Street Brawl

Any attempt to describe the brutal, soul-crushing reality of war by someone who hasn't lived through it is as bland and tasteless as stale bread. Duke, in his greenhorn days, once harbored the starry-eyed delusion that he could save every last living soul. But Lothar, with a gentle, yet firm hand, quickly brought Duke back down to Azeroth.

It was a haunting, almost cinematic vision, a magical image that played out in Duke's mind like a grotesque, silent film.

The land was a scorched, desolate wasteland, utterly devoid of life, where thick, greasy columns of black smoke clawed at the sky, choking the very breath from the air. Once-fertile fields lay abandoned, their bounty replaced by the skeletal remains of broken houses and shattered tiles stretching to the horizon like a festering wound. The streets were a macabre tapestry woven from the countless corpses of the fallen.

There were sturdy farmers, their hands still calloused from honest labor, now twisted in death; skinny old folks, their faces frozen in terror; pregnant women, their bellies swollen with life that would never see the light of day; and children, no older than ten, their small forms silenced forever. Most had been brutally beheaded, their blood, now dried and black, painting a grim testament to the desolation and unspeakable tragedy of the scene.

Duke could almost hear the ghostly echoes of screams, the guttural howls of agony, and the desperate cries that had lingered there in their final, terrifying moments.

Regardless of age, gender, or whether they could even lift a butter knife in defense, everyone had been dragged, seemingly without mercy, to the village square and systematically butchered. It was a cold, calculated genocide, aimed at wiping the human race off the face of Azeroth.

Games were just glorified make-believe, a pale imitation of reality. No matter how vividly one tried to describe it, it was never enough to convey the soul-shattering impact of such a horrifying, visceral reality.

Lothar, his face etched with grim experience, walked over and clapped Duke on the shoulder, a gesture heavy with unspoken wisdom. "Your plan, my boy, is a stroke of genius. But you're still wet behind the ears."

Duke's jaw hung open like a tavern door, as if he wanted to argue, to rage against the injustice, but in the end, the words that clawed their way out of his throat became: "At least let me go with you to see off the soldiers! Please, Lothar!"

Lothar paused, his gaze piercing Duke's. He held Duke's eyes for a long moment, then simply uttered one word, heavy with unspoken meaning: "Done."

The sun had already dipped below the horizon, and the moonlight in the sky was hazy, casting a mournful pallor, as if weeping for Stormwind City, which had stood for a thousand years, yet was now teetering on the brink of oblivion.

A massive contingent of troops gathered in the open space outside Stormwind Fortress. Ten thousand soldiers, their faces grim, stood solemnly in the shadow of the mighty fortress, forming a vast, silent square formation.

Torches had already been lit on the walls between Stormwind's city districts, their flickering flames casting long, swaying, fiery red rays of light onto the square formation below. The light danced across their armor, making the iron and steel gleam with a chilling, clanging brilliance.

It was a terrifying fusion of iron and blood.

It was a stark reflection of hatred and unbridled fury.

It was a volcano of anger, simmering, ready to erupt and consume everything in its path.

The suicide squad, the doomed legion, had assembled. They stood in stark, silent anticipation, awaiting the order to charge into the abyss.

If you looked closely, you'd notice that most of these brave souls were already wounded, their bodies testament to the relentless war.

Some bore light injuries, others were grievously afflicted. In serious cases, some even had broken arms, dangling uselessly. In worse cases, a piece of intestine, a gruesome reminder of a recent wound, was simply held in place by their own trembling hands.

The continuous, brutal wars had drained the mental strength of every priest in the city, leaving them hollow-eyed and exhausted. Medical supplies had vanished ten days ago, like gold in a goblin's pocket.

Left to their own devices, most of these men would surely die, given the primitive medical knowledge of this brutal age.

But if they were going to die, by the Light, they would die meaningfully!

Suddenly, a sharp, crisp command cut through the heavy silence: "His Majesty Wrynn has arrived! Salute—"

There was a cacophony of clattering, a ragged symphony of metal on metal, as ten thousand men snapped to attention simultaneously. Their injuries visibly hampered them. In a normal state, Lothar's elite soldiers would have moved as one, a single, unwavering entity.

Duke, trailing behind Llane, Anduin, and Bolvar, felt a sudden, profound sadness well up in his chest.

Llane, resplendent in his golden helmet and golden armor, stood at the main entrance of Stormwind Fortress, his facial muscles twitching, a testament to the immense burden he carried.

Anduin Lothar stood beside the king, his voice like a thunderclap, booming across the assembled army: "Warriors of the kingdom! His Majesty Wrynn comes personally to bid farewell to his warriors! Silence, every man!"

Nearly ten thousand men once again snapped to attention, their feet clicking together, a sound like a thousand hammers striking stone.

Walking down the ramp, Llane, Duke, and the others moved slowly, deliberately, past the front of the grim queue.

What kind of faces were these!

There was no vitality, no spark of life, no energy left in them. Every face was etched with the pallor of death, a ghostly white that spoke of exhaustion and despair.

However…

Every single pair of eyes, sunken and shadowed, revealed an astonishing, fiery fighting spirit, a burning, unholy fire of defiance, mixed with raw hatred and murderous anger!

In every pair of pupils, there was a glint of grim resolve, the fierce determination to die bravely, to take as many of the enemy with them as possible.

Yes! Every man knew he was marching to his grave.

But before their lives were snuffed out, before their last breath left their bodies, they would deliver a fatal, devastating blow to the invaders, in the most savage and brutal way imaginable.

Duke's throat tightened, a lump forming in his chest, a bitter taste in his mouth.

Llane looked at the familiar, yet strangely unfamiliar faces, one by one, and couldn't help but be deeply moved. He almost reached out to pat the shoulders of every soldier in the first row as he walked past, but in the end, he managed to control himself, his hand trembling slightly, as he walked to the pre-built platform.

Llane raised the large bowl, brimming with potent dwarf gin, high above his head. The soldiers, in a unified motion, followed suit, raising their own large bowls, filled with the fiery spirit.

King Llane's clear voice, though tinged with sorrow, carried far and wide:

"Azeroth has been invaded, and humans have been butchered like cattle. But by the Light, you are here! You have raised your swords against these damn greenskins! I, and you, will meet our maker in this hellish war, perhaps tonight, perhaps tomorrow. But it matters not, for we are buying our children a future, a chance to breathe free!"

"My only regret, as Llane Wrynn, is that I cannot stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you this night! But it matters not. Go forth, my brave warriors. When next we meet, I shall either boast that Stormwind is ours once more, or I shall tell you that I, too, fell in the charge, just as you do!"

"Now, by this draught, may your blades be sharp and your axes heavy, and may you send more Orcs to their dark gods than they can count! To victory, or to a glorious death!"

With those words, Llane resolutely tilted his head back and drained the full bowl of liquor in one gulp, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow.

Watching Llane's moving display, Duke, Anduin, Bolvar, and the others all raised their own bowls and drank, the fiery liquid burning a path down their throats.

It had to be said, this dwarf gin had a strange, almost volcanic heat to it. The hot torrent rushed into Duke's throat, flowed down his esophagus, and exploded in his stomach, sending a burning sensation through every inch of his body.

Duke, who wasn't much of a drinker, reeled for a split second, then snapped back to attention, planting his feet firmly on the ground.

"Sir Edmund! I heard it was you who cooked up this whole operation," an old soldier, his head swathed in bloody bandages, his left sleeve flapping empty where an arm should have been, stepped out. He raised the wine in his dish high, offering a salute to Duke. "So I'd like to ask one last question, if you don't mind."

A murmur of anticipation rippled through the assembled soldiers.

Duke straightened his shoulders, the scent of dwarf gin clinging to him, but his eyes clear as crystal. "Ask away, old warrior! I'll give you the straight scoop!"

The old soldier grinned, his teeth caked with dirt. "I'm a rough man, Sir! Don't know a thing about magic, don't understand your fancy plans. All I know is my wife and children died in this damn war, and I ain't got a thing left to lose. I just want to know… tonight, how many Orc lives can I buy with my death?"

This wasn't just the voice of one grizzled veteran; it was the raw, desperate question echoing in the hearts of every single one of the ten thousand warriors who were about to march to their doom.

They weren't afraid of dying! The burning question was: Was it worth it?

Duke trembled, a primal roar tearing from his throat. "One for ten! And I swear on my very soul, I will bring the Orc Warchief's head back to raise a monument to your sacrifice, brothers! I will lift your spirits to the heavens!"

The old soldier roared with laughter, a raw, guttural sound that was more defiance than mirth. "Hahaha! I figured breaking even with one was a good deal, maybe two for profit! But the Warchief's head?! Hahaha! I'd die a happy man!"

He resolutely drained the wine in the large bowl in his hand, and with a sharp crack, he smashed the earthenware to pieces on the ground.

Behind him, ten thousand soldiers followed suit, and the air was filled with a deafening cacophony of shattering earthenware, a symphony of grim resolve.

Llane's eyes welled with tears, his hand rising, trembling slightly. "Let's go!"

An hour later, the deafening, bone-rattling thud of the Horde's war drums arrived, almost as if scheduled by a meticulous goblin.

The rough, guttural roars, unique to tribal warriors, once again ripped through the night from the mountains to the east and north, a chilling symphony of impending doom.

Dozens of flares, specially crafted by those whimsical goblins, shot into the inky blackness, banishing the darkness in an instant and bathing the attacking tribesmen in an eerie, revealing light.

Not only were the relatively smooth mountain paths packed shoulder-to-shoulder with muscular Blackrock Clan warriors, but even the impossibly steep mountain walls had countless thick ropes dangling down, with the burly, green figures of Orcs descending from them like monstrous spiders.

It was a real green craze, a living, breathing tide of emerald fury.

The relentless thwack-thwack-thwack of crossbows continued to echo from the city wall, a desperate, futile effort. However, the Orcs, driven by a primal, bloodthirsty frenzy, continued to surge towards the city wall, heedless of the insane volley of crossbow bolts and the massive rubble raining down from the sky.

One Orc, his helmet and head smashed to pieces by a hurled stone, his huge body collapsing like a felled tree, quickly became a gruesome stepping stone for the next Orc, who scrambled over his fallen comrade, continuing the relentless charge up the gravel slope to the city wall.

Another Orc was pierced clean through the chest by a javelin, but even as his life rapidly drained away, he let out a defiant roar and hurled his battle-axe at a human warrior on the city wall, a final, desperate act of vengeance.

Fierce, brutal fighting erupted at every single point along the entire east and north walls, a bloody, desperate dance of death.

The decisive battle had begun!

The Orcs had laid siege to Stormwind City, a golden lion that was already scarred, battered, and bleeding. However, even though it was weak and defeated, on its last legs, the lion still unsheathed its sharp claws and delivered the most fierce, most savage revenge upon its invaders!

Not far away, Orgrim stood there, momentarily dazed, clutching his famous Hammer of Doom. He watched, transfixed, as the humans launched a brave, desperate counterattack against the Orcs who had already breached the wall.

And then, just as quickly, they were once again overwhelmed by the relentless green frenzy of the Orcs.

Orgrim narrowed his eyes, a prickle of unease crawling up his spine. He sensed an ominous sign, a bad omen. It was said that humans had seven kingdoms, and those knee-high dwarves also had a kingdom, and there were even some skinny, tree-hugging elves. If every single kingdom resisted as fiercely and stubbornly as Stormwind, then before conquering the entire world, how many warriors of the Horde would be able to return alive after fighting battle after bloody battle?

"Hahaha! The weak humans are just prey with a little brains! They're no match for the tribal warriors!" Not far from Orgrim, Warchief Blackhand pointed at the sections of the city wall that had already fallen into the hands of the Horde, roaring with laughter, his voice echoing with brutal triumph.

Orgrim, however, still felt a nagging sense that something was off.

Compared with the elite humans he had fought against just a few days ago, these humans, though displaying almost suicidal morale, were clearly already wounded before they even charged.

Orgrim even ran to an arrow tower, where he was shocked to find that many of the dead human soldiers had broken legs, a sign they were already injured before the final push.

After jumping off the arrow tower, Orgrim found Blackhand and said, "Warchief, something seems to be wrong. The elite human forces… they're not here."

Blackhand raised his hardened, black-gloved hand and gestured dismissively. Roars and shouts filled the air everywhere, and the sounds of fierce fighting still echoed from every corner of the city.

"It's plain as day, Orgrim," Blackhand scoffed. "The weak humans are still putting up a fight. They're just a bunch of stubborn fleas."

Even if Orgrim didn't want to admit it, Blackhand's words rang true. The sounds of fierce fighting were undeniable, they couldn't deceive anyone.

At that moment, an outpost scout came tearing back, panting. "Report to the Warchief! The human defenders are retreating to the western harbor! But every single block in the human city has walls and moats, and the resistance is incredibly fierce!"

"Hahaha! Stupid humans!" Blackhand roared with laughter, his voice booming with contempt.

Orgrim then saw, in the flickering firelight, that the humans had indeed turned almost every large house in the city into a makeshift stronghold. They had built barricades and dug trenches at the entrance of each street, establishing small, stubborn positions.

Looking at the fierce, desperate resistance, it seemed the humans were actually trying to drag the Horde into a brutal street-to-street brawl.

"Street fighting?" Seeing this, Orgrim finally couldn't help but sneer, a cruel twist to his lips. "They've got another thing coming."

Back in the day, the Draenei, with all their fancy Holy Light and sophisticated weapons, still couldn't defend Shattrath City in a street fight. In the kind of close-quarters combat that emphasized individual strength and savagery, Orgrim didn't think any race could hold a candle to the warriors of the Horde.

Blackhand laughed wildly, a deep, guttural sound that shook the very ground. "If the human city had more defenses like the outer city wall, and they'd put all their troops on the city wall, the Horde might have to pay more sacrifices. But are these weak humans stupid? They actually want to fight a street fight with us, hahahaha!?"

This time, not only Orgrim, but all the chiefs following Blackhand joined in the uproarious laughter, their voices mingling in a chorus of brutal amusement.

"Hahaha! No warrior is a match for the strongest warrior Orc! Those puny javelins and crossbows are useless in street fighting! Humans are doomed!"

Blackhand waved his giant hand, a gesture of absolute command. "Attack overnight! Don't let a single human escape. You can take any other spoils you want, but the head of the enemy chieftain must be left to me!"

"Yes!" The chiefs of these small and medium-sized clans were absolutely delighted, their eyes gleaming with avarice. They obeyed the order and dispersed, returning to their own clans to command their troops.

"Orgrim! Lead your men and rush to the port as quickly as possible. I don't want to let another human escape."

"Understood!" Orgrim grunted, his eyes glinting with grim determination.

It would be a bald-faced lie to say that the Orcs weren't tired after days of relentless siege warfare.

However, the sheer excitement brought on by the imminent conquest of the enemy's capital filled every Orc with renewed vigor. There was no more discipline, no more coordinated attacks. The Orcs who had remained near Stormwind City came out in full force, a green tide of unbridled savagery.

They killed their way through every street and alley in Stormwind City, a bloody, unstoppable rampage.

They slaughtered anyone they saw, and snatched anything new and shiny. The Orcs felt nothing when they saw glittering gold and silver utensils, except that they thought it might be good to melt them down and make them into crude tooth ornaments. But when they saw humans' sophisticated weapons, especially sharp battle-axes, the Orcs often fought each other tooth and nail to claim these rare trophies.

Because this was the moment of victory, and these were the spoils, the gifts from the Warchief.

The Orcs' rude, guttural roars and the seemingly endless lines of held-up torches filled every road and street in Stormwind City. The thunderous sound of unbridled footsteps gradually replaced the fading sounds of fierce fighting.

No Orc cared where the humans had gone. Perhaps they had all gone to hide in those big houses called churches and were trembling in fear. On every ugly green face, besides being hideous, there was also the tyranny and ecstasy that had been suppressed for a long time, now unleashed in a terrifying display.

Victory!

Even though humans had given them a run for their money, victory was victory!

Suddenly, several huge beams of light converged on a massive building near the west, illuminating the colossal golden lion flag on the building, which stood as high as a multi-story tower.

At the exact same moment, the Orcs heard a strange, unsettling sound.