Lecture

In that electrifying moment, a single, undeniable truth slammed into the collective consciousness of every Archmage present: Duke was not just strong, he was a force of nature wrapped in a tailored robe. A tremor of doubt rippled through the ranks, a silent urge to back away from the precipice, but then a voice, deep as the very foundations of the Violet Citadel, cut through the tension with an almost arcane resonance. It wasn't a shout, but a whisper that echoed in their very souls, stiffening spines that had begun to bend.

"This is Dalaran."

And just like that, the fight was back on! This was Dalaran! The hallowed ground of arcane might! Since the High Elves first graced humanity with the secrets of magic, generations of wizards had bowed before this sacred city! It was the very embodiment of boundless freedom, infinite knowledge, and the purest essence of the arcane! Duke, however, was a walking, talking, infuriating monument to Karazhan.

Had Duke not been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, a Duke of Stormwind no less, and the Deputy Commander-in-Chief of the Alliance to boot, and had Karazhan not vanished from the Eastern Kingdoms like a rogue spell, you could bet your last copper piece that a horde of greedy, power-hungry mages would have been lining up to challenge him for the keys to that mystical tower. But as it stood, Duke had just made the first poor sod look like a goblin trying to outsmart a gnome. And while that Archmage might have had the mental fortitude of a damp noodle, he was sporting the official violet lecturer's robe of the Dalaran Higher School of Magic. In Dalaran, that was reason enough to throw down! Besides, hadn't Duke just casually draped his colossal mental presence over every single mage in the room like a condescending blanket? That, my friends, was less a provocation and more a declaration of war.

The gauntlet, once thrown, was snatched up faster than a grimoire at a discount sale. The second challenger materialized instantly, a step up from the previous chump in the third row. This one hailed from the second row, a bona fide third-class Archmage, or so the whispers went. He wasn't arrogant; he was efficient. His mental power, a razor-sharp spike, shot forth like a poisoned arrow, aiming for Duke's gargantuan, winged mental beast, a creature whose true form remained a mystery. In the ethereal realm of spiritual power, as the wicked thorn hurtled towards its target, a three-fingered claw erupted from Duke's beast, snapping shut with uncanny precision.

"CRACK!"

There was no sound in the realm of pure thought, no air to carry vibrations, yet the impact resonated through every mage's mind like a hammer blow against a bell. It was an auditory hallucination, a phantom echo of something vital shattering. The third-class Master, as if his very soul had been cracked open, shrieked, clutching his head and crumpling into a fetal position like a startled murloc.

Meanwhile, Duke, the infuriatingly calm bastard, continued his leisurely stroll across the colossal stage. Under the gentle glow of the arcane lights, he advanced towards the podium with the unwavering gait of a man who owned the place. He appeared utterly oblivious to the psychic assaults of the two Archmages, a faint, almost beatific smile playing on his lips, radiating a confidence so profound it bordered on offensive. It was as if Duke was broadcasting, loud and clear, to the entire assembly: 'Go on, give it your best shot! I'll wait!' This wasn't just arrogance; it was a masterclass in psychological warfare, a living, breathing advertisement for hubris. His demeanor was a hundred times more insufferable than any billboard ever conceived. He was treating the most esteemed Archmages of Dalaran like common grunts, like they were nothing more than gnat bites on his perfectly tailored robes!

Not every Archmage in Dalaran was a hot-headed youth, eager to prove their mettle. Many were long in the tooth, their glory days behind them, content to rest on their laurels and accumulated wisdom. They'd had no intention of getting their hands dirty. But this? This was a different kettle of fish entirely. The third Master, a grizzled veteran, finally snapped. His mental power coalesced into a dense, cannonball-like orb, hurtling towards Duke's beast with the force of a siege engine. But it was that damn three-fingered claw again. With a casual flick, as if swatting a bothersome fly, the claw sent the psychic projectile screaming back, faster than a goblin's rocket-powered shredder. The unfortunate mage frantically threw up a mental shield, but it was like trying to stop a charging Kodo with a twig. The returned psychic energy, now a chaotic maelstrom of his own making, slammed into him. He gasped, clutching his chest, a finger trembling as he tried to point at Duke, but no words, not even a strangled gurgle, could escape his lips.

Then came the fourth Master, perched on the very edge of the first row, a true titan among the Archmages. Duke couldn't quite pin down his exact power level – was he seventh? Eighth? – but he knew one thing: this mage's mental power manifested as a colossal, vaguely humanoid giant, easily ten feet tall, wielding an axe the size of a small siege engine. And he wasn't just probing; he was going for the jugular! The previous attacks had been mere jabs, but this was a full-blown haymaker. While he clearly didn't underestimate Duke, a psychic assault of this magnitude, if mishandled, could shatter a mage's arcane circuits and leave them a drooling vegetable. For the first time, a flicker of something other than smug amusement crossed Duke's face – a cold, calculating glint in his eyes. This time, his beast's counterattack wasn't a claw. It was a tail. A monstrous, thirty-foot-long tail, thick as a fully grown Kodo, lashed out with the force of a tidal wave. The mages could practically feel the individual scales, sharp as obsidian. The giant axe's handle, the giant's head, even half its hulking body – all disintegrated into psychic dust with a single, devastating sweep of this impossibly dense, impossibly solid tail!

"Ugh!" The Archmage choked, spitting a crimson spray onto the polished floor. Bright red blood oozed between the fingers of his hand clapped over his mouth. Simultaneously, the very floor tiles beneath his feet and the ornate chair he'd been occupying crumbled into fine powder. He collapsed in a heap, a pathetic, twitching mess, utterly unable to regain his footing.

In the first row, five more Masters exchanged glances, a silent, almost imperceptible nod passing between them. This wasn't going to be an 'excessive' mental attack; they'd dial it back to a 'test.' But make no mistake, this 'test' was a full-throttle assault, just shy of ripping out a soul. Swords, hammers, arrows, thorns, even what looked suspiciously like a tiny, psychic cannon – five distinct mental weapons converged on Duke's beast simultaneously, arriving in a terrifying, almost choreographed ballet of destruction. It was clear to anyone with eyes that Duke's colossal psychic construct had been painstakingly shaped into the form of a dragon. Most mages in the audience scoffed. 'What a waste of mental energy!' they silently jeered. Shaping one's mental power into such an elaborate form was incredibly taxing, a widely accepted truth being that it diluted the raw offensive punch, as the mind had to dedicate precious processing power to maintaining the intricate shape. Most mages opted for simpler, more utilitarian forms – a blunt hammer, a sharp blade. But Duke? Duke wasn't 'most mages.' With a little help from his 'system elves' (whatever in the blazes those were), he could not only conjure a magnificent dragon but probably transform it into a gnome riding a mechanical chicken if he felt like it. What Duke really cared about, what truly gave him the edge, was the system's uncanny ability to instantly pinpoint the weakest link, the chink in the armor of his opponent's mental energy. Every mage's psychic reserves, their 'mana pool' in the ethereal sense, wasn't uniformly distributed. Some had weak spots, vulnerabilities, and Duke, though not necessarily possessing superior raw power or quantity, only needed to find that one fatal flaw. And boy, did he find it.

In the mind's eye, the mages watched, horrified, as Duke's dragon finally revealed its true terrifying form. As the five gargantuan mental weapons closed in, the dragon's claws elongated, morphing into something utterly absurd – two gleaming, oversized kitchen knives! At that precise, surreal moment, Ilucia, who had been trailing Duke like a nervous shadow, heard him whisper, a mischievous glint in his eye:

"Meteor Explosion Slash! Fifty-six times!"

The air between Duke and the five mages erupted into a whirlwind of psychic blades, a storm of high-speed slashes so intense it warped the very fabric of the mental realm. In less time than it takes to say 'By the Light!', all five Archmages simultaneously imploded in their seats, looking like deflated balloons.

Impossible! This was utterly, unequivocally impossible! How could one Archmage not just resist, but utterly annihilate so many seasoned Archmages in the crucible of spiritual combat? Looking at the crumpled forms of those mages, who now resembled a pile of discarded, frost-bitten cabbages, no one dared utter a single word. It was as if the renowned Morningstar mages of Dalaran, supposed titans of the arcane, were nothing but glorified punching bags, practically begging Duke to rearrange their faces. And he didn't just slap them; oh no. He grabbed them by the scruff of the neck and took them to the woodshed, giving them a good, old-fashioned thrashing until their faces were swollen like overripe pumpkins. Nine mages in total – one Archmage and eight Masters – had lined up for a 'friendly' round-robin, a format usually reserved for humiliating lesser opponents. Yet, against this single, infuriatingly calm man, they were all knocked flat on their backs, barely even getting a gasp in. Hadn't everyone just witnessed Duke sauntering across the stage with the casual swagger of a tavern brawler after a particularly satisfying bar fight?

In the cavernous auditorium, the only sound was the soft, rhythmic click of Duke's boots on the polished floor, a sound that seemed to boom in the sudden, oppressive silence. Of the twelve thousand souls packed into that hall, not a single one was a commoner. Each was either a seasoned formal mage or a budding apprentice, and even the greenest novice could sense the raw, untamed psychic energies that had just clashed. Everyone understood the sheer audacity, the brazen challenge of unleashing such mental power. It was crystal clear: Duke had not just won; he had delivered a knockout blow, a victory so resounding it echoed in their very bones. One against nine! If Duke weren't some 'foreign' mage, some outsider, if he were one of Dalaran's own, the applause would have been deafening, a veritable avalanche of adulation.

The apprentices and novice mages, buzzing with a mixture of awe and barely suppressed glee, swiveled their heads, their gazes fixed on the first row. After all, if anyone could possibly humble, no, challenge Duke successfully, it would be the grandmasters seated there. In the very heart of the first row sat several undisputed Master experts. Yet, they remained utterly unruffled, like perfectly behaved students, feigning rapt attention. But the true, unspoken focus of the entire hall rested on a single figure, the only Magus present: Kael'thas! The High Elven Prince of Quel'Thalas himself. If Kael'thas so much as twitched a finger, ten Dukes would be sent packing with their tails between their legs. But would he? Ha! That was a laugh. Kael'thas was here to give Duke a standing ovation, not a beatdown. Witnessing the serene, almost paternal smile Kael'thas had worn since Duke's grand entrance, any Archmage still clinging to a sliver of sanity quickly doused their fiery desire for a challenge, wisely deciding against picking a fight with this infuriatingly 'evil' Archmage.

One step, two steps... five steps... ten steps... Duke strode to the podium, each step as resolute as a dwarven hammer blow. His imposing figure was instantly magnified, projected onto the colossal screen behind him, looming like a titan. Then, a single, defiant clap echoed through the vast hall. A solitary clap, a ripple of sound that quickly grew into a cascade. Normally, applause before a lecture was a mere courtesy, a polite welcome. But the thunderous ovation spearheaded by Kael'thas Sunstrider? That was a declaration, a grand endorsement that screamed 'This man is worth your time!' And Kael'thas wasn't just clapping from his seat; he rose, a regal figure, applauding Duke with an almost paternal pride. Immediately, a second wave of applause erupted, a delicate counterpoint to the first. This was the enthusiastic clapping of the spirited young princess of Kul Tiras, Jaina Proudmoore. This noble-born magic apprentice, long the unattainable dream of countless aspiring mages, seemed to be rather chummy with Prince Arthas of Lordaeron, forcing many a lovesick apprentice to swallow their admiration. And hot on Jaina's heels, almost simultaneous with her applause, came the third volley. This was the fervent clapping of Miss Ilucia Barov, the undisputed crush of most young mages, a woman hailing from the ancient, revered bloodline of the Arathor Empire. Though she stood demurely behind Duke as his assistant, her very presence, her silent endorsement, sent a tremor of unspoken excitement through the crowd. It was only then that the full, horrifying realization dawned on the auditorium: the man standing on that podium wasn't just a wizard of terrifying power; he was a noble, a political heavyweight, deeply trusted and respected by the crowned heads of every major kingdom.

Without a moment's hesitation, the dam burst. A tidal wave of applause, a deafening roar like mountains collapsing, tsunamis crashing, and a thousand thunderstorms erupting simultaneously, detonated within the auditorium. The sheer volume was enough to make anyone outside believe a catastrophic arcane experiment had just gone horribly, gloriously wrong. Duke, ever the showman, held his hands aloft for a dramatic beat, waiting for the cacophony to subside, which it eventually did, albeit grudgingly. He cleared his throat, and his voice, a low rumble with a hint of arcane resonance, filled every nook and cranny of the vast hall.

"I'm absolutely thrilled that so many of you decided to grace my humble lecture today," he began, a twinkle in his eye. "In the time we have, I'll be delving into the crucial importance of Multicasting – and, more importantly, how you, too, can master this game-changing technique. My hope is that this little chat will light a fire under your arcane studies!"

"Magic, my dear friends, is a realm of glorious, mind-bending mystery!" Duke boomed, his voice resonating with conviction. "And the very first thing every fortunate soul blessed enough to step into this wondrous domain must do is ditch the mundane shackles of ordinary common sense! Thoughts like, 'Oh, that's impossible!' or 'No way, that can't be done!' are the true enemies of progress! We must, therefore, liberate our imaginations – set them free to run wild like a pack of hungry wolves!" He paused for dramatic effect. "Now, allow me to demonstrate, with a touch of flair, the sheer, unadulterated glory of Multicasting!" Duke then turned to Ilucia, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. "Ms. Barov, my dear assistant, if you'd be so kind, please prepare your magic shield and join me in a little sparring session. We'll be using the humblest of spells – a Level 1 Fireball. No fancy metamagic, mind you, and try to keep the power between a respectable 14 and 22 magic points." Ilucia, a picture of composure, nodded. (For the uninitiated, 'magic points' were the arcane currency of destruction; 14 points meant 14 base damage to a creature lacking resistance.) The moment Ilucia gave her ready signal, the two unleashed their fireballs, the arcane energies monitored by a shimmering magic scale, a silent testament to their fiery exchange.

"A paltry 1.5-second cast time, same mana cost, and a measly 16 and 22 damage," Duke declared, gesturing dismissively. "That's the old-school way, isn't it? The 'bigger fireball wins' philosophy?" A ripple of deliberately suppressed chuckles swept through the audience. "But now, let's talk about the big guns. A Level 10 Fireball. Three-and-a-half seconds to cast. Normally, the mage with the bigger, badder fireball walks away the victor, right?"

"YES!" an eager apprentice bellowed from the crowd, unable to contain himself.

"Precisely!" Duke grinned. "Now, watch closely. I'm going to take the mana required for that single Level 10 Fireball, split it up, and then engage in a continuous barrage against Ms. Barov. Let's see how that plays out, shall we?"

Ilucia, dutifully playing her part, began channeling her formidable Level 10 Fireball, launching one every 3.5 seconds towards Duke. But Duke? Oh, Duke was a one-man arcane artillery. He deployed his two spectral 'wizard hands' – those mysterious extensions of his will – alongside his own physical form, unleashing a relentless volley of three Level 5 Fireballs, each one blasting towards Ilucia in a rapid-fire sequence, every 1.5 seconds. The audience watched, jaws agape, as Ilucia's magic shield, despite consuming the exact same amount of mana as Duke's combined assault, began to flicker and crack under the relentless barrage. The individual attacks might not have been earth-shattering, but the sheer, unyielding continuity of them was a game-changer. Each impact rattled her shield, chipping away at her concentration, stretching her casting time to agonizing lengths. At first, Ilucia could barely squeeze out two or three fireballs within a four-second window. But as Duke's assault continued, the simple act of casting a fireball – a spell as natural as breathing for most formal mages – began to take a full six seconds. It was painfully obvious that both her damage output and her accuracy had plummeted like a lead zeppelin.

Then came the twelfth fireball from Duke's relentless three-pronged assault, a blazing projectile that slammed into Ilucia's magic shield. The shield, which by all rights should have held strong for far longer, shimmered violently, then exploded in a shower of arcane sparks. Ilucia, staring wide-eyed at the incoming fireball, let out a startled shriek. A collective gasp swept through the auditorium. Everyone braced themselves, certain that Duke's next fireball was about to rearrange the beautiful Miss Barov's delicate features. Some apprentices even clapped their hands over their eyes, unable to bear the thought of such a tragedy. But then, Duke snapped his fingers. And just like that, every single one of his hurtling fireballs, mid-flight, executed a graceful, impossible pirouette in the air, spun a perfect 180 degrees, and zipped back to him, hovering obediently like loyal pets. Duke simply raised a hand, and with a silent command, the fireballs vanished, leaving not a trace.

Duke's voice, now laced with a hint of dramatic flair, boomed across the hall once more. "Now, before anyone accuses me of bullying poor Ms. Barov, let me assure you, I didn't employ any other fancy metamagic tricks. This technique, Multicasting, is akin to what happens when you, a seasoned mage, find yourself swarmed by three lesser mages or even a gaggle of apprentices. You're often overwhelmed, not by their raw power, but by the sheer, relentless volume of their continuous attacks. Multicasting simply turns the tables, allowing you to fight a whole lot more people!" He paused, a mischievous glint in his eye. "To truly drive this point home, prepare yourselves for a little cinematic treat." What then unfolded on the colossal magic screen was nothing short of legendary: the infamous scene from the Redridge Mountains, where Duke, with a terrifying display of 108 spectral 'wizard hands,' unleashed a biblical downpour of Arcane Missiles upon the unsuspecting Orcish Horde. It was the simplest of spells, transformed into an exaggerated, world-ending barrage. The lowest level of magic, weaponized for the most spectacular, jaw-dropping slaughter. This groundbreaking, utterly brutal war documentary hit the audience like a punch to the gut, leaving them reeling.

That two-minute clip, a whirlwind of arcane devastation, utterly captivated the eleven thousand-plus apprentices. Not every magically gifted apprentice was destined to become a formal wizard, mind you. Beyond the fresh-faced youths, the audience was a motley crew: grizzled, middle-aged magic craftsmen, humans with more years than teeth, some pushing eighty, and even High Elves who, despite their less-than-stellar innate talent, had bravely abandoned their ancestral lands in pursuit of arcane truth. Yet, they all shared one burning desire: the dream of wielding magic to forge themselves into something greater. Suddenly, the entire hall seemed to be hyperventilating. A hand shot up, trembling with anticipation. Duke, ever the master of ceremonies, pointed. "You there, go ahead." The question, delivered with a nervous squeak, was the elephant in the room, the one thought echoing in every single mind:

"Excuse me, Lecturer Edmund, but does learning this 'Multicasting'… does it require some kind of special talent?!"

"I'll be frank," Duke announced, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Those blessed with natural talent will certainly pick up the metamagic technique of 'Multicasting' faster than a goblin can count his gold. But I firmly believe that everyone in this room, with enough rigorous self-training, can master this technique and, at the very least, drastically boost their spellcasting prowess!" With a flourish, Duke conjured a shimmering magic pen and scrawled the words 'MULTITASKING' onto the special arcane board on the podium, the characters blazing to life on the colossal screen behind him. "Now, for Multicasting, this is the absolute bedrock, the fundamental truth. If you've ever bothered to crack open a biology tome, you'd know that the brains of humans and elves are, in essence, split into two distinct hemispheres. These two halves aren't just for show; they can coordinate, allowing our bodies to perform complex, synchronized movements. In fact, your left and right brain can command your left and right hands to perform entirely different actions, to respond in wildly divergent ways!" And then, with a little 'help' from his ever-present 'System AI,' Duke launched into a demonstration. With his left hand, he began drawing a perfectly formed circle in the air, while his right hand simultaneously sketched a flawless square. At first, the audience thought, 'Pfft, easy peasy!' But then, as they tried it themselves, a collective gasp of frustration swept through the hall. It was a nightmare! Their hands either stubbornly drew two circles, two squares, or, in the most charitable outcome, two utterly bizarre, amorphous blobs that resembled neither. It was like trying to herd a group of wild boars with a single strand of spaghetti.

But this world, bless its chaotic heart, was never short on prodigies. Soon enough, a few bright sparks managed the impossible. Jaina, for instance, with arcane energy shimmering from her fingertips, effortlessly conjured a perfect circle and a flawless square in the air simultaneously. Beyond her, a dozen others, a mix of seasoned wizards and eager apprentices, pulled off the feat. At this point, Duke paused, a smug look on his face. "I'm delighted that many students have already grasped the basics!" he declared. "Due to the constraints of time – and my own boundless generosity – I'll leave you to practice this on your own. But I can offer a simple benchmark. The second stage, my friends, looks something like this..." And then, the utterly shameless Duke, keeping his right hand under his own masterful control, casually 'handed' his left hand over to the mysterious 'System AI.' Both hands began moving simultaneously: his left tracing intricate, multi-faceted polygonal patterns, while his right sketched arcs of wildly varying radii. "And Phase Three?" he announced, his voice dripping with theatricality. This time, his left hand was meticulously detailing Dalaran-style architectural blueprints, while his right, with a playful flourish, began sketching a surprisingly accurate caricature of a blushing Ilucia. Ilucia, predictably, turned a shade of crimson usually reserved for a fresh-baked lava cake. "Finally," Duke concluded, with a flourish that suggested he was about to reveal the secrets of the universe, "when you can achieve this… then you'll be truly perfect."

With a dramatic flourish, Duke began to write out spells with both hands simultaneously. One hand meticulously inscribed the incantation for a simple Fireball, while the other, with equal precision, etched the words for a Frost Arrow. Two entirely different spells, two distinct sets of arcane commands, manifesting at the exact same instant! The audience erupted in a collective gasp of amazement. Not just the wide-eyed apprentices, but even the most jaded formal mages found themselves bowing to Duke's utterly extraordinary, almost blasphemous, ability. Even Prince Kael'thas, a master of Multicasting in his own right, wore a thoughtful, almost bewildered expression. To be fair, Kael'thas could cast multiple fire spells at once, but it always came at the cost of raw power and was a logistical nightmare to coordinate. Duke's audacious training method, however, had clearly struck a chord, sparking a wildfire of inspiration in the Sunstrider's brilliant mind. It was no exaggeration to say that Kael'thas's own mastery of Multicasting was largely due to his innate, almost divine talent. But Duke? Duke had just laid out a systematic, step-by-step roadmap to arcane supremacy, complete with clearly defined goals. It was like giving a map to a treasure chest that Kael'thas had always just instinctively known how to find.

Another eager apprentice, his hand practically vibrating with excitement, shot into the air. "Lecturer Edmund!" he blurted out, "Please, tell us! How in the name of the Light do I chant multiple spells at once? I've only got one voice box!" It was a deceptively simple question, yet it hit the nail on the head, the very linchpin of true multicasting. The self-important masters of old would simply split their consciousness, conjuring multiple 'voices' within their own spiritual sea to meet the demand. But Duke? Duke had a trick up his sleeve, a shortcut that would make any old-school mage weep with envy. "Ah, an excellent question, my young friend!" Duke beamed. "Of course, the very essence of spellcasting is to channel the arcane energies within your body, coaxing them to dance with the elemental forces of the world, or even the raw energies of the Twisting Nether. A truly skilled wizard can accomplish all of this within the confines of their own mind. But I, my dear students, have a far simpler method: the echo." With a theatrical snap of his fingers, shimmering walls of pure arcane energy materialized in the air around him. Duke uttered a casual phrase, and instantly, the echo rippled through the entire venue, repeating his words with uncanny precision. Echo?! He actually thought of creating an echo as a fundamental component of multicasting? It was a stroke of genius so audacious, so utterly revolutionary, it was like discovering fire all over again!

For a moment, the entire audience was struck dumb, their collective minds blown by the sheer audacity of the idea. Then, as if a dam had burst, thunderous applause, like a thousand stampeding Kodos, erupted once more, shaking the very foundations of the hall. This time, the ovation lasted for nearly a full, glorious minute. Duke, basking in the adoration, held his hands aloft for a long, drawn-out moment before the roar gradually subsided. Another hand shot up, its owner practically vibrating with eagerness. "So, Lecturer Edmund," the voice piped up, "how exactly do you create an echo when you're casting a spell?" Duke's grin widened, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Ah, my dear student," he purred, "I'm afraid that particular nugget of wisdom falls under the category of 'premium content.' I haven't quite ironed out the exact pricing structure yet, but rest assured, it'll be announced within the next two or three days!" A wave of uproarious laughter, a mixture of amusement and grudging admiration, swept through the audience.

Duke, ever the intellectual showman, then dove into a fascinating tangent, using the arcane principles of thermodynamics to explain the very flow of the element of fire. Before anyone realized it, two hours had vanished like a rogue portal. Duke, a self-proclaimed 'time traveler' and a 'university student majoring in engineering equipment' (whatever that was), had systematically dissected the very essence of fire – its nature, its characteristics – for over ten thousand captivated minds. For the magic apprentices of Azeroth, this was a revolutionary theoretical framework, a breath of fresh air that, miraculously, didn't contradict their existing magical dogma. They were utterly spellbound. Even the most cynical formal mages, itching to find a flaw, a single crack in Duke's logic to refute him, found themselves utterly stumped. Concepts like 'heat only flows from high temperature to low temperature,' illustrated with simple examples like a roaring blaze warming frigid water, were systematically laid bare through the lens of professional thermodynamic theory. Even the greenest apprentice felt a spark of understanding, a sudden, undeniable certainty that their Fireball Technique was about to get a serious upgrade. And don't you dare scoff at the humble Fireball! As the first offensive spell learned by virtually every magic apprentice, its popularity was, quite literally, 100%. It was no exaggeration to say that Duke's imported thermodynamics theory was about to kick-start a renaissance, a dramatic leap forward in the magical prowess of Dalaran as a whole. Not a single grain of sand remained in the arcane hourglass, and as a pleasant, final buzz emanated from the podium, Duke simply stated, "That's all for today, folks. My lecture is concluded." His timing was so impeccable, so utterly precise, he didn't seem like a brash young man at all, but a seasoned, ancient mentor who had mastered the very fabric of time itself.

For a split second, the entire auditorium erupted into a cacophony of groans and protests. "Lecturer Edmund! No! Don't stop now! More! We demand more!" "We want to listen forever!" "You're a legend, Lecturer!" After a brief, chaotic clamor, a collective realization dawned: Duke wasn't one to dawdle. And then, as if on cue, a fresh wave of thunderous applause, a veritable tsunami of claps, crashed through the colossal auditorium. "CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!" The sound was endless, a rolling tide of appreciation that seemed to go on forever. Save for the unfortunate few who had been 'mentally rearranged' earlier and had wisely limped out, every single magic apprentice, every formal wizard, and of course, the ever-regal Kael'thas, rose to their feet, offering Duke the most heartfelt, bone-rattling applause he had ever received.

After a brief, respectful lull in the applause, Kael'thas, a radiant smile on his face, glided onto the stage. "My dear Duke," he began, his voice smooth as polished arcane crystal, "that was simply magnificent! Your lectures are beyond anything I could have imagined. I confess, I had you pegged as a combat-first kind of wizard, a man of pure, unadulterated magical mayhem. But your theoretical knowledge! It's as rich as a dragon's hoard! I honestly can't tell if you're a brawler or a bookworm!" (Though Kael'thas was secretly itching to ask if Duke had simply pilfered these theories from Medivh's legendary Karazhan library, he knew better than to poke that particular hornet's nest. He was, for once, genuinely thrilled for Duke.) Over by the stage, Jaina Proudmoore, now a full-blown fangirl, was practically vibrating with admiration, peppering Duke with questions. "Brother Edmund," she chirped, her voice brimming with innocent eagerness, "do you… do you take on apprentices? Because, well, how about I become your apprentice?" Jaina, bless her naive heart, was still a relatively guileless girl. Her wide, watery blue eyes, innocent as a freshly hatched Gryphon, could melt even the most hardened Archmage's resolve, making them agree to anything without a second thought.

"But… don't you practically worship the ground Antonidas walks on?" Duke blurted out, caught off guard. Jaina blinked, her innocent gaze unwavering. "Hey! How did you know that?!" Duke winced. Oops. He'd let the cat out of the bag, hadn't he? But he recovered with the smooth grace of a rogue dodging a trap. "My dear Princess," he said, a charming smile back in place, "who in all of Dalaran doesn't hold Master Antonidas in the highest esteem?" "Well, yeah, that's true," Jaina conceded, a slight pout on her lips. "But the Master is always so busy. He said he was 'injured' recently, but everyone knows he's just holed up in his laboratory all day, probably trying to invent a self-stirring cauldron or something equally absurd."

A flock of phantom crows, cawing judgmentally, circled above Duke's head. Antonidas, you old fox, Duke mentally grumbled, could you at least try to fake an injury with a little more conviction? Even a twelve-year-old can see through that charade! Duke, however, had no desire to poke the bear that was Jaina Proudmoore. Putting aside her future character, which would famously swing between 'peace-loving diplomat' and 'incinerate-everything-that-moves,' Duke simply didn't have the confidence to mentor her. He wasn't some ivory-tower academic; his grasp of Azeroth's true magical theory was, at best, 'half-baked.' Even if he harbored a simmering resentment for the historical Jaina who'd inadvertently led to his father's demise, she was undeniably a pivotal figure, a linchpin in countless future Alliance events. Meddling with her growth would be like throwing a wrench into the gears of destiny, making an already chaotic future utterly unpredictable. So, with the grace of a seasoned diplomat, Duke politely, but firmly, declined.

"My sincerest apologies, Princess Proudmoore," Duke said, a practiced, apologetic smile on his face. "I'm afraid my schedule is tighter than a goblin's purse strings. My primary reason for gracing Dalaran with my presence was to pay my respects to Master Antonidas, and, perhaps more importantly, to recruit some much-needed arcane talent for the glorious Stormwind Royal Mage Corps!" At this bombshell, a ripple of understanding, followed by a murmur of excitement, swept through the crowd gathered at the front of the stage. Duke, ever the straight shooter, hadn't sugarcoated his intentions. The wizarding world, for all its arcane mysteries, respected a fair exchange; cheating and deceit were considered the hallmarks of a truly inferior mind. Duke then turned to Ilucia, a glint in his eye. "My dear assistant, the arduous task of vetting future apprentices falls to you! For those who choose to become my disciple or assistant, I offer free, personalized guidance, and unrestricted access to the bottom three floors of the legendary Karazhan Library! The catch? A mere three years of service, fighting for the Alliance and the noble Kingdom of Stormwind, as a proud member of the Stormwind Royal Mage Corps!"

Just as joining the esteemed Dalaran Mages offered a veritable smorgasbord of benefits, Duke, with characteristic bluntness, laid out his recruitment pitch. It was a gamble, a roll of the dice, a tantalizing blend of risk and unparalleled opportunity. The moment 'joining the war' hit Jaina's ears, her hopes deflated like a punctured dirigible. Her father, Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, would never, in a million years, allow his underage daughter to get caught in the crossfire. In fact, Daelin had already made it crystal clear: if Dalaran even smelled trouble, a crack team of mages would be dispatched to whisk her back to Kul Tiras faster than a blink spell. "Alas!" Jaina sighed, a dramatic flutter of her eyelashes. "It seems I'll just have to wait until this whole messy war business is over before I get my chance to visit Brother Edmund!" Duke merely smiled, saying nothing. And no sooner had the final echoes of his lecture faded than Duke found himself unceremoniously 'captured' by the formidable Archmage Antonidas.

Back in Antonidas's laboratory, the venerable old Archmage, his white beard bristling with indignation, was decidedly less than chummy with Duke. "Now see here, Duke," Antonidas grumbled, his voice a low growl, "that was hardly a neighborly thing to do! You're actively undermining Dalaran's war potential!" Duke merely shrugged, a picture of feigned innocence. He knew, of course, that while Dalaran had always prided itself on its 'liberal' policy, allowing nobles from other kingdoms to freely poach any uncontracted apprentices or formal mages, that was a luxury afforded only in peacetime. This, however, was the uneasy calm between the Alliance and Horde wars. Dalaran had its own strategic considerations, its own arcane secrets to protect. Duke's blatant recruitment drive might be 'above board' on the surface, but the real concern was the Kirin Tor Council turning around and making life a living hell for the Alliance. Duke, ever the pragmatist, bowed deeply. "For the continued prosperity and war readiness of Dalaran, Master Antonidas," he began, his voice oozing sincerity, "I am prepared to offer a token of goodwill: one thousand meticulously copied arcane tomes from the legendary Karazhan Library, to be added to Dalaran's Great Library!"

Antonidas's long, bushy white eyebrows shot up like startled owls. "Five thousand books, Duke! One hundred mages, and three hundred apprentices!" he countered, his voice a booming demand.

"Two thousand books, five hundred mages, and a thousand apprentices," Duke shot back, barely missing a beat.

"Why don't you just go and rob them?!" the Kirin Tor Speaker thundered, his beard practically vibrating with outrage.

"Wrong, Master," Duke corrected, a glint of pure mischief in his eye. "It'd be easier to just go and rob them!" Duke knew the value of those rare, coveted arcane texts; he wasn't worried Antonidas wouldn't bite. Knowledge, after all, was power, and Duke was holding a dragon's hoard of it.

"No! Absolutely not! That's far too many! At most, two hundred mages and five hundred apprentices!" And so, these two titans of the Alliance, men whose very footsteps could shake the earth, began to haggle like a pair of gnomes over a rusty nail at a goblin auction, right there in the sanctity of Antonidas's private laboratory, with no one else around to witness their undignified antics.