Trickery

"Impossible!" The word ripped through the air, choked by a collective gasp.

One after another, the massive green trees that had previously cloaked the distant hills seemed to evaporate, revealing the colossal monstrosity lurking behind them. It was a sprawling, gray-white fortress, not just one, but a winding chain of towers and ramparts, two, four, even five stories high in places, snaking along the hills beside the beach, stretching to the very edge of the horizon.

How many bunkers were there out there?!

The sheer, exaggerated number was mind-boggling, as if Duke had swept up every stonemason and carpenter in all the realms overnight, then put them to work for a century in the blink of an eye.

Even King Terenas and the other bigwigs, who were still getting used to Duke's eccentricities, stood there dumbfounded. And Llane and Lothar, who'd witnessed the miracle of cement firsthand, were scratching their heads. When had Duke hoarded so much cement? And how in the blazes had he orchestrated the building of so many bunkers without anyone being none the wiser?

This wasn't just a defense line; it was practically choking the entire coastline!

Not only were the heavy hitters in the command center agape, but even the grunts passing by at the foot of the mountain couldn't help but stop, pointing and gaping at the sudden appearance on the hill.

Seeing Duke conjure so many fortifications as if by magic, everyone in the command post felt a surge of awe usually reserved for divine intervention or a really good tavern brawl.

"These are all… real?" Lothar stammered, his voice barely a whisper.

"Fake! Most of 'em!" Duke spread his hands, shrugging with an irritatingly nonchalant grin. "And evenly spreading your troops along a long line of defense? That's what chumps do. I wouldn't be caught dead doing something so… pedestrian."

Duke raised his chin, and Windesel, standing nearby, waved outside. Immediately, two of Duke's private soldiers lumbered over, casually carrying a "fortress" between them.

The bigwigs in the command center did a collective double-take.

That's right, two measly men were carting around a fortress that theoretically weighed as much as a small mountain. Uh, wait! Finally, someone with eyes sharp enough to spot a flea on a dark night caught the problem.

That's the color of wood!

"Wait a minute!?" King Thoras of Stromgarde bellowed, unable to hold back. "This so-called fortress is made entirely of wood?!"

Duke grinned, thinking he was the picture of righteous cunning. Of course, in the kings' eyes, it was more of a sly, devilish smirk. "To be precise, most of it is very thin wooden boards with a wooden frame. Don't worry, it's solid as a rock. Unless there's a strong wind that blows for more than a day, it won't break." He finished with a wink.

A parade of bigwigs shuffled out of the headquarters, circling the "bunker" again and again, unable to resist a grudging admiration for Duke's brilliant, wonderfully deceptive idea. At first glance, it looked like a complete, formidable structure, but in reality, the materials used were pared down to the bone. The inside was a skeleton of thin wooden boards and strips, while the outside was slapped with liberal layers of lime and mud, giving it all the appearance of a sturdy brick-and-timber bunker.

From a distance, it was a masterclass in deception; up close, it was a stage prop.

Forget crossbow bolts and cannonballs, a stiff breeze could probably poke a hole in these bad boys. The real trick was, if so many of them were placed on a hill, it would look incredibly impressive!

It looked like a steel curtain of death!

Duke clapped his hands, a triumphant gleam in his eye. "Alright, I've got the javelin militia stationed at various key points, ready to poke holes in any approaching Orc. Next, I'd like to ask Alleria to send half of her rangers to defend these critical locations. Together with Admiral Daelin's patrol boats and my murlocs, we'll leave no loopholes, no cracks in our armor."

Admiral Daelin, a broad grin splitting his face, was clearly delighted.

Alleria rolled her eyes at Duke, a gesture that, to outsiders, looked incredibly charming. The charm was fake, though, mainly because Alleria remembered that Duke had used a god-level trick to pull a fast one on her. Those eyes clearly said, "You little rogue, you're the most cunning snake in the grass." Of course, how others saw it was another matter entirely.

King Aiden of Alterac muttered, sounding thoroughly unimpressed: "Didn't they say the Horde had a new chieftain? This guy's supposed to be smarter than the last one? You seriously think he'll fall for this?"

It was indeed a valid question.

But that was no problem for Duke.

After the grand unveiling, everyone returned to the command center.

"Haha! In fact, this new Warchief has always been an old rival of Marshal Lothar and me," Duke chortled heartily, glancing at Lothar. "Blackhand was just a hothead, a blunt instrument. All his previous strategies and tactics were dreamed up by his deputy, the current Warchief Orgrim. If you pay close attention, you'll find this guy's style of play is the same old song and dance as their 'sudden inspirations' back in Elwynn Forest."

Lothar stroked his chin, lost in thought, recalling the past. "Yes, I was always puzzled by that commander, how he could be so real and fake, capable of fighting tough battles yet pulling off cunning strategies. I thought he was an enemy with a strong grasp of the overall situation. I even doubted it for a long time after killing Blackhand. Such a smart guy shouldn't have accepted the provocation and dueled with me in the first place."

"Hey! You haven't answered my question yet, hotshot!" King Aiden grumbled, clearly impatient. "Why do you say he will definitely send the Horde to our best-defended Southshore for their own funeral?"

"Just because I know my enemy… just because they'll think, since we have to attack by force anyway, why not attack the place with the best landing conditions…" Duke paused deliberately, letting the words hang in the air. "Some people will definitely not accept what I said, right?"

"Hmph!" King Aiden snorted, utterly dismissive.

Duke raised his right hand and pointed his thumb at the imposing block of ice sitting beside the headquarters window not far behind him—the one containing the frozen head of Blackhand. "During the previous meeting, some folks questioned whether that ugly head actually belonged to the Horde chieftain. Now we can give it a try. If the Horde really refuses to come, then hang this head at the gate of Southshore and hoist their stolen battle flag high. We'll know whether these two things are the real deal or just a bunch of hot air after one go."

When Duke said this, Lothar's eyes lit up, shining with a dangerous gleam.

Llane clapped his hands, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Brilliant!" he exclaimed.

The old adage held true: if the old king of a country was brutally dispatched on the battlefield, his head even lopped off, what's the quickest way for the new king to establish his authority? Why, by laying waste to the old king's enemies and clearing his name, of course! And as a bonus, it would send the morale of his own people skyrocketing.

The same principle applied to tribal societies, which were even more prone to bold displays and valuing personal strength.

Antonidas stroked his long, pure white beard, a hint of unease in his voice. "Are we truly going to hang the chieftain's head from our own ramparts from the very beginning?"

"No, no, no." Duke shook his right index finger, a sly smile playing on his lips. "That would be such a waste. I'm quite confident that Orgrim will attack Southshore. This trick is merely an insurance policy, a little something to keep in our back pocket. Or, it can be used when we need to force the Horde to bleed."

Forcing the Horde to bleed…

So cruel!

The kings could already imagine the sheer frustration of the Horde when they discovered Southshore was a tough nut to crack, a true death trap, forcing them to keep throwing troops into the grinder even as they prepared to retreat.

But that wasn't all. Duke drew a swift line on the map. "As long as the Horde cannot cross the sea through this shortest passage, then they'll have to go around in a big circle, whether they head west or east. And then, Daelin, your fleet can…"

If the Horde bypassed Southshore from the wetlands, no matter which way they went, it would be hundreds or even thousands of miles by sea. Facing such a transport ship that wouldn't fight back, Daelin's fleet wouldn't just handle it; they'd sink every last one of them.