Teacher

Kael'thas, despite his own considerable gifts, felt a pang of envy. His own arcane ascension had been a slow burn, a gradual accumulation of power over the long, drawn-out lifespan of a High Elf. Duke, on the other hand, seemed to be moving at warp speed, leaving Kael'thas in the dust.

A ripple of awe passed through Kael'thas, while Jaina, still very much a wide-eyed prodigy, practically bounced on the balls of her feet, showering Duke with effusive congratulations.

Ilucia's expression, however, was a tangled knot of emotions. She couldn't quite put her finger on the bizarre, almost-but-not-quite connection she now shared with Duke. All she could manage was a soft, almost imperceptible murmur of congratulations.

Ilucia, you see, felt like a fish out of water, suffocating in the gilded cage of the Barov family.

The Barovs, with their ancient, blue-blooded lineage, were the quintessential aristocratic nightmare. Her father, Alex, a man of formidable cunning and influence, held Alterac in the palm of his hand but treated familial affection like a bad rash. He had about as much time for his children as a dragon had for knitting.

Her mother, a sorceress perpetually buried under a mountain of arcane experiments, was equally detached, her children merely footnotes in her grand magical pursuits.

And then there were Ilucia's two younger brothers, Wilton and Alex, Jr. – a pair of ambitious sharks in a teacup, already circling each other, teeth bared, in a cutthroat battle for the Barov chieftainship.

Fleeing to Dalaran had been Ilucia's desperate Hail Mary pass, the only escape she could envision. But she knew, deep down, that she was still tethered to the Barov name. Unmarried noblewomen were, and always had been, mere pawns in the brutal game of political chess. Perhaps, just perhaps, once she was married off by the family, she might finally feel the noose of their control loosen, if only a little.

The only silver lining was that her father, while emotionally distant, never skimped on her allowance or her magical research funds. A small mercy, indeed.

But today, something felt different. A seismic shift.

Ilucia knew, with a chilling certainty, that her destiny was now inextricably linked to this brash, overgrown boy named Duke, who stood before her with a glint in his eye.

"Alright, Kael'thas," Duke announced, clapping his hands together, "I'm a bit of a stranger in these parts, but since you mentioned that any mage can strut their stuff in Dalaran – teach classes, publish papers, or just generally wave their arcane flag to boost their street cred – I figure I've got some spare time. So, I'm going to drop a few public knowledge bombs."

Kael'thas's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. "Oh? Really?! That's fantastic! What sort of wisdom do you plan to impart? What's the topic?"

Duke's smile turned positively mischievous. "We'll be covering 'The Basic Training of Multicasting Metamagic Expertise,' 'Practical Training of Multicasting,' and 'The Theory of Heat Transfer of Fire Element.'"

Duke watched as Ilucia visibly shuddered.

Because those were the exact excuses her mother had used to pawn her off on Duke for "study."

The eldest Barov daughter looked up, a flicker of genuine bewilderment in her ice-blue eyes. Why, in the name of the arcane, was Duke suddenly moonlighting as a lecturer?

Kael'thas, however, understood. His earlier advice had clearly struck a chord, prompting Duke to embark on this grand scheme to expand his influence and, ultimately, resurrect the long-dormant Stormwind Kingdom Mage Corps from its ashes.

Dalaran boasted a public academy, a veritable magic factory where, for a pittance, aspiring apprentices with even a spark of magical aptitude could learn the ABCs of the arcane.

After a few grueling years of sifting through the dross, those who passed the gauntlet would emerge as full-fledged senior apprentices or junior mages, granted access to the hallowed halls of higher learning.

At this point, Dalaran's academic scene became a free-for-all, a veritable intellectual mosh pit.

Novice mages could chase their arcane passions, worshiping any academy-registered mage as their personal guru.

But there was a catch, a golden rule in Dalaran's hallowed halls: the sacred principle of "equal exchange."

Except for the flashy, free "advertisement" classes, every single lesson came with a price tag. The academy, in its infinite wisdom, would meticulously assess the practicality, theoretical depth, and sheer teaching prowess of each subject, then slap a price on it.

And the apprentices? They had to pony up the gold.

Naturally, the truly juicy, advanced arcane secrets often required becoming a full-fledged apprentice to the instructor.

The requirements for taking on an apprentice were as varied as the stars in the night sky. Some demanded cold, hard cash. Some wanted rare spellcasting components. And, of course, the most common request was for apprentices to double as glorified lab assistants, cleaning up arcane messes and fetching reagents.

Kids from wealthy families had it made in the shade, but the poor apprentices often had to hustle. They had a myriad of ways to scrounge up the necessary coin: the simplest being to sell themselves, body and soul, to one of Dalaran's mage guilds, signing away years of service for a lump sum. Or they could moonlight as mercenaries, or even churn out minor magical trinkets to hawk in the market.

Opportunities and responsibilities, hand in hand.

That was Dalaran.

It was no exaggeration to say that if Duke simply flexed his arcane muscles enough, he could practically conjure a brand-new mage guild out of thin air.

After all, the Stormwind Kingdom Mage Corps was a ghost of its former self, a mere shadow. Its combined magical might amounted to less than a dozen mages, barely enough to fill a small tavern booth. And save for Duke and old man Norton, who was practically counting down the days to retirement, they were all dirt-slinging earth mages.

Duke, with a triumphant grin, scribbled down a few slogans, each one more audacious than the last:

"Think a magic duel is just about who can hurl the biggest fireball? You're living in the Stone Age! The legendary Archmage Duke Edmund, who roasted 100,000 orcs to a crisp, is here to teach you 'Multicasting'! Learn it, and I guarantee you'll wipe the floor with any wizard of your level!"

The three onlookers – Kael'thas, Jaina, and Ilucia – stared at the slogans, their faces a mixture of shock and utter disbelief.

Arrogant. Wild. And absolutely, positively, mind-bendingly subversive.

Because in the hallowed, dusty halls of traditional Dalaran magecraft, the go-to strategy for dealing with a rival mage was always the same: throw up a magic shield, then engage in a good old-fashioned arcane slugfest. The one with the bigger fireball, the one who could blast through the opponent's shield, won. Simple as that.

"What? Your big fireball didn't work?" the old guard would scoff. "Then your fireball clearly wasn't big enough!"

Their mantra: "There's no enemy that can't be defeated by one big fireball. If there is, use two."

Now, Duke had just ridden into town and blown all their sacred cows to smithereens. If that wasn't subversive, what was?

Anyone else would have been branded a sensationalist, a snake oil salesman. But Duke had a resume that spoke for itself, a list of achievements that made jaws drop: fighting demons in Karazhan and slaying Medivh, torching Elwynn Forest, rescuing fifty thousand elite soldiers on a literal ice ship, and most recently, single-handedly saving four kings from a horde of orcish blademaster assassins.

Every single one was a headline-grabbing, jaw-dropping feat.

No one could refute Duke until they had better, more irrefutable proof that he was a dud.

And no one in their right mind would be foolish enough to classify Duke as a mere "academic" mage. Duke was a practical mage, through and through.

No, wait. "Practical" often implies weakness.

Because a practical mage could often take down ten academic mages without breaking a sweat. Duke… Duke gave off the distinct vibe of "I want to beat a hundred people!"

In the blink of an eye, the news that Duke Edmund, the Alliance's Deputy Commander, was going to teach public practical magic classes in Dalaran spread like wildfire, engulfing the entire city.

The once bustling Dalaran was now shrouded in an intriguing, almost bizarre atmosphere.

"Hey! Have you heard? Duke Edmund is giving a public class in Dalaran!"

"Open class? Which Duke Edmund?"

"You imbecile! Lord Edmund, the Deputy Commander of the newly formed Lordaeron Alliance, that's who!"

"No way!"

"He's the super wizard who fought demons and wiped out a whole army of elite orcs!"

"Is he really that amazing?"

"It's a free open class anyway, so you'd be crazy not to show up!"

All mages of Archmage rank and above were eligible to attend public classes at Dalaran's High School of Magic. Every day, the school's bulletin board would feature previews of various public classes.

Thanks to the blatant favoritism of a certain Elven Prince Councillor, and because "Mr. Du" was famous enough to make a dragon blush, Duke's open class was plastered on the front page of every magic bulletin board across the academy. Not only did it boast a dazzling red border, but it also featured a dynamic image of multiple magical hands, symbolizing Duke's signature multicasting skill, unleashing a barrage of fireballs at a hapless scarecrow.

This, naturally, snagged attention like a fish hook in a pond full of hungry piranhas.

Dalaran had a wonderfully simple, if slightly chaotic, method for determining the popularity of an open class: student voting. Any apprentice or mage could press their magic seal onto the bulletin board to express their interest. The day before the class, they had to confirm their attendance in the city-wide course system.

The academy would then confirm the course location the night before, based on the number of attendees.

The result of Duke's course registration was, of course… a runaway train!

It was simple: Duke had enough street cred to make a rock star blush.

Killer of the demon lord's vessel, the inheritor of Karazhan, the Duke of Stormwind, the Deputy Commander of the Alliance, the youngest top Archmage of his generation, the bane of 200,000 orcs, the mage who could sweet-talk even the most formidable beauties with his arcane prowess…

Any one of these titles would have been enough to grab the attention of apprentices and mages. But all of them, rolled into one person? It was like hitting the jackpot.

The unprecedented stampede of registrations meant that the number of applicants far exceeded the capacity of any lecture hall in Dalaran. The Kirin Tor Council (read: Kael'thas, pulling strings behind the scenes) was forced to announce a new rule: formal mages would get first dibs, and any remaining spots would go to apprentices, ranked strictly by their grades. Only the cream of the crop would be granted entry.

Finally, three days later, over twelve thousand eager souls packed into Dalaran's largest central lecture hall for Duke's lecture. The auditorium, designed for a mere ten thousand, somehow squeezed in an extra two thousand standing-room-only tickets.

The place was packed to the gills, a veritable sardine can of mages.

As Dalaran's central auditorium, its specifications were absolutely off the charts. It looked like something straight out of a scientific treatise, but in reality, it defied all logic, leaving Duke utterly dumbfounded.

For instance, the sound communication magic that permeated the entire venue ensured that every syllable from the podium was transmitted with crystal clarity to every single corner of the auditorium.

Another example: the colossal magic image projection. In an auditorium of ten thousand people, Duke himself was just a tiny speck to those perched in the nosebleed seats. But the twenty-meter-high giant screen behind the podium magnified Duke's figure to a truly majestic scale, ensuring that even the poor souls in the very last row could clearly discern every hair and beard stubble on his face.

The Central Auditorium was typically reserved for only two occasions:

One, the annual opening and closing ceremonies in Dalaran, when a veritable ocean of magic apprentices, along with their servants, relatives, friends, and hangers-on, would fill the hall to bursting.

Two, when a truly legendary figure delivered a lecture or speech to the entirety of Dalaran. In the past decade, only the venerable Archmage Antonidas had been granted such an honor.

Now, a new contender had entered the arena. And while it was debatable if he truly fit the "great figure" mold in the eyes of some, his name was on everyone's lips: Duke!

Judging by his track record, Duke was certainly qualified. However, the fact that Duke's magical fluctuations were only at the Archmage level rubbed many Master Mages the wrong way. They were like a bunch of old dogs, growling at the new pup on the block.

The moment Duke arrived on the scene with Ilucia, someone decided to throw down the gauntlet.

As Duke stepped onto the stage, the very wooden floor beneath his feet groaned and shrieked, as if bearing some unimaginable weight. Not just the floor, but the stone walls nearby, the velvet curtains, the grand entrance he'd just passed through, and even the massive glass windows all began to tremble violently, threatening to shatter into a million pieces at any moment.

Ilucia's face went ashen, drained of all color.

Prince Kael'thas, who had strategically positioned himself in the front row to show his unwavering support for Duke, furrowed his long, golden eyebrows.

Mental shock!

It was an old trick in the book, a common, albeit rude, method used by mages to test an opponent's mettle.

For a fleeting moment, Kael'thas considered stepping in, shutting down the boorish display. But then he thought better of it.

Respect wasn't handed out on a silver platter; it had to be earned. Duke was being treated like Antonidas, and with that came the expectation that he could weather the storm.

Even though Duke was a mage, and Dalaran prided itself on being a welcoming haven for all practitioners of the arcane, Duke was, at the end of the day, an outsider.

As the inheritor of Karazhan and the legacy of Medivh – a Guardian who had once rivaled Dalaran's might – it was inevitable that Duke would face some serious side-eye from the city's established mages.

In a twisted sense, Kael'thas, as a loyal member of the Kirin Tor, should have been rooting for the home team.

But in the end, Kael'thas decided to stay neutral, letting the chips fall where they may.

In the eyes of that gaggle of Master Mages, a single, well-aimed mental shock from one of their own would be enough to make Duke, the supposed Archmage, look like a complete fool, turning his grand debut into a colossal joke.

The best outcome, from their perspective, would be for Duke to tuck tail and run, preventing an outsider from stealing their spotlight.

What no one, absolutely no one, expected was that Duke was an absolute freak of nature in the realm of magic.

In terms of raw magical quality, Duke might not have been top-tier. But in every other aspect, Duke was playing in a different league than most Master Mages.

What was mental power, anyway?

We won't bore you with the textbook definition here. In the world of mages, mental power was the bedrock of everything: a mage's mana reserves, their recovery speed, the raw punch of their spells, and their sheer ability to manipulate the arcane.

Logically speaking, Duke shouldn't have been a powerhouse. He was too young, too new to the game.

But the moment Duke unleashed his mental power, the faces of every single mage in the first ten rows went from smug satisfaction to pure, unadulterated terror.

There was no spectral apparition, no visible manifestation. Just Duke, standing there, a serene smile playing on his lips.

Yet, in the realm of pure mental perception, hundreds of mages felt as if a colossal, unseen beast had suddenly burst forth from Duke's very being.

This wasn't some paltry mental construct – no simple ball, cone, or net of psychic energy like those conjured by lesser mages.

The psychic creature, forged from pure mental might, possessed a pair of truly monstrous wings, spanning a full fifteen meters from tip to tip. Every beat of those colossal wings sent a turbulent wave of mental power ripping through the air, like a hurricane tearing through the sky above the first dozen rows of the auditorium.

The sheer, scorching heat of Duke's mental power effortlessly raised the temperature in the air, making it shimmer. With a single, dismissive flap of its wings, the psychic beast shattered the mental assault of the provocative Archmage, scattering it like dust in the wind.

As the poor, humiliated mage let out a strangled yelp, he crumpled in his chair, his face green, and, to the collective horror of everyone present, even lost control of his bladder. All the high-level mages in the room gasped in unison, their eyes wide as saucers.

"What in the blazes kind of mental power is that?!"