Nightmare
"Of course you have to remember me, because I will become your worst freaking nightmare – the kind that makes you wet your pants and cry for your mommy!"
Duke's words, bellowed in flawless orcish like a death metal vocalist hitting the high notes, still rattled around in Orgrim Doomhammer's skull like a ping-pong ball in a washing machine – part mockery, part prophetic doom that clung to him like a bad hangover.
Warchief Blackhand and his bodyguards stomped over to Orgrim like angry rhinos, and Blackhand roared with the fury of a thousand disappointed football coaches: "Do you know that human wizard?!"
"Hell yes! It was that son of a gun Edmund Duke who sent me and my boys packing with our tails between our legs! I was THIS close to sitting on that human chief's throne – close enough to smell his fear sweat!"
Blackhand's facial muscles twitched like a car engine trying to start in winter. He knew the best way to deal with a spellcaster was to bring a bigger gun to a knife fight. But Lady Luck had given him the cold shoulder – the Shadow Council kept barking orders, but he couldn't find a warlock if his life depended on it, which it probably did.
One meaty paw grabbed Orgrim's shoulder armor like a vice grip and yanked him forward. Blackhand roared, spraying spit like a broken sprinkler system, delivering a death sentence that would make a drill sergeant proud: "Now's your chance to wipe the slate clean, you pathetic excuse for a warrior! My right-hand man! And just so you don't get any bright ideas about running like a chicken with its head cut off, Deadeye will be watching your every move! Now GET MOVING!"
The muscles on Orgrim's face spasmed like he'd been hit with a cattle prod. The word "shame" struck his nerves like lightning hitting a golf club – raw, brutal, and absolutely devastating.
He didn't argue back – that would've been like bringing a knife to a gunfight. In orc culture, failure was failure, period. No sugar-coating, no participation trophies, no "you tried your best" speeches.
The chieftain not immediately turning him into orc confetti was already more mercy than Moses parting the Red Sea. Though rage over his best buddy Durotan's death still burned in his gut like bad chili, Orgrim knew this wasn't the time to poke the bear that was Warchief Blackhand.
"Follow me, you magnificent bastards!" Orgrim raised his fist, and his elite orcs charged toward the hill near Mirror Lake like a stampede of caffeinated buffalo seeking vengeance.
Alongside Orgrim's elite Blackrock Clan marched another army that looked hungrier than wolves at a butcher convention.
That was Kilrogg Deadeye's elite Bleeding Hollow clan – the orcs who put the "hollow" in "we'll hollow out your skull."
The Bleeding Hollow Clan – once the big cheese of the Horde, still packing more punch than a heavyweight boxer on steroids and enough warriors to make Genghis Khan jealous.
Too bad for them, they were about to meet Duke, who was running on full cylinders without any warlock interference cramping his style.
If they were the storm clouds of doom rolling across the land, then Duke was the sunrise that burns away nightmares and makes vampires run screaming.
Duke blazed with golden light like a human torch, and behind him fluttered the lion banner of Stormwind like a superhero's cape in a hurricane.
Duke stood atop the hill like a king surveying his domain, looking down with the smugness of a cat who'd just knocked over the neighbor's prized vase at the thousands of orcs crawling toward him like angry ants at a picnic.
"HAHAHA! Daniel, hold my flag while I school these knuckleheads on why you don't mess with Stormwind! Time to show them we're not just another pretty face! HAHAHA!" Duke's maniacal laughter carried to Daniel's ears like the sound of victory bells mixed with pure, unfiltered badassery.
Without thinking, Daniel felt his chest swell with pride bigger than Texas.
He'd heard the legends about Duke being the cat's pajamas, but seeing was believing, and brother, was he getting an eyeful.
How many orcs were down there trying to crash their party?
At least ten thousand strong – enough firepower to turn the entire kingdom into yesterday's news.
But Duke faced them down like David staring at Goliath, except David had magical nukes and an attitude problem.
Watching Duke glow like a human lighthouse in the morning sun, Daniel was more starstruck than a teenager at a rock concert. This wasn't just hero worship – this was the kind of fanatical devotion usually reserved for championship sports teams and really good pizza.
Duke? Some hotshot general who knew his way around a battlefield?
Hell no! To single-handedly make an army of ten thousand bloodthirsty orcs think twice took balls bigger than bowling balls and skills that made Superman look like an underachiever.
If Daniel's simple brain had to slap a label on it, he'd call Duke what he was... a walking, talking, spell-slinging GOD!
The guardian angel of the entire damn kingdom!
Down at the base of the mountain, the orc warriors were getting their first taste of a human mage running at full throttle without any warlock putting the brakes on his magical mojo. When those massive fireballs connected, they released enough energy to make Mount Vesuvius look like a birthday candle. The impact hit harder than a freight train loaded with angry elephants, tossing grass and tree roots around like confetti at New Year's.
Fear of fire was hardwired into most living creatures like fearing taxes and root canals.
The burning sensation that went beyond "ouch" into "OH GOD WHY" territory wasn't something every warrior could tough out with a stiff upper lip and positive thinking.
Thirty-six magical flame arrays were spitting out tank-sized fireballs faster than a machine gun on Red Bull. This wasn't just a firestorm – this was Armageddon with better special effects.
Orc warriors got launched skyward like human cannonballs, then crashed down wailing louder than banshees before the flames turned them into charcoal with that special "barbecue gone wrong" aroma.
The explosions kept lighting up the sky like the world's most violent fireworks show. Daniel behind Duke had to squint harder than someone trying to read fine print. Through the chaos, he could see that while plenty of orcs were getting their goose cooked, even more had reached the final stretch of their charge. Their battle lines spread out like a deadly fan, not packed tight enough to be easy pickings, but not spread thin enough to be useless – they had Duke surrounded tighter than a jar of pickles.
Sure, the 40-degree slope slowed them down about as much as a speed bump slows down a NASCAR driver, but for orcs who climbed mountains like most people climbed stairs, this was barely an inconvenience.
Their advance barely hiccupped.
"Cover your ears like your life depends on it!" Duke suddenly commanded.
Daniel followed orders faster than a private avoiding kitchen duty.
The next second, a river of flames appeared at the mountain's base like Moses parting the Red Sea, except instead of water, it was pure, concentrated "nope" that blocked any more orcs from joining the party.
Then came the fireworks show to end all fireworks shows.
Those were the artillery shells Duke had strategically placed on the hills before dawn, exhausting Stormwind's griffin taxi service in the process. Since the Horde had found a new way to knock on the city's door, the cannons at the main gate were about as useful as a chocolate teapot.
With limited shipping options and no U-Haul in sight, Duke decided to make those shells earn their keep in the most spectacular way possible.
Just as the orcs hit the mountain's halfway point – the sweet spot where confidence meets reality – shells triggered by magical fire started exploding under their feet like deadly jack-in-the-boxes, sending up geysers of flame, mud, and regret. Brave faces that had seen a thousand battles kept disappearing in flashes brighter than camera bulbs, while the orcs who survived kept climbing over their buddies' corpses with the determination of Black Friday shoppers fighting over the last flat-screen TV.
They were still 200 meters from Duke – close enough to see him grinning, too far to do jack squat about it.
But Duke had the entire sky wrapped around his finger like a puppet master controlling the elements, unleashing magical hellfire circuits that would make Tesla weep with envy.
The explosions were so loud they could wake the dead, shaking the entire orc army like maracas and making the human soldiers on Stormwind's walls over a thousand meters away wonder if the world was ending.
Even basic fireball magic sounded like the gods bowling strikes with planets. The exploding fireballs nearly flipped the landscape upside down. On the hills beside Mirror Lake that used to be greener than Ireland in spring, every branch got snapped by heat waves that could melt steel, with broken wood flying around like nature's own tornado of splinters.
Among the Blackrock and Bleeding Hollow clans charging up the hill like bats out of hell, their proud banners were dropping faster than flies in winter.
Warchief Blackhand, standing at the mountain's base, had his eyes bugged out wider than a cartoon character who just saw his credit card bill.
"This is impossible! This is more impossible than a snowball's chance in hell!"
Meanwhile, after witnessing the light show and hearing orc screaming that would make horror movie directors jealous, the Stormwind soldiers erupted in cheers louder than a Super Bowl victory celebration. On the city walls, every soldier wore expressions happier than kids on Christmas morning.
They knew their new guardian angel, Edmund Duke, was teaching those orcs a lesson they'd never forget – assuming any survived to remember it.
Your average wizard's fireball was about as impressive as a wet firecracker compared to Duke's magical artillery. His spells flew across two to three hundred meters and stayed tighter than a Navy SEAL formation.
This level of control, usually reserved for archmages who'd been practicing since George Washington was in diapers, was coming from Duke – supposedly just a mid-level sky mage. But with his system elves backing him up, Duke's elemental control was sharper than a Swiss Army knife in the hands of MacGyver.
He could hit whatever he aimed at with the precision of a Wild West gunslinger.
Controlling dozens of magic arrays simultaneously while multicasting spells better than masters who'd been at it longer than Methuselah had been alive.
Even though the orcs stopped charging like lemmings off a cliff and started zigzagging like they were dodging traffic, it didn't matter one bit.
Every single fireball that rained down found its mark like heat-seeking missiles with personal vendettas. If a fireball missed the orc in front, it nailed the one behind thanks to Murphy's Law and orc-level tactical awareness.
Sometimes it looked like Duke was throwing fastballs and the orcs were diving headfirst to catch them with their faces.
The orcs had spread their attack line wider than the Grand Canyon – over 200 meters of pure aggressive intention – but still couldn't get a single warrior within 150 meters of Duke.
At that distance, they looked smaller than ants at a giant's picnic. Forget throwing axes or shooting crossbows – they'd have better luck winning the lottery while getting struck by lightning.
The steam rising around Duke from the intense heat made him look like a mirage in the desert, all wavy and otherworldly.
Only the Almighty knew whether Duke had protective spells stacked higher than pancakes on Sunday morning.
But Daniel was dead certain Duke had at least basic Arrow Protection magic – maybe ten layers, maybe dozens. The concentration of magical elements around Duke was thicker than molasses in January.
Duke single-handedly covered half the battlefield and shut down the orcs' assault harder than a bouncer at an exclusive club.
This had blown past skill level and entered the realm of pure artistry – Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel level of mastery.
Mages were living artillery – and Duke was the poster child for why you should never bring swords to a magic fight.
Daniel, standing behind Duke like a loyal squire, was more awestruck than a tourist seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time. A feeling of worship and reverence filled his chest bigger than Texas. Even knowing he'd never reach archmage level if he lived to be older than Moses, Daniel couldn't squash his burning ambition.
Turns out his master was a magical powerhouse destined to reach – or even surpass – the legendary guardian Medivh's level?
Daniel suddenly felt that after witnessing this epic beatdown, dying for Duke would be like winning the ultimate lottery.
What should've been a one-sided massacre got turned on its head when a massive red figure appeared like a bad plot twist.
Historically speaking, the next Warchief of the Horde was Orgrim Doomhammer – and he was about to crash this magical party!
The muscles around Duke's eyes twitched like a Vegas slot machine hitting jackpot.
Duke already knew Orgrim had elemental resistance that would make Superman jealous, especially against fire. Now it was crystal clear that Orgrim had activated his ultimate berserker mode.
"AAAAHHHHHH!" Orgrim's war cry could wake the dead three states over.
Orgrim's condition was beyond normal – he'd left normal in the dust and was now cruising in the "completely unhinged" lane.
Wielding the Doomhammer that weighed more than a Harley Davidson, Orgrim was moving faster than a NASCAR driver on the final lap, covering over five meters with each stride.
For humans, that was Olympic triple-jump territory, but for Orgrim, who stood taller than most NBA centers, it was just "getting warmed up" speed.
What was even more terrifying was the Michael Jackson moonwalk happening under his feet.
Duke saw steam billowing and splashing like a broken radiator.
Damn, was this orc part steam engine?
Duke had already kissed goodbye to using fire magic against Orgrim. With a flourish that would make a conductor jealous, thirty-six mage hands materialized twenty meters from Orgrim in perfect formation, launching Arcane Blasts in groups of six like magical Navy SEALs!
Two seconds later, Duke was more dumbfounded than a tourist who'd just been pickpocketed!
Useless! Worthless! About as effective as a chocolate teapot!
The compressed arcane energy slammed into Orgrim and got dispersed by some mysterious force less than eight inches from his body. The same trick that had sent Orgrim flying like a pinball in their last dance-off was now completely worthless!
Holy hell, was his name secretly Orgrim the Saint? Was he running on anime logic where the same attack never works twice?
With every thunderous step, Orgrim was rewriting the landscape's geological history. In just a few heartbeats, he'd closed the gap to within a hundred meters of Duke.
Duke frowned with the concentration of a chess grandmaster, clasped his hands together, and suddenly the air itself changed allegiance.
"HAH!" With a battle cry that could shatter glass, the entire mountain spring froze solid starting from Duke's feet. The freezing wave flowed down the stream faster than gossip in a small town, instantly turning the waterway into a deadly ice highway. Countless ice spikes shot up along the river like a porcupine having the worst day ever, each spike sharp enough to turn any mortal into a shish kebab!
Extremely Cold Ice Wave – Duke's custom magical creation, improved from Dwarven Cold Prison like a hot rod mechanic souping up a classic car. Though still a work in progress, Duke was confident it would slow Orgrim down more than rush hour traffic.
Duke succeeded like a lottery winner hitting the jackpot.
Even though Orgrim was radiating heat like a human furnace, he clearly wasn't used to ice spikes with the courtesy to physically stab first and melt later. The high temperature was working overtime to melt the ice, but each spike managed to punch thumb-sized holes in Orgrim before becoming Orc soup.
"AHHHHH!" Surrounded by more ice spikes than a medieval torture chamber, Orgrim was getting the full pincushion experience.
That's when another orc hero crashed the party – Kilrogg Deadeye, fashionably late but making an entrance.
As chieftain of one of the seven major orc clans, Kilrogg was top-shelf material. If he weren't older than dirt and creakier than a haunted house, Duke would bet this senior citizen could throw down at Blackhand's level.
Right before Duke's eyes, Kilrogg displayed agility that would make Spider-Man jealous.
Yeah, you heard that right – agility!
If Orgrim had been a raging lion with anger management issues, then Kilrogg was a cheetah that had been hitting the espresso hard. He actually used the flat sides of Duke's ice spikes as stepping stones, flying toward Duke like he was in some kind of magical parkour competition.
Multicast activated like a supercomputer booting up!
This wasn't some AI casting spells on Duke's behalf – this was Duke himself unleashing his full magical arsenal. The power difference was like comparing a firecracker to a nuclear weapon.
With Blizzard and Wide-Area Ice Cone, Duke unveiled his incredible magical prowess to the world like a magician revealing his greatest trick!
No matter how agile Kilrogg was, he wasn't immune to Duke's all-you-can-eat magical buffet of destruction. For a moment, the old orc froze like a deer in headlights.
Kilrogg was screaming in panic louder than a banshee at a heavy metal concert.
The orcs behind him still wanted to crash the party, but got shut down harder than a nightclub after last call by wizard hands and magic circles controlled by Duke's AI assistant.