Brando

The demon… oh, that demon was a real piece of work. A walking, snarling, beef-slab of pure nightmare fuel.

It was so powerful, so utterly terrifying, that even the warriors, those muscle-bound brutes considered the cream of the crop in the aristocratic fight clubs, couldn't even make it flinch. A casual backhand, not even a proper attack, could turn a man's head into a pulpy, rotten watermelon. Splat! Just like that.

One of those dog-faced fiends, scuttling on all fours, unhinged its massive maw and swallowed a whole man, armor, weapon, and all. The sickening crunch of its millstone teeth grinding bone and steel, coupled with the guard's gurgling, dying wails, echoed in the ears of the survivors, a symphony of pure horror.

Just imagining being nose-to-snout with such a monstrosity, after witnessing that gruesome scene and hearing those gut-wrenching sounds, was enough to make one's hands and feet shake like a leaf in a hurricane.

And to top it all off, that very same monstrosity turned out to be one's closest kin. Talk about a family reunion from hell!

The colossal demon wasn't content just spreading its bloody gospel among those good-for-nothing Bloodsail Pirates. Oh no, it extended its death-dealing claws to those who were supposed to be "on its team."

Friend or foe? Didn't matter a lick. It was just killing for kicks, a gleeful, blood-soaked dance of destruction.

This wasn't just a bad dream; this was a full-blown, no-holds-barred nightmare.

And this nightmare, it seemed, had no end in sight.

Resistance was about as useful as a screen door on a submarine; every poor soul who tried to fight back was instantly pulverized into dust.

Running away? Forget about it. These two ships were smaller than a gnome's outhouse, and there was absolutely nowhere to go. You were stuck between a rock and a hard place, and the rock was a demon.

Every survivor was a pathetic, trembling creature, waiting in abject despair for the final, fiery judgment to descend upon them.

Then, as if summoned by a desperate prayer, a shimmering, divine being descended from the heavens, cutting through the smoke and chaos like a bolt of lightning.

A lone noble, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and disbelief, looked up blankly. He recognized that unmistakable, radiant glow – the unique arcane power of a master wizard.

A powerful wizard? Who in the blazes could it be?

After practically strong-arming every last private mage from the nobles into service, the Stormwind Kingdom had still taken a beating worse than a red-headed stepchild in the magical war. The Royal Mage Corps of Stormwind Kingdom was practically a ghost town, a name only.

Only a handful of high-level mages were still kicking on the front lines, fighting tooth and nail.

And then, the figure landed. And it was, of course, the one person the nobles least wanted to see – Edmund Duke, the self-proclaimed King of the Sea.

The irony was thicker than a goblin's wallet. Their sworn enemy, the universally acknowledged pain in the neck of the noble camp, had become their shining knight in tarnished armor. Of course, this was only for the handful of nobles who hadn't already bought the farm.

At this point, not even one percent of the noble snobs were still breathing.

It was simple, really. The demons, fresh out of Karazhan, could sniff out a corrupted mind like a bloodhound on a scent. These nobles, with their hearts blacker than a stack of unwashed pots, were easy pickings. Some were even directly transformed into demons, no questions asked.

A pure heart, now that's a defense. Even the big cheese of the Burning Legion, Sargeras himself, took decades to corrupt Medivh's heart, and even then, it was a half-baked job! Old Medivh still managed to pop out at the last minute and give Sargeras a good old-fashioned arcane explosion.

But when it came to nobles with pure hearts? Duke just snorted. That was a laugh and a half.

Not every noble was cut out to be a paladin, and not every noble had a name like Bolvar Fordragon.

When the pirates first boarded, most of the nobles were huddled together like sheep in a storm, desperately shielded by their guards. But when the pirates' butcher knives got a little too close to the necks of these already-demonized nobles, well, the jig was up. The demons naturally burst forth, showing their true colors.

So, imagine a packed room, and a demon decides to go on a killing spree right in the middle of the crowd. How many people do you think would walk away from that?

Anyway, when Duke finally touched down on the deck of this particular ship, he didn't see a single noble alive… well, alive in human form, that is.

"Duke—Edmund—"

It was a guttural roar, a wave of pure, unadulterated rage that hit them like a tidal wave.

Duke, ever the picture of nonchalant arrogance, just used his pinky finger to pick his ear. "Did someone call my name just now? Must be the wind."

"You son of a banshee—you are! This is all your fault, you rotten scoundrel!"

Duke merely looked down his nose at this bizarre demon, over three meters tall, with the typical hulking blue demon guard body, but topped with a grotesquely familiar human head.

Duke let out a cold, dismissive snort. Suddenly, a massive block of ice erupted from beneath his feet, hoisting him upwards like a magically animated platform. In the blink of an eye, Duke was standing on a two-meter-high pedestal of frost.

Now he could literally look down on the demon.

"Oh, my apologies," Duke drawled, a smirk playing on his lips. "You're just so vertically challenged, I barely noticed you down there."

"How dare you—" The demon lunged forward, a whirlwind of blue muscle and fury.

"No, you are the one who's out of line, pal!" A mysterious, glowing blue magic circle shimmered into existence in front of Duke. A powerful Arcane Shock, manifesting as a colossal, shimmering fist, slammed into the demon, sending it flying backward even faster than it had attacked.

CRASH! BANG! WALLOP! The demon careened through the cabin, smashing and splintering everything in its path, but to Duke's mild annoyance, it quickly clawed its way out again.

"Oh, it's you, Sir Brando," Duke said, feigning surprise. "We haven't seen each other in, what, half a year? My, my, you've certainly let yourself go. Did the demon transformation come with a 'make yourself uglier' package?" Under the stunned gaze of dozens of terrified survivors on the two ships' decks, Duke mercilessly roasted the demonized Brando.

"I'm going to rip your hide off and make a welcome mat out of it—" Brando shrieked, his voice a distorted growl, and charged again. This time, however, he wasn't quite so reckless. A faint, malevolent black glow emanated from his claws, a sign of some dark power.

Unfortunately for Brando, the gap between them was wider than the Great Sea.

Brando, who had been subtly, shall we say, encouraged to leave the Stormwind Royal School of Magic by Duke, had also managed to miss out on Dalaran enrollment last year. As a result, Sir Brando was still just a glorified magic apprentice before he took his demonic plunge.

Demons, bless their twisted hearts, also came in different power levels. The stronger you were before, the stronger you became after your demonic makeover.

So, a run-of-the-mill chump like Brando, with his average qualifications and half a year wasted? How much juice could he really have picked up?

Not to mention, Duke was now an Archmage, a true master of the arcane. Even if Duke were just an Adept Mage, he could still wipe the floor with this chump.

Twelve shimmering wizard hands materialized instantly around Duke, their arcane missiles launching like a torrential downpour of pure magic, aimed squarely at Brando.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

Everyone around was frozen in disbelief. The terrifying demon who, moments ago, had seemed utterly invincible, was now just a punching bag in Duke's hands.

Each arcane missile easily blasted a chunk of muscle from Brando's arm or thigh, turning it into pulverized dust. As many arcane missiles were fired, so too did holes and gaps appear in Brando's once-imposing body.

"Aaaarrrggghhh!" Brando screamed, a sound of pure agony.

In less than ten seconds, Brando had been reduced to a human stick, or rather, a demon stick.

All his limbs were shattered, twisted at unnatural angles. Horrific, fist-sized blood holes pockmarked his body, and thick, viscous blue-purple demon blood gushed from each one.

Even in this state, Brando wasn't quite dead.

Rolling on the ground, writhing his mangled body like a dying worm, Brando let out a maniacal, gurgling laugh.

"Hahahaha! Duke! When you get right down to it, you're just as dirty as I am, you hypocrite! What's all this 'saint who saves the world' garbage? What's all this 'hero who fights against Orcs' nonsense? Aren't you just as filled with revenge and hatred as I am, you two-faced snake!? Hahahaha! I despise phony guys like you the most! I know you won't let me off the hook, so I'll be waiting for you in hell! Hahahaha!"

Suddenly, with a chilling crackle, a gigantic ice coffin erupted from the deck, encasing Brando completely and silencing his deranged laughter, ending the life of this pathetic demon.

Looking at the distant, flaming warships, Duke muttered to himself, a faint, chilling smile playing on his lips, "I just killed a demon, but it just so happened that this particular demon was named Fam Brando."