108

"One hundred and eight times?! Are you kidding me?!"

It sounded like a wild exaggeration, but in truth, it was only because the previous 'Ice Circuit' Duke had cobbled together was an absolute train wreck. That magical model, randomly yanked from some dusty, forgotten corner of the Karazhan library, had been a desperate, last-ditch effort, a true Hail Mary pass for Duke.

Thankfully, rebuilding a magic circuit wasn't like trying to teach a dragon to knit, or, as Duke remembered from his pre-transmigration life, attempting to untangle a Gordian knot of spiritual meridians from some ancient martial arts scroll. No, these arcane conduits, while the very lifeblood of a mage's power, were surprisingly forgiving. They could be tweaked, hot-rodded, or even ripped out and replaced like a faulty carburator.

The basic Ice Circuit was a bit like trying to install a clunky, ancient air conditioner directly into your soul. To put it simply, if you could just get a consistent channel to siphon off internal heat, presto! Instant chill. To get truly complicated, however, you needed the whole nine yards: filtering the raw, icy essence sucked in from the atmosphere, blending it with fresh, pure mana from the Ley Lines, super-cooling it until it hummed, and then efficiently piping it to every nook and cranny of your being.

And that, my friends, was just for a decent Ice Circuit. The top-tier 'Ice Crown' was a whole different beast entirely, a Cadillac compared to a beat-up handcart.

First off, the sheer scale was mind-boggling. Theoretically, it could tap into a staggering one hundred and twenty-eight elemental planes simultaneously, with a whopping two hundred and fifty-six inlets for hoovering up ice elements from the very air. The common, bargain-bin version? A pathetic three planes and a measly twelve inlets. Talk about bringing a butter knife to a dragon fight.

Then there was the rock-solid stability and anti-interference. The regular circuit was a one-trick pony; if it snapped, you were dead in the water, game over, man. The Ice Crown, however, wove a complex tapestry of multiple threads, each humming at a different frequency. If a few strands went belly-up, there were plenty more to pick up the slack. It was like trying to break a spiderweb made of adamantium.

Next came the sheer orchestral coordination. Antonidas's advanced design wasn't just a circuit; it was a symphony. It boasted a magic circuit array that could flawlessly blend ice elements from a dozen different elemental planes, each spitting out power at a unique rate, and then transmute them into a single, unified torrent, ready to be injected into the next stage of the arcane system. It was like a master chef whipping up a gourmet meal from a dozen wildly different ingredients, all without breaking a sweat.

The final, glorious touch was the filtering system. The Ice Crown would automatically scrutinize the purity of the ice elements coursing through its veins, adjusting to the owner's physical condition. Any gnarly, impure ice elements that got swept away weren't just discarded; oh no. They were funneled into a dedicated Arcane Fire Circuit, where they mingled with the fire elements, birthing a brand-new, deliciously chaotic spell: the Chaos Frostfire Missile!

Now, this Frankenstein's monster of a magical attack, forged from impurities, wasn't going to take down Archmages. But against certain creatures with a healing factor that would make a troll blush? It could hit them where it hurt, leading to some truly unexpected, and often hilarious, results.

After devouring the glorious details of the Ice Crown magic circuit, Duke was practically doing a happy dance. But a cold splash of reality quickly doused his enthusiasm. This was Dalaran, a place where even a stray thought could get you a lecture from a grumpy Archmage. No way was he going to try installing something this powerful here.

"Looks like a trip back to Karazhan is in order," Duke mused aloud.

Just as Duke was about to make his polite exit from Antonidas's sanctum, his perpetually nosy System AI, bless its digital heart, decided to take matters into its own hands and scan the contents of a letter resting on the Archmage's desk.

It read: "Dearest Senior Brother, it's time to pay the piper for that little favor you owe me. Hand over the Ice Crown to Duke. I expect him to look after my precious little Ilucia. And don't even think about saying no, or I'll spill the beans about you peeping on me in the bath twenty years ago! You know, the one where you nearly singed off your eyebrows trying to get a better look!"

The signature was a flourish: "Your most beloved junior sister, Janice."

Duke felt like he'd been hit by a ton of bricks. He'd stumbled upon some truly juicy, Grade-A Dalaran gossip. Considering how stunningly well-preserved Mrs. Janice was at her age, it was clear she must have been a real looker in her youth.

But twenty years ago, Antonidas would have been pushing sixty.

"Well, I'll be," Duke muttered under his breath. "That old dog!"

Duke, ever the master of feigned ignorance, pretended he hadn't seen a thing. He bid Antonidas a solemn farewell, only to step out and find Kael'thas, the High Elf Prince himself, still patiently waiting.

"Uh, Your Highness, you're... still here?" Duke nearly blurted out "you've got too much time on your hands," but managed to catch himself just in time. "I'm truly mortified that you waited so long."

The High Elf Prince was as blindingly handsome as ever, with a smile that could sell toothpaste and a cascade of golden hair that belonged in a shampoo commercial. Before Duke's transmigration, this guy would have been plastered on every magazine cover, a national heartthrob.

Duke, ever the humble one, was seething with jealousy on the inside.

Kael'thas's smile remained as warm as fresh-baked bread. "No, Duke, the shame is all mine. I've seen the magical communiques and the grim scryings. The orcs are a blight, a nightmare for all of Azeroth. As a son of this continent, and as a member of the Kirin Tor, I should be on the front lines. But alas, a prince cannot simply abandon his post. Since I cannot join the fray directly, this is the least I can do to aid the Alliance."

Duke let out a silent sigh. Kael'thas truly was a stand-up guy. If not for the tragic twists and turns that would plague him in the future, he'd have been the poster child for young nobility – a straight-A student in his youth, one of the top ten outstanding young leaders in his prime, and perhaps even a revered elder statesman in his twilight years.

Alright, Duke mentally retracted his fleeting thought of offing Kael'thas to snatch his future phoenix.

Temporarily, anyway.

"Thank you for your assistance, Your Highness."

"If it pleases you, Duke, I'd prefer you call me Kael'thas. And I hope you'll allow me the same familiarity."

"Of course, Kael'thas."

"Excellent, Duke. Is there anything else you require before we part ways?"

"Actually, yes. Could you help me locate Miss Ilucia Barov?"

"Ah, she's likely still in her studies. I can send word. However, I know just the spot where we can enjoy some tea and conversation while we await Miss Barov's arrival."

"Sounds like a plan."

Kael'thas wasn't kidding; it truly was a prime location.

Duke struggled to find the right words to describe the "Magic Hotel." While it certainly offered dining, entertainment, and gathering spaces, this particular establishment, nestled beside Dalaran's central square, felt more like an exclusive, elegant salon.

Sitting in the private room on the second floor, Duke gazed down at the square's intricate brickwork, awash in shades of purple. His eyes then drifted to the distant skyline, a mesmerizing jumble of houses, tall and short, all bathed in the same dominant hue. It was an experience unlike any other.

This was Dalaran in its pristine glory, before the cataclysm. Its architectural style, with its soaring, torch-like pillars and towers, flame-shaped or rounded roofs edged in gold, and slender white columns, bore an uncanny resemblance to the floating Sky City that would grace the skies in later ages. It was a bit like a fantastical blend of Middle Eastern and high-fantasy aesthetics, a truly unique sight.

Sipping a light red wine, Duke watched the endless stream of wizards and apprentices bustling about. He listened intently, only to realize that every single conversation revolved around magic, or something tangentially related to it. There was barely a whisper of orcs, no hint of the dark storm clouds of war that were already gathering over the northern continent. It was as if they were living in a bubble, blissfully unaware.

"Quite peaceful, isn't it?" Kael'thas observed, a hint of melancholy in his tone.

"Yeah. You wouldn't know there's a war brewing," Duke replied, a cynical edge to his voice.

"Indeed. Though it is having an impact, subtle as it may seem to the casual observer. By July, seventy percent of the kingdom's fields, once dedicated to growing magical reagents, will have been converted to food production. The Council has also clamped down on all large-scale or high-risk experiments, and every combat mage has had their vacation canceled, on twenty-four-hour standby. It's a grim business, this war. If it drags on for even a few more years, I honestly can't fathom what Dalaran will become. It's enough to make your hair stand on end."