and the scorching heat baked the earth, causing the same discomfort to both the attackers and the defenders. When there were no combat missions, most orcs were happy to take shelter under the scant shade of trees, grumbling about the heat. In order to prevent those damned fishmen and Naga who followed human orders from sneaking down the river to Mirror Lake, the orcs had to mobilize thousands of hard laborers to build a temporary dam, ensuring this would become the most ideal place for the orc army to get water.

Mirror Lake was nestled at the foot of a low mountain. To prevent humans from poisoning it, it was only necessary to deploy enough patrol troops near the springs on the mountain.

Moreover, looking from the mountain, you could clearly see everything happening on the outer walls of Stormwind, the human city nestled at the mouth of the valley. It was a perfect vantage point.

However, early in the morning of this day, a strange atmospheric circulation appeared on this small mountain, almost completely surrounding the entire peak.

The constantly rotating circulation formed a localized storm, creating an invisible air wall nearly one hundred meters high on the highest peak of the hill. The patrolling orcs, curious and a little dim-witted, tried to pass through this invisible atmospheric wall to see what in the blazes was going on inside. However, every single orc who attempted to do so was instantly torn apart by the violent, unseen wind, their bodies shredded into ribbons.

The very next moment, in response to the first rays of morning light, colossal balls of flames began to spread majestically from the top of the mountain, cascading down to the vast land below, carried by the rising sun.

At first, every orc thought it was just a mirage, a trick of the light, or perhaps a particularly bad hangover. But soon, as the scorching flames rained down on the rough and messy roofs of the Horde's barracks, the fire spread with terrifying ease, consuming everything in its path.

"FIRE! FIRE!"

The sleepy orcs, rudely awakened from their slumber, stumbled out of their tents only to find that almost their entire camp was engulfed in a raging inferno.

The orcs weren't entirely unprepared for human fire attacks. Many orc officers, bellowing orders, commanded the stupid orcs to put out the fire with sand. Some even ordered orcs to rush to Mirror Lake to fetch water to put out the fire. However, the flames in the sky became denser and denser, a relentless barrage, and the increasing number of fires made the orcs' frantic efforts to put out the fire utterly useless. It was like trying to put out a bonfire with a squirt gun.

Most of them simply ran into the open space, weapons clutched in their hands, utterly bewildered, not knowing what in the blazes to do.

"Look at the mountain!" Finally, an orc, sharper than the rest, discovered something terribly wrong on the mountain.

A tall and majestic figure stood at the very top of the mountain. Behind him, a cloak fluttered wildly in the wind, looking less like a piece of cloth and more like a defiant battle flag, instantly drawing the attention of every single orc.

The figure, bathed in the morning light, was extraordinarily dazzling, as if he himself was the sun, shining brightly, a son of light dispelling all darkness on earth. Against the backdrop of the morning light, every fine line and every mysterious character on the silver magic circle hanging in the void beside him was stained with a layer of brilliant, shimmering gold.

Countless fireballs erupted from these magic arrays, shooting out like fiery projectiles, drawing crimson arcs across the sky that symbolized death and destruction, and falling to the earth in an utterly shocking, terrifying manner.

In just a dozen breaths, the endless flames transformed the entire earth below into a raging sea of fire!

Orgrim burst out of his tent, his eyes wide with a mixture of horror and grudging admiration. He stared at the mysterious and terrifying figure, and then, through gritted teeth, squeezed out a few words:

"Edmund Duke!"