Mak'gora

The Horn of Mak'gora

"WOOOOOO-WOOOOOO-WOOOOOO--" The bone-chilling sound of the war horn seemed to descend from the heavens themselves, or perhaps from the darkest depths of forgotten ages.

Raw and bone-crushingly heroic.

It conjured visions of endless wastelands choked with yellow sand, where warriors had to battle the most savage beasts in environments that would make hell seem like a spa vacation, all to give their people a snowball's chance in hell of survival.

Kill or be killed, baby.

The weak get eaten for breakfast; the strong rule the roost like kings of the food chain.

This was a sound older than dirt, and it awakened memories buried deeper than Jimmy Hoffa in the hearts of countless orcs.

How many moons had passed since they'd last heard this call to arms?

Mak'gora

Every orc worth his salt knew that when a warrior had the brass to challenge a chief for his throne, he used this most sacred duel ritual—Mak'gora.

Mano a mano!

Winner takes all, loser takes a dirt nap!

What most didn't know was that Mak'gora, typically used to settle beefs between orcs and decide who gets to wear the big boy pants, could also be thrown down against hostile races.

But there were strings attached, naturally.

"Blackhand, the Warchief of the Horde! On behalf of my king, Llane Wrynn, King of Stormwind—the top dog in your eyes—I challenge you to Mak'gora. Do you have the stones to accept this challenge?" Duke's voice boomed across the night sky of Stormwind like God's own megaphone. Whether it was magic or just good old-fashioned lung power, this battle cry in orcish was heard crystal clear by every last one of the 100,000 green-skinned party crashers who'd invaded Stormwind.

Warchief Blackhand and Orgrim were taking their sweet time strolling through Stormwind's Old Town with their personal army of muscleheads, and both nearly jumped out of their green skin.

Mak'gora!?

Humans actually knew about Mak'gora?

Faster than you could say "backstabbing assassin," Orgrim spat in his mind: It was that two-faced snake Garona who spilled the beans again!

Duke's voice thundered on: "Our human king ain't exactly built like a brick shithouse compared to your tribal Warchief. No biggie. Our king and our top warrior are both here, locked and loaded. As long as you can put our champion Anduin Lothar six feet under in Mak'gora, our king's head will be served up on a silver platter! We're waiting for you where that light beam's cutting through the sky like a bat signal!"

Blackhand's massive rocky mitt happened to be resting on a thick stone pillar by the roadside. Without even thinking about it, his grip turned that entire pillar into powder easier than crushing a stale cracker. The stone exploded like it was made of chalk and scattered across the ground like confetti.

Every orc eye in the vicinity locked onto Blackhand's face like heat-seeking missiles.

"Warchief?" Orgrim asked, testing the waters.

The muscles on Blackhand's ugly mug were twitching like a live wire, and thick veins popped out on his face like garden hoses. His eyes were bloodshot and redder than a stop sign from pure, undiluted excitement. Blackhand could feel his body heating up like a furnace, fire pumping from his heart and spreading to every corner of his massive frame, reaching every cell like molten lava.

"HAHAHAHA!" Blackhand's laughter could wake the dead. "Orcs don't back down from jack squat! Doesn't matter if it's this Llane chump or this Anduin pretty boy! Their heads are mine—ALL MINE!"

Orgrim got the message loud and clear and barked at his lieutenant: "Spread the word from the Warchief—the boss has decided to accept the human Mak'gora challenge and orders a cease-fire on any humans near that light beacon!"

The messengers scattered like roaches when the lights come on, and soon their rough voices could be heard echoing everywhere.

"The Warchief accepts Mak'gora and orders no attacks on humans near the light beam!"

"Let's roll!" The clouds parted like the Red Sea, and moonlight bathed the ground. Combined with the flickering torchlight, the two massive dragon-skull shoulder ornaments on the chief's shoulders gleamed like something straight out of a horror movie.

Meanwhile, over in Stormwind City's cathedral district, on the steps of the grand cathedral, Llane sat perched on a red velvet throne with gold trim, positioned nine steps up like he was holding court in heaven. Anduin and Bolvar flanked him left and right, decked out in full battle gear that could stop a freight train.

"Will the orc Warchief really show up?" Bolvar asked Duke for the third time, sounding like a broken record.

"Enough already! Bolvar, Duke's analysis is spot-on. The orc Warchief who's more obsessed with personal glory than a peacock with a mirror won't pass up a golden opportunity like this." Llane shut down his most loyal minister with the patience of a saint.

Anduin, standing ready with his sword like a statue of justice, looked cooler than the other side of the pillow: "Relax, Stormwind Harbor's got our six. The troops are backing our play. If tens of thousands of soldiers can't cover our king's exit, then we might as well fall on our swords and call it a day."

The orcs couldn't find hide nor hair of the main human force, because the remaining 40,000 or so soldiers and civilians had already gathered near Storm Harbor quieter than church mice.

Tens of thousands of people, yet barely making a peep—like a sleeping giant waiting in the shadows.

Not every grunt knew the master plan cooked up by their superiors; they were just told to pack their bags and prepare for a special evacuation operation that would make Dunkirk look like amateur hour.

As for the details of this special operation, nobody had a clue. Many stared blankly at the mountains of hay piled up at the harbor docks like they were looking at modern art.

The last ocean-going ship had sailed off into the sunset that afternoon.

The soldiers were scratching their heads harder than a dog with fleas, trying to figure out the evacuation plan.

But hey, since they'd been ordered to cover the retreat, these soldiers were mentally prepared to go down swinging like heroes in their last stand.

However, the open ground from the cathedral district wall to the docks was about as favorable to humans as a snowball's chance in hell! Plus, the soldiers were fresh out of heavy artillery.

If they had to duke it out with the orcs here, it would be like bringing a knife to a gunfight—a complete massacre.

General Tom Seamos, the head honcho of the Griffin Legion who'd crossed paths with Duke before, did his damndest to position the heavy infantry with tower shields and spearmen with their backs to the sea, facing toward Stormwind City like they were making their Alamo stand.

"If the orcs charge... we can at least hold our ground for a hot minute," General Seamos muttered to himself like he was saying a prayer.

When he heard this master plan came from Duke's brilliant mind, Seamos couldn't help but think of Duke's legendary mentor who'd gone toe-to-toe with orcs in the Redridge Mountains.

The sheer audacity of fighting one against ten thousand and taking the enemy general's head in the middle of an army still shook him to his core like an earthquake.

"Woo-woo-woo--" A long horn blast echoed from Stormwind City's eastern district like a dinner bell from hell.

Llane, Anduin, and Bolvar all turned their eyes to Duke like he was about to deliver the evening news.

A sly smile crept across Duke's face like a cat who'd caught the canary: "The Horde's Warchief , Blackhand, has accepted your challenge, Lothar."

Lothar's ruggedly handsome face broke into a grin that could melt butter, and he locked eyes with Llane. Llane gave him a nod that could move mountains: "Go get 'em, Anduin! My life and the future of Stormwind Kingdom are riding on your shoulders."

Lothar bowed deeper than a Japanese businessman, then turned to Duke with curiosity: "You know, sometimes I'm amazed by you. You've mastered the orc language and their customs faster than greased lightning. Me and Gar... that assassin have been studying for ages, but we still only know a few orc words."

Duke's grin turned wicked as the devil himself: "I found a treasure trove of orc books in Karazhan. I read them cover to cover—I kid you not."

There weren't any orc books in Karazhan. Duke was lying through his teeth like a politician during election season.

The once peaceful Stormwind City had transformed into a war zone that would make Sarajevo look like a picnic.

Barricades and trenches were everywhere, and practically every building sturdy enough to stop a strong breeze had been turned into a fortress with sandbags, rubble, and timber. The soldiers acting as suicide squads were hitting the invaders with everything but the kitchen sink.

Javelin throwers were holed up behind third-story windows, raining death on the attacking orcs like it was the Fourth of July. In the orc formations marching down the streets, green-skinned warriors were getting picked off left and right, but the orc soldiers ignored their fallen comrades and kept pushing forward like unstoppable bulldozers.

Whether it was human barricade positions or makeshift bunkers converted from fancy mansions, the various orc clans threw themselves into wave after wave of attacks, and the green tide swallowed up one position after another like a hungry monster.

First it was Shattrath, the draenei capital, then Stormwind, the human jewel. Which city would be next on the chopping block?

The orc soldiers didn't waste brain power on philosophy. The rush and glory of conquering the enemy's capital had them higher than kites on pure adrenaline.

Most of Stormwind City was already going up in flames like a bonfire, but the human positions were layered like an onion—peel back one layer, and boom, there's another one staring you in the face. They didn't even have time to plant their clan flags before another human position would unleash a javelin storm that would make William Tell jealous.

The overlapping fortifications that seemed to stretch on forever were giving the attacking orc commanders headaches bigger than Texas.

The Horde was bleeding out drop by drop, and nobody was keeping score.

While the fighting was turning into a bloodbath in every district, a large, silent formation marched straight toward Stormwind City's cathedral district like they owned the place.

There, with their backs to the massive and magnificent Stormwind Cathedral, nearly a thousand royal guards stood sword-ready, prepared to make their last stand.

On the flip side, the Warchief's orc bodyguards—who were more jacked than regular orcs and averaged nearly ten feet tall—approached with Warchief Blackhand and Orgrim like they were walking to Sunday dinner.

These elite orc guards were dressed in thick black leather armor that covered them from head to toe, sporting intimidating shoulder plates that reached for the sky with wicked bone spikes, and wearing all-iron horn helmets crafted by the finest orc smiths. They carried massive battle axes that they'd liberated from human hands.

The huge battle axes that humans needed both hands just to lift were nothing but one-handed choppers for these elite orc guards.

Llane's eyes narrowed like a hawk spotting prey.

The green sea of orcs split left and right like Moses parting the Red Sea. The colossal Warchief Blackhand, standing over eleven feet tall like a walking skyscraper, strode forward with Orgrim carrying the Doomhammer beside him.

With every step the chief took on the blue stones of the cathedral plaza, the bricks groaned under his weight like they were crying for mercy.

Blackhand stopped thirty meters away from the steps, and his fierce eyes—bigger than dinner plates—swept across the human side like searchlights.

His gaze locked onto King Llane, who was decked out in golden helmet and armor that shined brighter than a disco ball.

"I am Blackhand, the Warchief of the Horde. Are you the chief of the Stormwind clan?" Blackhand's voice rumbled like thunder and could shake the fillings out of your teeth.

Naturally, Blackhand spoke in orcish. Llane, Lothar, and the others turned their heads slightly toward their translator Duke like students looking at the teacher.

"This big green guy is the orc Warchief Blackhand, and he's asking about Your Majesty's credentials," Duke answered straighter than a poker player.

"Tell him," Llane commanded.

Duke bowed slightly, then turned to Blackhand with his left palm facing up in a formal introduction gesture, speaking in perfect orcish: "Blackhand! The man before you is His Majesty Llane Wrynn, King of Stormwind Kingdom—a direct descendant of Emperor Thoradin of the Arathor Empire, the only human empire from a thousand years back, and the current leader of the Alliance of Seven Human Kingdoms."

Well, Duke's translation took a little creative license.

Nobody in the Horde could speak human, and nobody in Stormwind could really speak orcish except Duke, so he could spin it however he wanted. Judging by Duke's formal tone, it sounded just like a royal herald's introduction, and nobody caught Duke's mischievous agenda.

Duke then pointed at Lothar and continued: "This is the direct descendant of Emperor Thoradin and humanity's greatest warrior—Sir Anduin Lothar."

Seeing Duke's introduction, Lothar snapped to attention, drew his sword with a flourish that would make a Broadway star jealous, spun it in a perfect sword flower, then held it upright before his chest like a knight from a fairy tale.

Blackhand was simpler than a box of rocks. He blinked his massive eyes, pointed at Llane, and rumbled back: "You're saying Llane isn't just the chief of this clan, but the chief of seven clans?"

Duke quickly translated Blackhand's words.

"Answer him. Use your most authoritative voice," Llane said quietly.

Duke decided to ham it up: "Blackhand! His Majesty asks that you forgive your pea-sized brain capacity... Well, anyway, you simple-minded blockheads can't tell the difference between a clan and a kingdom. Whatever floats your boat. You can consider His Majesty Llane Wrynn as your equivalent of a warchief."

Blackhand didn't understand what "pea-sized brain capacity" meant, but he knew an insult when he heard one, and his temper flared hotter than a jalapeño.

"ROAAAAAAAR——" A terrifying roar erupted from lungs that could inflate a hot air balloon. That savage bellow could wake the dead and make a grizzly bear wet itself.

At the same time, Orgrim slammed his hammer into the ground with a bang that could register on the Richter scale, assaulting every human eardrum in the vicinity. Orgrim snarled: "How dare you! You, the king of some tinpot kingdom that's about to bite the dust, have no right to look down on our warchief."

"Ha! Bite the dust? You're like a frog in a well who doesn't know how big the pond really is... Stormwind is just one southern territory of the human alliance. Even if you steamroll Stormwind, it's like destroying just one clan in your Horde." Duke showed no fear, standing his ground like David facing Goliath.

The orcs were foaming at the mouth, and Lothar wasn't about to be outdone. He raised his sword high, and all the royal guards lowered their shields in unison. Sharp blades jutted out between the shield gaps like deadly porcupine quills ready to strike.

For a moment, both sides were wound tighter than a coiled spring, ready to explode.

Blackhand's massive stone arm blocked Orgrim's path like a traffic barrier.

"Enough, human! I'll grant that your king barely qualifies to send someone to challenge me, but orcs only accept challenges from the bravest warriors of foreign races..." After Blackhand finished speaking, without even a glance, one of his incredibly jacked bodyguards stepped forward three paces, battle axe in hand.

Orgrim shouted: "If this Anduin character is really humanity's top warrior, let him prove it!"

Duke turned around and said: "Hey, Anduin, Blackhand only accepts challenges from humanity's cream of the crop. You've got to put this guy in the ground first."

Lothar tilted his head: "That's it?"

Duke shot back: "Should I translate every insult where Blackhand calls us a bunch of weaklings from a nowhere kingdom?"

Llane chuckled: "Anduin, don't be so touchy. Our chief court mage knows what he's doing."

"Alright, if I waste this guy, the big cheese will fight me, right?"

"You got it!"

Lothar descended the stairs with the swagger of a gunslinger, his metal boots ringing against the marble steps like a death knell.

"Being underestimated stings worse than a bee. Is it because I haven't killed enough orcs on the battlefield?" Lothar chuckled to himself as he walked.

"Soon, you'll be holding up Blackhand's oversized head and looking down on every orc in sight." Duke was orchestrating this whole deadly dance, pitting Blackhand and Lothar against each other before their destined time, but he was confident as a riverboat gambler with four aces.

In the original timeline, Blackhand's death was pathetic as a wet newspaper.

After Orgrim tortured the location of the Shadow Council out of someone, he boldly challenged Blackhand to Mak'gora in front of thousands of orcs.

In that duel, Blackhand dominated like a professional wrestler against a schoolkid. His massive rocky fists completely ignored Orgrim's hammer and beat him to a pulp. But that sneaky Orgrim pulled a fast one. During the fight, he suddenly looked behind Blackhand with shock, as if he'd spotted Gul'dan, and his mouth seemed to mouth "Gul'dan."

Blackhand, who was brave but dumb as a stump, actually fell for it. He got distracted for a split second, and Orgrim immediately capitalized by caving his skull in with a hammer blow.

Heh heh heh!

Warchief Blackhand might be strong as an ox, but he had the brains of a goldfish... If Lothar really couldn't handle him, then Lothar's name should be spelled backwards as "Rahtol."

Well, it had nothing to do with the honest, noble, and righteous young Duke.

"AHHHHHHH——"

The orc guard charged like a freight train, and once his massive frame got moving, he was no different from a runaway rhinoceros. The crushing sense of impending doom was enough to make anyone with weak nerves wet themselves on the spot.

Closer and closer!

Getting closer!

Almost there!

The massive double-bladed battle axe came down like the wrath of God, creating a cold arc of death in the moonlight. It was pure violence that could split a grown man, shield and all, from head to toe in one devastating blow.

But Lothar pulled off what could only be described as a 'Matrix dodge.'

Forgive Duke for using a movie reference, but after reading the enemy's telegraphed attack, Lothar executed an incredibly graceful pirouette in an instant that would make a ballerina weep with envy.

Just as elegant and artistic as a master dancer.

Using his left foot as a pivot, Lothar spun around the thunderous axe strike like it was choreographed. Then, with his sword in reverse grip, he glided forward smooth as silk. The razor-sharp King's Sword slipped into the gap between the orc guard's helmet and armor like a key finding its lock.

Blood painted the night.

The blade pierced the orc guard's jaw without resistance and drove straight into his brain like a hot knife through butter.

Right up until the moment of death, the orc's eyes were filled with confusion and terror.

And Lothar's flowing hair, which had been whipped up by his rapid spin, now settled gracefully back onto his shoulders.

Killing enemies without messing up your hairstyle.

Smooth as butter!

Cool as the other side of the pillow!

And it was a one-shot kill!

He smoothly withdrew his blade and let the orc's massive corpse crash to the ground like a felled tree. Blood pooled behind him as Lothar flicked his sword clean, sending droplets of dirty blood spattering onto the stone tiles.

Lothar walked toward Blackhand with measured steps.

One step, then another, then another.

With each step, his overwhelming presence grew stronger like a building storm.

"Holy moly——" The orcs all sucked in their breath.

They shared the same thought: this guy's definitely earned his stripes as humanity's top dog.

"HAHAHA!" Warchief Blackhand let out a belly laugh that could wake the dead.

He wasn't ticked off about his guard's death. Instead, Lothar's graceful movements, which were practically a deadly dance, captured his attention completely. He spread his arms wide, pushed aside the guards blocking his path, and strode forward with the confidence of a conquering hero.

"HAHAHA! Not bad at all! You're the real deal! I think you've earned the right to challenge me."

Translator Duke: "Anduin, this cocky SOB agrees to throw down with you."

Lothar stood ten meters from Blackhand and grinned: "Duke, tell this ugly mug to enjoy smiling while he still can. I don't want him wearing that hideous grin when I'm holding his severed head."

Duke translated with creative flair.

Blackhand shrugged it off. Trash talk before a fight was standard operating procedure: "Tell this human warrior that I preserve the heads of any warrior worth their salt."

Before Duke could translate, Lothar cursed under his breath: "You handle the trash talk yourself. I don't want him thinking I'm trying to kiss his feet if I call him yellow."

"Orcs don't wear shoes," Duke pointed out.

Lothar rolled his eyes at Duke, who said helplessly: "Fine, fine."

"Blackhand! We humans are way more civilized than you savages. Lothar says he'll chop off your head and put it on ice to keep it looking fresh and pretty."

If any human heard Duke's translation, they'd definitely complain: How is that civilized?

But the orcs couldn't care less.

Maybe having your head preserved by a powerful Mak'gora opponent was actually an honor.

At this point, Orgrim marched forward carrying the Blackrock Clan's menacing battle standard and handed it to Blackhand.

The Warchief casually dropped the flag to the ground, stared directly at Lothar, then at Duke.

Duke got the message.

"Your Majesty, when orcs throw down their battle flag, it means they're putting their entire clan's honor on the line. If we want this duel to be legit, we've got to do the same."

Llane nodded, and a standard-bearer stepped down from behind them, chest puffed out with pride, presenting the golden lion banner with blue background and gold trim to Lothar, who had sheathed his sword.

Lothar took the battle flag and tossed it down as well, landing it right next to the Blackrock Clan's banner.

Of course, the orcs missed Lothar's subtle psychological play.

"Mak'gora!" Orgrim raised his arms and roared like thunder incarnate.

Orgrim's battle cry was echoed by hundreds of orcs. In seconds, thousands of orcs were chanting in unison: "MAK'GORA——"

"Ahu-Ahu-Ahu-Ahu-Ahu-" Every orc raised and lowered their weapons rhythmically, creating that primitive and heroic sound that could raise the dead.

Naturally, Stormwind Kingdom wasn't about to be outdone. King Llane stood up with determination, gripping his shield in his left hand and striking it hard with his royal sword.

"CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-" Hundreds of royal guards performed the same action in perfect synchronization.

With cold steel gleaming, each lion-emblazoned shield looked like a fierce lion ready to pounce. This way, Stormwind's warriors created a momentum that could match the Horde's intimidation factor.

In the air, it felt like millions of swords and countless axes and hammers were clashing in an epic battle.

Invisible flashes of steel and shadows of death filled every corner of the night sky.

"Bring it on——" Lothar drew his sword again. In the strong night wind, his hair whipped around majestically. From a distance, Lothar's flowing locks looked like a lion's mane.

"HAH!" The chief took earth-shaking steps that could register on seismographs and charged toward Lothar like a runaway freight train...

If the orc guard had been a charging rhino, then the warchief's assault was like a speeding battle tank with no brakes.

The terrifying might of this unstoppable force moved every one of the thousand-plus human warriors watching.

Warchief Blackhand, standing nearly twelve feet tall, was an absolute giant among both humans and orcs.

Some might think that a behemoth as massive as Blackhand would be slow as molasses, but anyone who believed that would have their skull crushed by Blackhand faster than you could say "oops."

The old rule of high strength meaning low speed didn't apply to Blackhand—not by a long shot.

Blackhand wasn't just fast and strong; he had an advantage nobody else possessed—his weapons were his hands.

People often say someone can wield a sword like it's part of their arm, which is high praise. But no matter how skilled you are with a weapon, it can never be more flexible than your own hands.

Blackhand had that edge in spades.

When he helped Orgrim fish the Doomhammer out of molten lava, he nearly lost both arms. The blazing heat that would melt normal flesh, combined with the concentrated fire elements, would have turned anyone else's arms into charcoal stumps.

But Blackhand, with his iron will, incredible strength, and natural fire resistance, withstood the test of that fiery hellscape. Massive amounts of fire elements fused with his arms and hands, destroying most of his hand nerves and turning all the surface skin and muscle below his elbows into living rock.

The pair of heavy, black, gleaming giant hands had a weird luster between stone and metal. Though every joint below his elbows could move freely, they were obviously no longer made of flesh and blood.

If anyone was dumb enough to try chopping off Blackhand's arms, they'd be the one losing their head instead.

Naturally, Lothar wasn't about to fall for that rookie mistake. Duke had hammered it into his head repeatedly that if Lothar fell for such an obvious trap, he'd deserve to be called "Lothar the Chump."

Lothar also broke into a sprint, taking quick steps toward Blackhand like a seasoned gunfighter.

The next second, a hurricane erupted from ground zero.

Before Blackhand even made his move, nobody could have predicted that a simple sweep of the warchief's left arm could unleash such devastating power.

It was like being hit by a collapsing building. The wind alone was enough to plaster every muscle in your face against your skull. You couldn't open your eyes, let alone see what was coming at you.

For a moment, Duke thought Lothar was going to be turned into paste without any chance to fight back.

It was absolutely terrifying.

That was power and speed beyond human comprehension.

It felt like the opponent had picked up a church door and was swinging it horizontally to turn you into hamburger meat. The last thought going through your mind would be "This can't be happening!"

Fortunately, Duke's rational mind dismissed his panic. If he had actually interfered with this duel that was sacred to the orcs, it would have been a complete disaster.

But Lothar dodged it! He pounced like a tiger and rolled forward to the right, avoiding the warchief's devastating left-hand sweep. Not only that, while rolling, Lothar slashed the King's Sword across Blackhand's thigh, which was thick as a tree trunk.

Blood sprayed everywhere.

A long gash appeared on the chief's left thigh.

Blackhand's leg armor was useless—the precious leather might as well have been tissue paper.

But that wasn't the end of it. Blackhand spun around like a tornado and brought his right fist down from upper right to lower left with the force of a meteor.

A sound like a sonic boom exploded in the dark sky.

The descending fist didn't look like stone at all, but like a ball of molten lava ready to melt everything in its path.

Was this like a wizard casting a fireball spell?

How was this even possible!?

Clearly, within a certain range, Blackhand could manipulate fire elements at a level that was probably higher than Duke, the archmage himself.

Duke's blood ran cold! If the people who had surrounded him during his earlier fire-setting escapade hadn't been Kilrogg Deadeye, Orgrim, and Samuro, but Blackhand instead... If his little trick had backfired, he might have really had to make a run for it.

Temperature rivaling molten lava.

Crushing force that meant instant death on contact.

Either one of these would spell game over.

Every human warrior held their breath and watched Lothar's tiny figure facing the massive Blackhand.

But Lothar still dodged it, with a weird movement like a spring-loaded bounce. His left hand slammed the shield against the ground, and using the recoil, Lothar actually launched himself into the air and slipped past the edge of the fist like a circus acrobat.

With a "rip," the armor under Lothar's left ribs was torn away, and the armor—at least five millimeters thick—was peeled off easier than unwrapping a sandwich.

Suddenly, a massive fire pit three feet square appeared in the ground where he'd been standing.

"Holy—" Llane jumped to his feet in terror. Every human warrior was sweating bullets for Lothar.

Only Lothar stood up and smirked nonchalantly, like the guy who'd almost become barbecue wasn't him.

"Haha! I like your head more and more, Anduin!" Blackhand laughed maniacally and launched into a relentless assault on Lothar, completely ignoring the wound on his thigh.

Duke translated.

"The feeling's mutual," Lothar replied while dodging somewhat awkwardly. He was a warrior, but it was like he'd activated some rogue's supernatural dodge ability with 100% evasion!

Duke translated again.

"Perfect—perfect—let's dance!" Blackhand's rocky fists suddenly picked up even more speed.

It was velocity approaching a sword master's blade storm.

Unfortunately, Blackhand still couldn't land a clean hit.

Lothar couldn't dodge every attack completely, but he took quick, precise steps while wielding the epic shield on his left arm like a master. With his nimble footwork, clever angle deflections, perfect force distribution, and flawless use of various warrior techniques, Lothar was fighting Blackhand to a standstill.

No, that wasn't quite right!

Because Blackhand's attacks were more powerful, Lothar's ghostly counterattacks left Blackhand with dozens of cuts of varying depths. With Blackhand's aggressive movements, each wound was bleeding freely.

Exactly! This was death by a thousand cuts!

For now, Blackhand could handle it with his massive constitution, but over time, the scales would definitely tip toward Lothar—assuming Lothar didn't take a direct hit.

That was the size difference in a nutshell.

Blackhand, with his superior vitality, could afford to make mistakes, but if Lothar screwed up even once, he'd be splattered across the pavement.

The rough roars of the orcs and the rhythmic shield-beating of the humans echoed throughout Stormwind City.

Everyone loves a hero. Even in large-scale warfare where individual strength seems increasingly meaningless, this bloody and heroic duel still pumped adrenaline through every spectator's veins, flooding them with pure "fanaticism."

Only a true expert could see that victory was slowly but surely tilting toward the humans.

Orgrim was getting antsy.

Warchief Blackhand had to die, but not at human hands.

In a one-on-one duel to the death, if the stronger, braver orc warchief actually died at the hands of some puny human?

That would be a disgrace—a shame that would haunt the entire Horde and all orcs forever.

Even if the orcs conquered the entire planet of Azeroth someday, they'd still be branded with this humiliation for all eternity. Though he wanted Blackhand dead yesterday, Orgrim knew that right now, his interests aligned with Blackhand's.

Suddenly, the Warchief pulled out his ace in the hole.

He snapped his hands, grabbing the two ghastly, complete dragon skeletons draped over his shoulders, which looked less like dragons and more like overgrown, bony crocodiles. The next moment, Blackhand, with a grunt that rattled the very stones, hurled the twin skeletons forward.

Faster than a goblin's fuse, in less than a hundredth of a second, the hundreds of bone joints composing those skeletons exploded. In the blink of an eye, they transformed into hundreds of blazing, shrapnel-spewing fragmentation bombs, barreling down on Lothar like a runaway kodo.

Originally, Lothar had a snowball's chance in the Burning Hells of dodging, but at that precise moment, Orgrim pulled a fast one.

"Good—!" It sounded like Orgrim, the adjutant, was cheering for his boss.

You can yell if you want, but why unleash the intimidating power of "Lion's Roar"? No! This wasn't just a cheer; this was a warrior's full-blown, Fear-Breaking Roar!

The deafening roar, easily 150 decibels, rattled Lothar down to his very molars.

Lothar's entire body trembled, and in that agonizing moment of involuntary jiggle, Lothar lost his window to dodge. There was no way around it; when the universe throws a wrench in your gears, even a seasoned warhorse like Lothar knows when to fold 'em.

Lothar gave up dodging, dropping to one knee like a knight proposing to a dragon, tucking himself tight behind his trusty shield to weather the storm.

"THWACK! CLANG! KABOOM!" The fierce attack was like a thousand angry gnomes pelting him with rocks, almost turning Lothar's shield into a Swiss cheese impersonator. After a round of fire skeletons swept through, Lothar's shield looked like it had gone ten rounds with a gronn, light shining through several new, unwelcome holes. Miraculously, Lothar himself remained intact, if a little shell-shocked.

The consequences, however, were grim. Lothar's 'Block' skill was now on permanent cooldown.

"What in the blazes are you playing at?!" King Llane, Bolvar, and several high-ranking generals bellowed in unison, their faces redder than a freshly peeled apple.

After Duke, ever the quick-witted one, relayed the outrage, Orgrim sneered: "Interfere? My dear humans, if your 'champion' can't handle a little vocal encouragement, perhaps he's better off as dragon fodder!"

His words nearly made Llane and his retinue spontaneously combust.

At this point, Duke, with a grin as sharp as a freshly honed axe, shot back: "So, if I understand your orcish etiquette, a little psychological warfare, a bit of verbal jousting, is perfectly on the up-and-up?!"

Orgrim said nothing, and his silence was as loud as a thunderclap, a clear 'You got me there, you sneaky human.'

Over there, Lothar, meanwhile, was in a pickle.

In terms of absolute strength and speed, Blackhand was a brute force hurricane compared to Lothar's nimble breeze. Without his shield and unable to dodge, Lothar could only use his long sword to parry Blackhand's relentless assault. A long sword against Blackhand's meaty fists was like bringing a toothpick to a dragon fight, and unless Lothar suddenly sprouted a third arm and a crystal ball, his sword wasn't going to out-dance Blackhand's natural weaponry.

The Sword of Kings, still recovering from its magical hangover after Medivh's little party trick, had consumed a lot of its power in the last attack. Lothar knew he couldn't count on it to lop off Blackhand's meaty mitts.

Lothar's face was a mask of grim determination, or perhaps just extreme constipation.

Llane, Bolvar, and their generals were shaking like a goblin's outhouse in a hurricane. Llane was practically chewing on his own beard, ready to unleash the hounds and damn the rules. But in the end, all eyes, heavy with desperation, turned to Duke.

"Keep your peepers peeled!" Duke whispered, a mischievous glint in his eye. "When you see my cup fly, that's your cue!"

Once again, Blackhand had Lothar cornered like a rat in a pantry.

It was a corner of the square, with towering marble walls on either side, leaving less wiggle room than a gnome in a barrel.

"Anduin Lothar, I'll carve your name on my axe, right before I send you to the Shadowlands!" The Warchief roared, his voice thick with the certainty of victory.

At that second, the orcish roar hit a crescendo that would make a banshee blush. Their bloodthirsty bellows threatened to peel the very clouds from the sky.

They hailed Blackhand as the greatest thing since sliced boar meat, and the bravest since that one grunt who tried to arm-wrestle a kodo.

Just one human champion down, and the juicy prize of the human Warchief's head would be ripe for the plucking! This symbolized that the 'invincible' orcs had once again proven their superiority over the 'squishy' alien race!

Supreme honor! The kind of Mak'gora they'd sing about around the campfire for ages, probably with exaggerated arm movements!

The next moment, the Warchief's fists, blazing with the fury of a thousand suns and the roar of impending doom, would strike.

It was the end of Lothar! The ultimate Mak'gora smackdown! The utter humiliation of Stormwind, and the crushing of any 'Alliance' pipe dreams before they even got off the ground!

Without Lothar, the lineage of Emperor Thoradin would be a dead end, and those squabbling human kingdoms, each clinging to their own petty fiefdoms, would be about as united as a bag of angry scorpions.

At this moment, even Lothar's usually dashing mug went whiter than a freshly bleached bone.

Every human watching the fight felt their guts twist into knots, their fists clenching tight enough to crack walnuts.

At this critical moment, Duke's voice, light as a feather but sharp as a razor, cut through the din and landed squarely in the Warchief's ear.

"If I tell you that the Shadow Council sent someone to murder Orgrim's friend Durotan, and that Orgrim is plotting to overthrow you, the Warchief, and that as long as he can get the whereabouts of the Shadow Council from the captured Garona, he will kill you, and then wipe out the Shadow Council that killed his friend. What would you think? Warchief..."

Now, in a blink of an eye, Duke couldn't possibly have recited the entire history of the Horde, let alone a confession of treason. But Duke, being Duke, managed it.

This, my friends, was no ordinary chatter. This was the arcane art of 'Verbal Compression,' a spellcasting trick usually reserved for mages with far too much to say and far too little time.

By stripping away every unnecessary syllable, every filler word, and every polite pause, Duke condensed a soliloquy into a single, potent burst of sound.

The resulting sound was akin to a goblin's workshop exploding, or perhaps a dozen murlocs trying to sing opera simultaneously. To a normal human ear, it was just an incomprehensible squawk.

Most mages considered themselves masters if they could shave a three-second incantation down to one. Duke, however, was playing a different game.

Duke's unique arcane mastery, perhaps aided by an ancient artifact, allowed him to bend the very fabric of sound.

The entire scandalous monologue was compressed into a single, piercing note.

But Blackhand, the unsuspecting target, heard every single damning word as clear as a bell.

Blackhand, a loyal lapdog to Gul'dan, a puppet on a string, and a prime example of someone who'd happily fetch the stick for his own executioner, went from triumphant to absolutely apoplectic in a heartbeat. His head snapped towards Orgrim so fast, you could practically hear his neck crack.

"ORGRIM! YOU—"

Lothar, bless his opportunistic heart, didn't need to know why Blackhand suddenly looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. He simply slid between the Warchief's legs with the grace of a seasoned rogue, delivering a swift, ungentlemanly jab to Blackhand's thigh.

There are few pains in this world as universally acknowledged as a well-aimed low blow, and Lothar, ever the pragmatist, had just delivered a masterpiece.

Blackhand, his face contorted in a truly magnificent grimace, folded like a cheap tent. The next second, Lothar, spotting an opening wider than a troll's grin, delivered a brilliant, if somewhat dishonorable, backstab.

The majestic Sword of Kings, usually reserved for heroic charges, found itself employed in the most un-chivalrous of maneuvers, plunging deep into Blackhand's chest.

But Blackhand, fueled by a rage that transcended even a sword through the gut, ignored the mortal wound. His finger, trembling, pointed accusingly at Orgrim, and with his dying breath, he bellowed: "YOU TRAITOR—"

For a moment, the entire battlefield seemed to hold its breath.

Just moments before, the Warchief was riding high, and a sea of orcs were roaring their throats raw, celebrating their inevitable victory. Their boisterous cheers threatened to shake the very stars from the sky. On the human side, every soul was sweating bullets, practically vibrating with the urge to leap into the fray and save their beloved hero, Anduin Lothar, from the monster Warchief .

The next moment, however, the script flipped faster than a goblin's coin. Lothar, who was supposed to be worm food, had pulled a rabbit out of a hat. First, he delivered a lesson in anatomy with a well-placed sword, then followed it up with a backstab so audacious it deserved its own ballad. No one could deny it: the Warchief was done for. In this duel, Lothar had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, and then some.

A few seconds later, the orcs, who had been struck dumb, suddenly erupted into a confused, then furious, commotion. No, this wasn't just a squabble; this was a full-blown, no-holds-barred, family feud.

At first, the orcs couldn't wrap their thick skulls around it. How could their glorious, invincible Warchief bite the dust at the hands of a puny human? Even if said human was surprisingly spry, brave, and had a knack for sticking pointy things where they shouldn't go. But their blind, unwavering devotion to the Warchief simply wouldn't compute!

However, the Warchief's dying roar provided a convenient scapegoat, neatly packaged with a bow.

The two words, echoing in the stunned silence, were unmistakable: "Orgrim - you TRAITOR!"

A traitor?

Orgrim? The Warchief's right-hand brute? A traitor? The very idea was crazier than a murloc trying to juggle.

Had Orgrim slipped the Warchief a poisoned grog? Tripped him with a sneaky foot?

The average orc's brain, usually optimized for smashing, was now attempting to process a concept more complex than a goblin's engineering schematic.

No matter. Duke, ever the master of chaos, was there to give the pot a good stir.

From the surrounding hovels where the orcs had gathered, a voice suddenly boomed in perfect Orcish: "We are Shadow Destroyers!"

At least a third of the orcs present froze, their jaws practically hitting the floor. Then, as if a switch had been flipped in their thick skulls, they turned their axes and machetes on the nearest Blackrock Clan warriors, especially Blackhand's elite guards, with the enthusiasm of a hungry wolf pack.

At the same instant, a colossal, flaming goblet materialized in Duke's hand. With a mighty heave, Duke launched the fiery chalice straight into the densest cluster of Blackhand's guards, eliciting a chorus of surprised yelps and sizzling fur.

King Llane and Bolvar, meanwhile, looked like they'd just been told their favorite war-steed was actually a pony. Their expressions screamed: "Seriously? The cup toss was actually the signal?!"

All the minor details were irrelevant. What mattered was Duke had dropped the mic, or rather, the flaming cup.

From the surrounding warrens, nearly a hundred voices roared in unison, their Orcish guttural and clear: "REVENGE FOR DUROTAN!"

In response, dozens of Frostwolf Clan banners, emblazoned with their snarling wolf insignia, were unfurled from the adjacent buildings.

At that very moment, the Blackrock Clan warriors, whose brains had been sputtering like a dying campfire, suddenly had an epiphany. Why did the Warchief lose the battle? It could only be Orgrim's dirty work!

It was simple as smashing a goblin's head: everyone knew Orgrim and Durotan, the Frostwolf Chieftain, were thicker than two ogres in a mud pit, blood brothers through thick and thin. But after crossing the Dark Portal, Durotan had been cast out by the entire Horde for daring to cross Gul'dan. And now, word was, Durotan was dead. Aha! The pieces clicked into place like a perfectly assembled siege engine! Orgrim's betrayal? It was all about avenging his fallen comrade!

The Blackrock Clan warriors, their simple minds now ablaze with righteous fury, saw red.

"Orgrim, you backstabbing worm! Have you forgotten the Warchief's generosity, the times he pulled your bacon out of the fire?!"

"Orgrim! Have you forgotten it was the Warchief who risked his own meaty paws to fish your precious Doomhammer out of that lava pit?!"

"Orgrim, you're not fit to lick the boots of a great orc, let alone be one!"

"Orgrim, you slimy snake! You actually conspired with these hairless apes to murder our Warchief?!"

The furious roars ripped through the air, loud enough to wake the dead and be heard clear across several districts. This time, it wasn't just the Blackrock Clan; even the other clans, busy with their usual burning, killing, and looting, paused to listen.

Orgrim was utterly flummoxed. His brain felt like a murloc trying to solve a riddle, just a jumble of question marks.

His treasonous plans were locked tighter than a dwarf's strongbox!

How in the name of the ancestors did these puny humans get their hands on his secret rebellion password?

And how did they know his reason for rebelling? The Durotan angle was strictly need-to-know!

What dark magic had these humans conjured to make the Warchief, mid-duel, suddenly point the finger at him as the traitor?

Orgrim's thoughts were a tangled mess, like a goblin's workshop after a particularly explosive experiment.

Yes! He had been cooking up a rebellion, but it was supposed to be a dignified, all-orc affair! If Blackhand had just keeled over gracefully in the sacred Mak'gora, Orgrim would have been a legitimate 'rebel,' even if a few clans grumbled. Once he snatched the Warchief's mantle, he could have spun a tale about Gul'dan's demonic corruption and purged the Shadow Council with a clear conscience. And that 'Shadow Destroyers' code? That was for after he was Warchief, to keep any stubborn Blackrock grunts in line!

However, all hell broke loose.

Instead, the Warchief had died by a human blade in Mak'gora, explicitly because of "Orgrim's betrayal." His own men were now attacking Blackhand's guards, thanks to his own secret signal, hijacked by the humans! And those blasted Frostwolf flags? They'd painted him and his loyalists as enemies of the entire Horde!

What in the blazes was going on?!

Orgrim felt like an invisible, malevolent hand was pulling his strings, twisting his carefully laid plans into a Gordian knot of disaster. He was caught between a rampaging kodo and a very angry gronn. There was no way to explain his way out of this mess.

At this opportune moment, Duke, with a voice like a roaring inferno, bellowed in Orcish: "I haven't the foggiest idea what you green-skins are squabbling about, but the winner of this Mak'gora is our very own Anduin Lothar!"

If Duke had just kept his trap shut, Orgrim might have remained blissfully confused. But the moment Duke's voice boomed, Orgrim's brain, against all logic, suddenly achieved perfect clarity.

It was an intuition so strong, it bypassed reason entirely. Orgrim instinctively knew: this powerful, insidious, infuriatingly smug young human wizard, Duke, was the architect of his misery, the puppet master pulling all the strings.

Duke had thwarted his grand assault on Stormwind Keep.

Duke had torched half of Elwynn Forest, forcing the Horde to scatter their forces like startled boars.

And now, this same Duke had orchestrated this entire bizarre Mak'gora, from the first bone-shrapnel blast to the last dying gasp!

"Remember me, Orgrim, for I shall be the bane of your existence!" Duke's words from that fateful day echoed in Orgrim's ears, now laced with a bitter, prophetic irony.

Gazing at the infuriatingly smug, mysterious smile playing on Duke's lips, Orgrim's certainty solidified like molten rock. It was all Duke. Every last, infuriating bit of it.

"EDMUND DUKE—" Orgrim finally spat out the name, a vow of eternal vengeance seared into his very soul.

But what good was remembering a name when you were neck-deep in a civil war?

Orgrim tried to charge, Doomhammer raised high, only to find himself swarmed by two infuriated, highly skilled captains of the Blackhand Guards, who seemed intent on turning him into a pincushion. He couldn't lay a hand on Duke until he'd dealt with this unexpected, and frankly inconvenient, turn of events.

Over there, Lothar, having successfully lopped off Blackhand's enormous head, was now trotting over, one hand casually gripping the Warchief's gruesome trophy, the other still clutching his sword. Bolvar, meanwhile, was doing his best impression of a human shield, hustling Llane towards the relative safety of Stormwind Harbor.

Lothar's face, usually a picture of stoic resolve, was now etched with a look of utter, dumbfounded surprise: "It... it actually worked?"

"Like a charm! Now, let's blow this popsicle stand!"