Jailbreak

"Impossible!"

The arena managers, who spent their days wrangling beasts that could tear a man limb from limb, and the guards, whose job it was to keep a lid on the slave pits, were all frozen stiff. The humanoid monsters before them were beyond the wildest nightmares of any sane human. Despite the mysterious merchant's repeated, almost frantic warnings, the guards had foolishly shackled the orcs according to the standards they used for trolls. In their arrogant minds, even a full-grown mountain troll couldn't bust out of these chains.

Oh, how wrong they were.

Orcs, even on a bad day, could out-muscle a troll, but these weren't just any orcs. These were the real deal, the demon-blooded brutes, hopped up on fel-tainted rage! A guttural roar, deep enough to rattle the very foundations of the arena, ripped through the air. A hundred berserk orcs, pure green fury unleashed, burst from their cages and charged towards the faint glimmer of freedom.

Human strongmen, the kind who could wrestle a bear, looked like toddlers in comparison. Those flimsy whips, meant to sting and subdue, only served to fan the flames of their demonic fury. Massive, calloused fists, each one a wrecking ball, slammed into the scarred, sneering faces of the guards. The sheer, unadulterated force behind each blow didn't just break bones; it vaporized them. Cheekbones imploded, temples caved in, jawbones splintered like dry kindling. Before a human neck could even think about offering resistance, the entire skull disintegrated into a gruesome, pulpy mess. A grotesque rainbow of yellow, white, and crimson painted the arena walls, already stained black by the blood of countless slaves. Now, it was the abusers' turn to add their own messy palette.

"Ahhhhh——" The vicious guards and slave owners, who just moments ago strutted around like they owned the very air, were now bawling like babies who'd lost their pacifiers. More guards, drawn by the symphony of screams, piled in, clutching their 'best' gear like it was going to save them. Spoiler alert: it wasn't. These berserk orcs could conjure a bloodbath with a single punch or a casual swing of their arms. By the time the orcs had fully shaken off their stupor, the arena's basement was a green-skinned party, and everyone else was permanently out of commission. That eerie, disembodied voice, a ghostly echo of their chieftain's unyielding, furious spirit, seemed to pull them forward like an invisible leash.

"Lok-Narash!" shouted the leading Blackhand Guard, a command for his brothers to arm themselves. They quickly scavenged every heavy weapon they could get their meaty hands on, then proceeded to turn the arena's main door into kindling. And then, they saw the light... literally.

"Lok'tar Ogar!"

Either victory or death! In this alien land, crawling with soft-skinned humans, every inch of their demon-tainted blood screamed 'Horde glory!' They charged, a green tsunami of rage, straight for the tallest, most ostentatious building in sight.

The city guards, startled by the sudden ruckus, scrambled to the scene, only to find themselves face-to-face with a hundred nightmares in green. "Don't panic, lads! They're just orcs! Form up, surround the-" Before the poor team leader could finish his pep talk, a massive iron pillar, thicker than a man's thigh, came swinging like a runaway wrecking ball. The lead Blackhand Guard, a walking, talking mountain of muscle, decided it was high time these human warriors, who'd clearly never tangled with a real orc, learned a thing or two. The lesson? 'Strength,' delivered with extreme prejudice.

Those perfectly aligned round shields, polished to a shine, might as well have been made of papier-mâché. The heavy iron pillar turned them into shrapnel with a single, contemptuous swipe. The deafening CRACK of iron-clad shields exploding, mingled with the gut-wrenching screams and whimpers of the city guards, was a symphony of terror that grated on the nerves of every poor soul still standing. Fear, cold and sharp, sank its teeth into their very souls. For a horrifying moment, even their hearts forgot to beat. The three-meter-tall, terrifying figure was reflected in their dilated pupils, a monstrous silhouette against the chaos. It wasn't a living creature; it was a demon ripped straight from the darkest nightmares of ancient times!

"AAARRRGGHHH!" The first row of guards, their arms reduced to bloody pulp, shrieked in agony. The second row? They were practically catatonic. Their brief, fatal lapse in attention on the battlefield cost them everything. The orc guard's muscles bulged, threatening to rip through his skin, and with a strength that defied physics, the super-long iron pillar, swung with all his might, slammed to a sudden halt mid-air, then reversed course in a sickening arc! The lucky few who'd hit the deck avoided the carnage, but eight poor souls in the second row, still frozen in a daze, were sliced clean in half like butter. The scene was so utterly, jaw-droppingly gory, it sent their sanity packing faster than a goblin with a stolen gold sack.

"AAAHHH! I don't wanna die!" These 'brave' city guards, whose usual day job involved shaking down petty thugs and chasing pickpockets, suddenly found their fighting spirit had packed up and left town. They scattered like chickens with their heads cut off, ditching swords and shields, scrambling to escape this living nightmare.

Spilling out of the arena, they found themselves on Lordaeron's premier thoroughfare, aptly named Gladiator Street. This street, a glittering bazaar of blades and battle-axes, was the exclusive playground of the rich and powerful. Common folk weren't even allowed to breathe the same air. As the arena's unofficial gift shop, Gladiator Street wasn't just stocked with weapons and armor that made standard-issue gear look like toys; it boasted an array of rare, exotic, and frankly, ridiculous equipment and accessories. A gladiator swinging a rusty butter knife and a garbage can lid wouldn't get a single cheer, no matter how fancy his footwork. The nobles, always keen on keeping up appearances, would deck out their favorite gladiators in enough bling to make a dragon blush. It was all about showing off, you see.

And so, the lead Blackhand Guard, with an eye for the truly absurd, stumbled upon a colossal, six-horned rhinoceros skull. This beastly cranium had been lovingly soaked in molten iron, making it tougher than a dwarven oath. With its six monstrous horns jutting forward, it was a piece of equipment that screamed 'I'm here to kick butt and chew bubblegum, and I'm all out of bubblegum.' The only snag? It was so heavy, even a troll slave would throw out his back trying to lift it. But now, it was just another toy in the hands of the Blackhand Guards. Wielding it like a toy, the Blackhand Guard effortlessly caught up to a carriage emblazoned with a ridiculously fancy noble crest. With a sickening CRUNCH, he rammed it with the hardened, razor-sharp horns. Half a second later, the carriage was a pile of splinters, and its occupants were, shall we say, 'rearranged' into scarlet abstract art. Blood and guts painted Gladiator Street a festive shade of crimson.

When the orcs finally clawed their way from one end of that bloody street to the other, they were greeted by a sprawling square, complete with a gushing fountain, and a colossal building with walls so white, they practically screamed 'target practice!' "Lok'tar Ogar!" The Blackhand Guards roared again. Without so much as a 'by your leave,' these hundred berserk orcs launched a full-frontal assault on Lordaeron Palace, the very heart of the kingdom, bristling with more guards and defenses than a dragon's hoard.

"DONG! DONG! DONG!" When Lordaeron Palace found itself too slow to even pull up its drawbridge, and the main gate itself was breached, not only did the high-ranking officials nearly wet themselves, but even a priest, mid-sermon in the palace's temple, nearly dropped his holy book. "Enemies? In Lordaeron Palace?" A burly priest, whose muscles strained against his robes, shot up like a rocket. "Teacher Faol, I'm going to go have a look." Archbishop Faol watched his disciple effortlessly heft a warhammer that would make a seasoned warrior sweat, and sighed. The lad was a gem, truly. His devotion to the Holy Light, his unwavering faith – unmatched. But there was always that nagging feeling... like he was a priest who'd taken a wrong turn at the warrior's guild. "You go ahead!"

The shrill alarm bells, now a frantic, ear-splitting cacophony, hammered at their eardrums. King Menethil II, the very embodiment of Lordaeron's regal might, could no longer sit still. He shot to his feet, his torch-shaped crown, resembling a gilded claw, practically blazing with furious majesty. "King Wrynn, esteemed guests," Menethil II declared, trying to project an air of calm he clearly didn't possess, "please, settle down. As the King of Lordaeron, I assure you, your safety is my top priority. Just... wait right here for a moment, would you?" Without waiting for a response, he waved a dismissive hand, and royal guards swarmed into the cavernous conference hall, barricading every exit, while frantic mages began weaving defensive wards with all the subtlety of a runaway steam tank. The sheer, unadulterated chaos was so over-the-top, it was clear Lordaeron's 'face' was about to take a beating worse than a training dummy.

The assorted representatives from other kingdoms were a sight to behold: some fidgeted like gnomes on a hot tin roof, others muttered under their breath, a delightful mix of schadenfreude and genuine alarm. But the real show was Llane and Lothar. Those two couldn't help but shoot Duke a look that screamed, "We knew it! This has your fingerprints all over it, you sly dog!" Duke, ever the picture of innocent charm, shrugged and threw his hands up in a classic 'Who, me?' gesture. Llane rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw his own brain. "Who are you kidding, Duke?" he scoffed. "You're the guy who single-handedly incinerated a hundred thousand orcs! You've got more tricks up your sleeve than a goblin tinkerer has gadgets!" Lothar, ever the straight shooter, just scowled, his face darkening like a storm cloud.

Under the combined glare of these two titans, Duke reluctantly held up seven fingers behind his back, a subtle, knowing gesture. This time, it was Llane's turn to go quiet, and Lothar rolled his eyes so hard they nearly popped out. Seven refers to the Seventh Military Intelligence Department. As the king's personal intelligence agency, MI7 was supposed to be beyond the reach of mere dukes. Llane knew Duke was clever, but this was a whole different ballgame. This was clearly MI7's handiwork, no doubt about it. And Duke, the man who ran Northwatch Hold like a well-oiled machine, surely had more than a passing acquaintance with the plan. In fact, he probably pulled a few strings himself.

Llane was half right. If Llane ever bothered to ask, the official story would be: "MI7's brilliant, top-secret operation, Your Majesty!" In fact, it was Duke who triggered it. Duke, ever the bloodhound, had sniffed out the rogue master who'd tutored Van Cleef. And Duke, never one to mince words, had called out the shadowy figure's true identity. For a military intelligence agency to have their spies caught red-handed, lurking around important kingdom officials? That was a monumental screw-up, a black eye that wouldn't heal. The poor spymaster's face dropped faster than a lead balloon.

How important is Duke now? There was a running joke in the army: if Lothar keeled over, it'd be bad, but if Duke went down, the whole damn operation would go belly up. He was the linchpin, the glue holding hundreds of thousands of exiled soldiers and civilians together. Duke could blast through over a thousand reports and requests in a single afternoon, then juggle ten tasks at once, his ten 'magic hands' churning out ten different reports and instructions, all without a single typo. (Of course, the system elves were doing the heavy lifting, sorting and summarizing, leaving Duke to simply nod and let the magic hands do the writing.) It was no exaggeration: Duke, by himself, was worth a whole cabinet of interior ministers plus a hundred civil servants. The man was a one-man bureaucracy. Add to that Duke's legendary military victories, and if he so much as whispered a complaint to the king, not only would that poor intelligence officer be toast, but the entire MI7 operation would be in hot water, up to their eyeballs.

Duke, putting on his best 'I'm utterly disgusted' face, bellowed, "You've got all this time to play cloak-and-dagger games? Why aren't you putting your brains to work helping His Majesty forge this Seven Nations Alliance? Even dropping a few orcs on Lordaeron's doorstep to rattle old man Terenas's cage would be a better use of your time than this nonsense!" Now, to anyone else, that would sound like a furious rant. But to Pasonia Shore, the razor-sharp boss of MI7, it was a golden nugget of inspiration. The Horde's reliance on wargs, those furry, four-legged bloodhounds with noses that could sniff out a whisper, had practically shut down all of MI7's traditional intelligence gathering. They were flying blind. Llane's patience with MI7 had been wearing thinner than a goblin's wallet since the very first day of the Orc War. Pasonia was chomping at the bit to do something, anything, that would actually benefit the kingdom. Duke's 'accidental' outburst was like a lightning bolt to her brain. As an intelligence agency, they had carte blanche with prisoners. So, she 'acquired' a cool hundred orcs. Only problem? She didn't speak Orcish. So, she had to swallow her pride and track down Duke. Duke, ever the helpful sort, simply translated, keeping a poker face.

Pasonia, being no dummy, had a sneaking suspicion Duke was playing her and MI7 like a fiddle. But some things are like a thin sheet of ice: you know it's there, but with enough unspoken understanding, nobody's going to poke a hole in it. Duke wanted MI7 to light a fire under the Alliance's backside. MI7 needed a home run, a grand slam, a big win to prove they weren't just twiddling their thumbs. And in the end, this little stunt wouldn't hurt Stormwind's bottom line. So, they had an unspoken agreement, a 'don't ask, don't tell' partnership. Looks like the head of MI7 was earning her pay. Terenas, meanwhile, practically rolled out of the meeting room like his pants were on fire.

"So, what was this 'new method' you cooked up?" Lothar grumbled, still a little miffed. Duke simply raised a hand, and a smaller, shimmering holographic projection flickered into existence: a breathtaking clip of the Battle of Stormwind. Lothar's jaw hit the floor. This newfangled 'magic-lantern show' was something else. "My apologies, Duke," Lothar admitted, ever the straight shooter. Seeing that Duke was mostly an innocent bystander in this particular kerfuffle, he quickly let it go.

Meanwhile, out on the grand square, right in front of the palace's main hall... The orc squadron, a green blur of destruction, was still making a beeline for the palace. A torrential downpour of arrows, thick as a winter blizzard, rained down on them. But these berserk orcs seemed to shrug off death like it was a minor inconvenience. Just like Stormwind's greenhorns at the start of the war, Lordaeron's guards had completely underestimated the sheer, unholy toughness of orc hide. The sharpest arrows, meant to pierce steel, barely scratched the surface, sticking out of the orcs' hides like pathetic little quills. Every orc looked like a walking pincushion, but they just kept roaring like demons, charging forward, and cleaving through flesh and bone without missing a beat. Shield-and-sword soldiers, with their massive bulwarks, were sent flying like rag dolls. Dozens of spears, thrusting in unison, were swatted aside like flies by a single, casual swing of a club. These orcs weren't just tough; they were unkillable nightmares, sending shivers down the spines of the royal guards. The only thing keeping these poor guards from turning tail and running was their ingrained honor and a stubborn refusal to back down.

However, even these rampaging green behemoths were about to meet their match. A priest, glowing with a holy light that seemed to banish the very shadows, stepped forward. To the Blackhand Guards, this glowing figure was just another soft-skinned human, probably dabbling in some weak healing magic, a pale imitation of their own shamans. The Blackhand Guard scoffed. This guy? Stop them? Please. Oh, how wrong he was! So, so wrong! When he charged forward, ramming with that monstrous, six-horned rhino skull, he stopped dead in his tracks, utterly dumbfounded by what unfolded before him.

A HAMMER! A colossal, gleaming silver warhammer, swung with a fierce, bone-shattering power that rivaled a chieftain's mightiest blow, slammed into his rhino skull. With a resounding CRACK, the horned rhinoceros skull – the very weapon that had turned carriages into splinters and shattered human shield walls like they were made of toothpicks – exploded into a thousand glittering shards, scattering like confetti. Without missing a beat, the Blackhand Guard roared, swinging his right arm, unleashing the massive iron rod he'd ripped from the arena's guts. But the opponent's strength... it was off the charts. Beyond anything he'd ever imagined.

"CLANGGGGG!" The sound was like a thunderclap, sharp enough to make the surrounding guards clap their hands over their ears in agony. The Blackhand Guard's eyes nearly popped out of his head. What did he see? The iron rod, thick as a man's arm, was BENT! By a hammer! !