Tides of Darkness

At the command center in Southshore, the air was thick with the scent of stale ale and crushing defeat. Admiral Daelin Proudmoore's face was ashen, drained of all color, like a ghost ship under a pale moon. He'd spent an entire autumn and winter scraping together every last resource to replenish the Third Fleet, which had been practically decimated in the last war. Because of that, the Fourth Fleet, which should have been sailing the high seas ages ago, was still stuck at a measly eighty percent completion. Now, in the blink of an eye, the entire Third Fleet – over a hundred large and small warships – was gone, swallowed by the waves. Only eight battered fast ships, looking like drowned rats, had limped back to Southshore in a panic. The rest? Sunk to the bottom of the sea, or worse, captured by the enemy.

The only sliver of cold comfort was that the Third Fleet had, at least, managed to land a few solid punches. According to the few reports that made it back, they'd sent about fifty of the Bloodsail Fleet's ships to Davy Jones' Locker. But that meager tally was about as comforting as a murloc lullaby to the furious masses. The reason was simple, brutally simple: those blasted Bloodsail Pirates had thrown in with the orcs, turning the tide of naval supremacy on its head. Humans were no longer the undisputed kings of the ocean!

"Damn Farrell!" Daelin roared, his fist smashing an entire solid oak table into splinters, the wood groaning in protest before exploding into a shower of shards. Duke, Anduin, and Llane stood in stunned silence, their faces grim. Duke, in particular, felt a familiar pang of guilt. He remembered it all too well: how he had inadvertently stirred up the hornet's nest that was the Bloodsail Pirates, then proceeded to rob them blind, capture their crews, and use their ill-gotten gains to establish the very first Stormwind Fleet.

"I should've nipped that problem in the bud when I had the chance!" Duke cursed inwardly, a wave of self-recrimination washing over him. But then, he snapped out of his self-pitying daydream. The world of Azeroth was vast, sprawling, and utterly uncooperative. If Duke wanted to deal with the Bloodsail Pirates, he couldn't just snap his fingers and teleport to their lair without knowing the exact spatial coordinates. And teleporting to Stormwind City, currently occupied by a horde of green-skinned barbarians? That was a laugh, a real knee-slapper. Even riding a griffin, Duke would have to spend over a week crossing the entire continent to reach the southernmost tip, Stranglethorn Vale, then rely on his notoriously unreliable memory of a video game to find the Bloodsail Pirates' hidden stronghold. And then, without any backup, try to convince the remaining three Bloodsail fleets to abandon their cozy hideout and sail north? Duke felt a wave of nausea just thinking about it.

But now, the Bloodsail Pirates had come knocking. If Duke had to tackle them solo, he'd be in a world of hurt. The real kicker was their alliance with the Horde. That was a whole different kettle of fish.

Lothar, ever the strategist, broke the tense silence. "How many fleets do the Bloodsail Corsairs have?"

"Three," Duke replied, thoughtfully. "But their combined strength is roughly equal to two Kul Tiras fleets."

"No," Daelin cut in, his voice still raw but now tinged with a grim clarity. "I know Farrell. That old dog never puts all his eggs in one basket. He'll only bring two fleets at most. The real problem is the Horde's new warships."

Turalyon murmured, his voice barely audible, "Even if our navy can still hold its own against the Horde's fleet, but…"

Lothar's face was pale, his words heavy with dread. "But we're powerless to stop the Horde's transport ships." This was the crux of the biscuit, the whole enchilada. The Horde didn't need to dominate the seas; they just needed to cross this damn stretch of water to unleash their overwhelming land-based advantage.

Llane, ever the optimist (or perhaps just hoping for a convenient, self-destructive enemy), asked, "Will the Horde come to attack Southshore again?" It wasn't a question born of tension, but of a desperate, almost humorous hope. Southshore was now fortified like a brick shithouse, thanks to Duke. The Alliance was practically daring the Horde to smash themselves against it.

Duke shook his head. "I'd bet my last gold coin that unless the Horde replaces the dead Blackhand as Warchief, if it's Orgrim Doomhammer calling the shots, he's not going to pull a boneheaded move like that again." Duke then shifted gears, a glint in his eye. "However, we can find a way to twist their arm and force the Horde to attack Southshore one more time."

"Really?!" The Alliance leaders, a moment ago looking like they'd lost their last friend, suddenly perked up like dogs hearing a treat bag crinkle.

"I want to be clear, this isn't a good thing," Duke said, his voice dropping to a serious tone.

"Why not?" Llane asked, his hope still flickering.

"I plan to hang Blackhand's massive, frozen head and the battle flag of the previous Warchief right there at the port of Southshore. That'll certainly bait the Horde into attacking Southshore again, but it will also effectively wipe out the last of the orcs in the Horde who dare to openly defy the new Warchief, Orgrim."

After a moment of stunned silence, Lothar spoke up, his voice grim. "Let's do it. I've thought it through. This will undoubtedly give the Horde a short-term boost in power, but in the long run, it'll cut their war potential off at the knees."

Everyone's eyes widened in sudden understanding. The orcs who were grumbling about Orgrim might have changed their tune eventually, but if they died now, there'd be no 'eventually.' And after a long winter of, presumably, making little orc babies, every dead orc was one less warrior before the next generation grew up.

"That settles it then. We force the Horde to attack Southshore. And at the same time, we'll see if we can fight a decisive naval battle to regain absolute control of the seas."

That very afternoon, Blackhand's enormous, frost-rimmed head was hoisted atop the lighthouse at Southshore's port, a grotesque beacon of defiance. Beside it, the tattered battle flag of the previous Warchief flapped defiantly in the sea breeze. The Kul Tiran fleet, with a mischievous glint in their eyes, deliberately let the Horde's reconnaissance boats come and go, even ignoring the ones that returned for a second look. Oh, yes! We want you orcs to know!

Duke's ruthless gambit hit Orgrim Doomhammer like a Doomhammer to the face. "This is blasphemy! Blasphemy against the warriors of the Horde! Blasphemy against the glory of the Horde!" A chorus of smaller clan chieftains, their faces contorted with rage, clamored around Orgrim. "Capture Southshore and kill all the humans! Make their chieftain's head into a urinal!" Their incessant caterwauling grated on Orgrim's nerves like a rusty axe on stone. This, he knew, was the bitter taste of insufficient prestige.

"Are we going to force the warriors of the Horde to crash against the strongest human defenses like lemmings off a cliff? To sacrifice our warriors in vain?" Orgrim snarled, his voice a low growl.

"The orcs are invincible!" one chieftain bellowed.

"Humanity's weak defenses cannot stop our battle axes!" another roared, clearly already celebrating a victory in his head.

"Warchief!" a particularly thick-headed chief yelled, "As long as we can hold off the human warships, the clan warriors are invincible!" Orgrim noted, with a flicker of grim amusement, that this particular idiot wasn't that stupid.

"Warchief," another chief pressed, pushing Orgrim's buttons, "would you rather trust those dead humans and the treacherous humans who betrayed their own people, than trust the warriors of the Horde?" The mention of death knights and the turncoat Bloodsail Corsairs made Orgrim's eye twitch. For a split second, he felt an overwhelming urge to introduce that chief's skull to his Doomhammer. The Southshore defeat had been a test, yes, but Orgrim's pursuit of multi-ethnic cooperation wasn't because the former Warchief Blackhand had been a blithering idiot, was it? If he had enough elite troops, Orgrim wouldn't have even considered bringing those damned death knights into the fold. Orgrim was beyond annoyed; he was boiling.

"Alright!" Orgrim finally snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. "All chieftains willing to attack Southshore, step forward! The new fleet of the orcs will pave the way for you!" More than a dozen chieftains from the smaller and medium clans immediately surged forward, their numbers so overwhelming that Orgrim almost went completely bonkers. Just then, Zuluhed, the chieftain of the Dragonmaw clan, gave Orgrim a knowing wink. Orgrim glanced at Grommash Hellscream, who gave him a curt nod.

"Alright! As you wish! This time, our plan is as follows…"

Dark Portal 2, March 26th. A large-scale sea crossing operation, a maneuver that simply didn't exist in the annals of 'history,' began. Unlike the last hesitant, probing attack, this time, the Horde was coming out in full force, leaving nothing on the table. Alliance scouts, risking life and limb, reported back that orcs were swarming every single beachhead in the Wetlands. A rough estimate put the Horde's invading force at a staggering five hundred thousand troops. It seemed the orcs were either going to send these troops to the northern continent, or send them all to the bottom of the sea to feed the fish. While over a third of those five hundred thousand were mere laborers, and the combat forces had been beefed up with fresh, green recruits from the Dark Portal, reducing their fighting power by at least thirty percent compared to the last five hundred thousand, the sheer number was still enough to make a seasoned veteran sweat.

"Are those orcs completely off their rockers?!" Every noble and neutral mage in Dalaran who heard the news was horrified, their faces turning a shade of green usually reserved for fel-orcs. It was only then, with the threat looming larger than a mountain, that the three kingdoms of Lordaeron, Dalaran, and Alterac finally, frantically, passed a resolution for total war. The entire kingdom began to mobilize, scrambling like ants before a flood.

"I just hope we can get through this one alive," Lothar muttered, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon.

Meanwhile, on the flagship of the First Fleet of Kul Tiras, Admiral Daelin Proudmoore hunched over a sea chart, illuminated by a flickering lamp. He stared at the three blood-red model boats representing the enemy fleets, a knot of unease tightening in his gut. Aside from that one time the Third Fleet had gotten too close and been ambushed, Daelin had never truly taken the previous Orc navy seriously. They were a joke, a bunch of glorified rafts. But this time, the enemy wasn't just a bunch of brain-dead orc transport ships waiting to be sunk like targets at a carnival. Not only were there orc battleships of unknown but clearly formidable strength, but also his old nemesis, the former Duke of Kul Tiras, Farrell. Daelin knew better than to underestimate Farrell, the cunning old sea dog who had once dared to challenge his throne. While the quality of Farrell's new batch of Bloodsail warships might not hold a candle to Kul Tiras's original fleet, they made up for it in sheer numbers. And with Farrell at the helm, those pirates wouldn't be slouches. It wasn't the highest level of threat he'd ever faced, but it would certainly require the full, undivided might of the Kul Tiras fleet to handle.

Just then, a visitor arrived, sending a jolt of surprise through Daelin. When the visitor finished speaking, Daelin couldn't believe his ears. "Are you telling the truth!?" The other party merely nodded, then vanished as silently as they'd arrived.

It was late at night. Across the dark, sprawling wetlands of the Palatine Bay, an inky blackness had swallowed the entire world. Thick, bruised clouds clung to the sky, completely blotting out every hopeful ray of moonlight that tried to pierce the oppressive gloom. The Bloodsail Fleet had dropped anchor, each ship rising and falling rhythmically with the gentle sway of the waves. For pirates, whose lives were tethered to the sea, this was just another Tuesday. Most of the crew were already slung in their hammocks, catching some much-needed Zs in the cramped, smelly cabins. The stern of every large ship, by default, served as the captain's lounge.

Miss Jesse Farrell, the sole heir to the Duke of Farrell after her brother had been unceremoniously blasted into the sky by Blackwater Pirate cannonballs, was a force to be reckoned with. At sixteen, her dwarven blood gave her a short, stout, and undeniably muscular build. Looking at her broad, powerful back, anyone would have sworn she was a man. Lately, however, Miss Jesse had been feeling more than just a little peeved. She thought her father had gone completely off his rocker, actually joining forces with the orcs – those bloodthirsty brutes who reveled in slaughter and aimed to conquer every intelligent race on Azeroth! What truly chafed her hide was that the entire Bloodsail Pirate fleet seemed to have been shanghaied. On every ship, two orcs, each as big as a small hill, stood guard over the captains. They didn't speak a lick of human tongue, but according to the Horde chief, if they caught any Bloodsail Pirate trying to pull a fast one, the price would be paid in blood. Pirates, by nature, weren't exactly paragons of hygiene; not bathing for months was par for the course in their long, salty careers. But the two reeking female orcs blocking the door to her room pushed Jesse's senses to their absolute limit. The devastating stench of someone who hadn't seen a bar of soap in who-knew-how-many years made it impossible for Jesse to sleep, even with the door between them. Jesse could only try to distract herself, her mind racing.

"We're sailing out to settle things with Kul Tiras tomorrow… Damn it all, this isn't the fight my father or I wanted."

At that precise moment, a cold, sharp dagger was silently pressed against her throat…

Early in the morning of March 27th.

"Woo! Woo! Woo!" The colossal horns, stretching from the top of the orc arrow towers to the very ground, emitted a long, deep, bone-rattling sound, followed by the deafening, sky-shaking thrum of war drums. Every orc on the coast, every Bloodsail Pirate on the sea, knew it in their bones: the day of decisive battle had arrived.

"Thump! Thump! Thump!" Looking out from the deck, the Bloodsail Pirates felt as if the entire world was shaking apart. This was no illusion. Even at sea, with their ships swaying rhythmically with the waves, they could clearly see the branches on the coast trembling slightly, the gravel on the beach rising and falling, and the stagnant puddles in the muddy wetlands rippling violently, as if the very ground was having a seizure.

Duke Farrell, the pirate lord, stood not far from the rudder, his knuckles white as he gripped the ship's railing. "Earthquake?" he muttered, even on the sea, he could distinctly feel the guttural roar of the earth vibrating through the water. His first mate shook his head, his face grim. If this was an illusion, then it was an illusion shared by hundreds of men on their ship, and tens of thousands across the entire Bloodsail Pirate Fleet.

"Hahaha! That's our invincible tribal army!" An orc, who looked slightly more intelligent than his brethren and wielded a giant short axe, roared beside Duke Farrell, his Common Tongue heavily accented. The entire Bloodsail Fleet was thrown into a chaotic frenzy. All the Bloodsail Corsairs stopped dead in their tracks, staring in wide-eyed horror at the blinding, eye-catching green tide that had appeared on the eastern coast.

A moment ago, the endless, murky swamp terrain stretched from the coast as far as the eye could see. In the distance, shallow, stagnant pools, thick with unknown, foul-smelling substances, constantly belched unpleasant odors into the air. Countless small, lake-like mud pits carved the green landscape into a jagged, impassable mess, with not a single straight path in sight. Now, hundreds of thousands of orcs had simply… appeared. They ran, they roared, they shoved each other, a green tsunami surging towards the sea from beyond the horizon. They seemed to be driven by the very dawn itself, desperately trying to outrun the light, moving towards the darkness that was about to be driven away.

All orcs had two legs, two arms, and green skin, but that's where the similarities ended. Some were as big as sturdy humans, others were hulking giants, and a few, with their two heads and bloated bodies, were already monstrous. Without exception, they all thundered towards the shore. In truth, there were huge differences between orcs and ogres, but in that green, frenzied blur, they all looked exactly the same to the terrified pirates. The Bloodsail Pirates could only watch as the green tide surged over every watery swamp, trampled every blade of grass, and smashed everything that dared to stand in its way. Perhaps colorful snakes and insects fled the swamp under the orcs' thunderous feet, but everything was crushed, flattened, obliterated.

Holes, hills, swamps – wherever you looked, the land was gushing out green-skinned orcs like a grotesque, unstoppable tide. As the sun struggled to climb higher in the sky, even more ships began to appear on land. To prevent their newly built transport ships from being annihilated by the humans, who had once ruled the waves, the orcs had adopted a simpler, more brutal method: these transport ships, each weighing dozens of tons, were all parked on the shore, piled up in places where human ship guns couldn't reach them. When the orcs were ready to launch their general attack, the orc laborers would simply hoist the bottom of the boats and shove them into the water. Heavy, clumsy, but undeniably moving, these visible transport ships formed colossal waves of wood, slowly lumbering across the ground towards the sea.

Watching this land-based fleet lumbering towards them, the Bloodsail Pirates were struck dumb, observing everything before them with a mixture of awe and sheer terror. Duke Farrell, who had spent his entire life on the high seas, had never witnessed anything like it. Countless orcs blanketed the entire area, using their powerful bodies, explosive muscle-bound arms, fanged mouths, bloodshot eyes, and green skin to weave a world-class, living carpet, covering every corner the sun could reach. Duke Farrell was filled with a bitter, gnawing regret. He knew, with chilling certainty, that if this terrifying force ever made it across the northern continent, the countdown to humanity's destruction would begin.

Right beside him, an orc Blademaster was casually wiping his sword, completely oblivious to the pirate lord's internal turmoil. This was a super-strong warrior, a stone-cold killer. Over a dozen of Farrell's best sailors had tried to rush him, to take him down, but not a single one had gotten within two meters before being chopped into bloody pieces.

Looking at the transport ships being heaved into the water, sending geysers of spray into the air, Farrell glanced at his daughter Jesse's flagship, half a mile to his right. Jesse gave him a subtle hand gesture, a signal only he would understand.

"All fleets, listen up!" Duke Farrell bellowed, his voice cutting through the growing din. "Weigh anchor! Set sail! Target – the damn Kul Tiras fleet!"

Ten minutes later, responding to the first glorious flash of dawn, the entire Bloodsail Fleet, arrayed like a curved bow, sliced straight into the sea. They were heading north from the Palatine Gulf, across the vast ocean that separated the two continents, to engage the Kul Tiras fleet, which was undoubtedly waiting for them.

The damp breath of early spring mingled with the wind, blowing gently past Orgrim Doomhammer's nose. The rising and falling green tide of orcs on land perfectly connected with the surging waves of the vast sea. Orgrim, riding a massive white war wolf, stood atop a hill by the sea, appearing, at first glance, to be standing on the very crest of the waves. Looking at the glittering sea horizon at the edge of his vision, Orgrim swelled with pride. He pointed his Doomhammer into the distance and declared, "As long as we can pass through this sea, the warriors of the Horde can crush the resistance of any creature in any world!"

"I'm with you, Warchief!" The infamous Grommash Hellscream appeared beside Orgrim, his equally infamous Gorehowl axe resting on his shoulder. "Though I always think races other than orcs are about as reliable as a goblin's promise, and I'm not always a fan of your soft touch with other races, I do like your knack for always getting the job done, Warchief."

Orgrim paid Grommash's usual gripes no mind. His massive war hammer lightly tapped Gorehowl's axe head, the two legendary killing machines making a dull, heavy clunk. "The most powerful human kingdom is Lordaeron. See you in Lordaeron." Orgrim bared his tusks in a grim smile.

"See you in Lordaeron!" Grommash replied, turning without a backward glance, leaving a trail of deep footprints and a legendary back in his wake.

The orc transport fleet was still loading up with troops, but the Bloodsail Fleet and the main orc fleet, having set out first, encountered the enemy around ten o'clock that morning. A handful of ultra-light, lightning-fast reconnaissance ships, looking like flat, elegant canoes in typical elven style, appeared on the horizon. Then, as the Bloodsail Fleet's alarm bells shrieked, more sail shadows appeared, filling the distant horizon.

Duke Farrell frowned. It was too early. Before his entire fleet had even fully cleared the Palatine Gulf, they'd run smack into the Kul Tiras fleet, which had obviously come out in full force. It seemed the Alliance Navy had made up its mind to annihilate the Bloodsail and the orcs' main fleets right here and now, and reclaim absolute control of the seas. What in the blazes happened?! Duke Farrell couldn't help but glance at his daughter Jesse's flagship, half a mile to his right.

However, since they'd met, there was only one thing left to do: fight!

"Order! All fleets turn forty degrees to starboard! We must try to gain the weather gauge!" Duke Farrell barked.

But as soon as the Duke's order came down, it was met with brutal, immediate opposition. An orc, who surprisingly knew the Common Tongue, slammed his battle axe against the guardrail with a deafening CLANG! "No need to be so complicated, human! Just attack!"

"Damn it! It's common sense to seize the weather gauge!" Farrell roared back, his face turning red.

"The Horde does not need your so-called common sense!" the orc grunted, his voice a muffled growl. "It only needs you to get close enough to the enemy ships. The warriors of the Burning Blade Clan will solve all problems!"

Duke Farrell had heard the tall tales of an orc chieftain who had single-handedly torn apart several Kul Tiras ships with just his axe, but he had never, in his wildest dreams, imagined that the orcs would actually try to solve all their problems in such a simple, brutal, and utterly insane way. This completely flipped all common sense of naval warfare on its head. No! It was more than common sense; it was a cosmic joke. Farrell could practically taste the orcs' distrust. The green-skinned chieftain clearly wanted his Bloodsail Fleet to go down with the human fleet, clearing the way for the orc transport ships to sail safely across every ocean in the world.

"Fine!" Farrell spat, the word tasting like ash. But the situation was a runaway train, and the Duke, with a furious wave of his hand, finally gave in. Ten seconds later, a blood-red emblem flag, bearing the symbol of the Bloodsail Corsairs, unfurled on his flagship. This idiotic order was immediately confirmed by the various command ships, their captains gritting their teeth as they relayed it.

Just like that, the entire Bloodsail and Orc joint fleet, looking like a pair of brainless battering rams, formed two columns and charged forward. The more 'rational' Alliance fleet, meanwhile, spread out like a monstrous crab, claws and fangs bared, its jaws opening wide to form an inescapable encirclement within half an hour.

At 10:45 in the morning, the infamous "Battle of the Palatine Gulf" erupted!

Later generations' evaluation of the Battle of the Palatine Gulf was, to put it mildly, one-sided. Of course, this wasn't a traditional naval battle. The head-on collision of two wildly different tactical concepts made this naval engagement seem less like a war and more like a bizarre, bloody circus. The traditional human navy adhered to the doctrine of big ships and big guns, a philosophy that had served them well for centuries. The Orc navy, however, played a typical game of hand-to-hand combat, a brutal, up-close-and-personal brawl.

In a strange way, the orcs were surprisingly good at it. This wasn't some futuristic cannon that could lob shells for dozens of kilometers, like the ones Duke remembered from his past life. It wasn't even the twenty-thousand-meter range guns of World War II. These were crude, breech-loading cannons, firing solid shells without rifling, with a pathetic range of less than a kilometer. For an orc Blademaster, skilled in their 'Light Footsteps' technique, closing that distance was no problem at all. Hellscream, the legend goes, once dismantled a Gundam with his bare hands – oh, wait, that was Gorehowl dismantling a warship – which apparently gave the orcs some rather… unique inspirations. Even in the face of headwinds, the orc warships showed no weakness. The guns on their ships were basically glorified decorations. At the end of the day, they were just large, mobile transport vessels.

As soon as they entered the two-nautical-mile range, dozens of sampan-class boats were launched from the sides of the colossal, garbage-heap ships. Orc laborers, their muscles bulging, furiously paddled these modified, small, turtle-shell boats, their heads covered with makeshift caps, heading straight for the Kul Tiras warships. Human cannons were devastating against ships, but they were about as useful as a screen door on a submarine when faced with such tiny, nimble targets. And that wasn't even mentioning the dozen orc Blademasters, utterly defying the laws of physics, who were literally walking on the waves, closing in fast.

Admiral Daelin, watching the chaos unfold, let out a sigh of relief. The orcs' tactics were exactly as he'd predicted.

Deep beneath the churning waves, tens of meters below the surface, a brilliant blue and white magical light suddenly ignited. The light was so dense, so blinding, that no orc noticed it… except for the Blademasters, whose heightened senses picked up the faint shimmer. The next moment, a deadly, icy rain erupted from the bottom of the sea, shooting skyward. Brilliant and beautiful, it was a sight utterly unnatural, yet intimately associated with death. The ice arrows, conjured by the Murloc Sages, were lethally precise, easily piercing the thin bottoms of the small boats. The Murlocs' unique talent allowed them to part the very seawater, creating a clear path for their ice arrows to accurately penetrate the flimsy hulls.

"Hahaha! Good kill!" Admiral Daelin roared with hearty laughter, watching the small boats, which had been furiously paddling closer, suddenly stop dead in the water and begin to sink. The orc Blademasters, still gliding across the waves, had anticipated dealing with these troublesome fish-men. Firstly, underwater combat wasn't exactly their strong suit, and secondly, they had bigger fish to fry.

A large number of Naga priests, including the Murloc Prophet Mogor, the Wrath-Scale Naga Wala, and the Thornspine Naga Sephiris, had all been brought to this very spot. "Ga Ga Oh Oh La——" Mogor chanted, an unknown, guttural spell rumbling from his throat as he suddenly unleashed his ultimate move. In the sea, murlocs and nagas enjoyed a natural magical bonus, their power amplified by the watery depths. And this, after all, was a battlefield that had been meticulously prepared hours in advance. Beneath the waves, inconspicuous conches, clam shells buried dozens of meters deep, and even the most unassuming dead coral suddenly began to emit a faint, magical glow. Two points formed a line, multiple lines formed intricate patterns. Through the crystal-clear seawater, the orc Blademasters on the surface suddenly realized, with dawning horror, that a massive magic circle, over a hundred square meters in diameter, had appeared on the seabed, as if from nowhere.

"Wah-la-la——" Mogor's only three fingers on each hand twitched and shook, his eyes rolled back in his head, a mad, charlatan-like expression plastered across his face. The next moment, the sea sank. In an instant, the sea level in a vast area, with a radius of three hundred meters, plummeted by over thirty meters. A colossal vortex formed rapidly, a swirling maw of water. To the side, hundred-meter-high waves, churned up by the sheer magical force, easily swept everything caught in the whirlpool down to the crushing depths of the seabed.

The Blademasters of the Burning Blade Clan were awesome, no doubt about it, but they were about as good at underwater combat as a tauren was at ballet! The underwater world was home turf for marine life, and they were playing by the rules of the deep. Countless jellyfish-like tentacles erupted from the magic circle, snaking upwards, grabbing the orc Blademasters and dragging them down to the deeper seabed. The Blademasters, holding their breath, struggled furiously, hacking at the resistant jellyfish tentacles in the water. But for every one they cut, three more appeared, and for every five they severed, ten more sprang forth. This bizarre, relentless fighting style was so alien, so overwhelming, that even a massive warship might not have been able to withstand it, let alone living, breathing orcs.

"Lok-tar, ogar!"

Victory or death! Not a single orc showed fear on their faces, only fierce determination. More orc speedboats, ignoring the swirling vortex, attempted to bypass the maelstrom by paddling furiously, aiming to reach and destroy the Kul Tiras fleet.

On the flagship, Daelin, a grim smile spreading across his face, held a scimitar in his right hand and a short-barreled musket in his left, watching the scene unfold. "Well, my old friend," he murmured, his voice calm, "now is the time for you to make a decision. But before that…"

"Whoosh—!" A green phantom, a blur of speed, approached at high velocity. His pace was so blindingly fast that the splashes created by his feet left a long, white waterline across the sea. No ranged weapon could hope to hit this elusive figure. Just like that, he leaped over the seven or eight-meter gap between the sea surface and the ship's side, landing on the deck like a bolt of lightning. Naturally, the smaller fish-men, the murlocs, couldn't even catch a glimpse of him. But what greeted him was a war hammer, glowing with a sacred golden light.

"Bang!" With a loud, ringing clang, the orc Blademaster engaged the newcomer in a brutal, no-frills brawl. "I am the Paladin Tirion Fordring! Tell me your name, orc!" Tirion, whom countless players had simply called 'Old Buddha' before Duke's time-traveling adventure, was at the absolute peak of his power. The sea breeze ruffled his hair and beard, making the young knight look even more extraordinary.

"Galardo!" the orc Blademaster snarled, uttering his name before immediately lunging forward, resuming his furious assault on the old man.

But that wasn't all the orcs had up their sleeves. Even the green-skinned brutes knew the old adage: to catch a thief, you go for the head. A cold flash of steel flickered behind Daelin. On the entire ship, no one noticed where the blade came from, no one but Daelin himself! With a sharp clang, an unconventional scimitar whipped back, its shining blade just barely deflecting the sharp edge that was meant to pierce Daelin's chest.

"Bang!" Almost simultaneously, two musket shots cracked through the air. The sneak attacker, caught completely off guard, took a musket shot to the face. This was no ordinary single-barreled musket. How could a king, a man like Daelin Proudmoore, carry anything of low quality? It was clearly a trigger-activated musket, but the barrel glowed with the brilliance of a magic circle, a complex and mysterious aqua-blue spell appearing on the barrel only at the moment of firing. And though it was a single-barreled musket, it fired two bursts under the effect of magic – a truly disastrous surprise for the recipient.

"Ugh!" An orc Blademaster, a red battle flag fluttering from his back, a string of massive white beads around his neck, and a single-edged broadsword in his hand, groaned and stumbled back three steps, revealing his cloaked form. "Despicable!" he snarled, surprisingly, in perfect Common Tongue.

Daelin, a handsome man weathered by the sea breeze, allowed a smug smile to spread across his face. "Hey! I don't want to be called despicable by an orc who can only attack from behind! We're opponents of the same caliber, at most… Don't you think so, Samuro?" That's right, the one who had come was none other than the legendary orc hero, Blademaster Samuro.

"Hmph!" With a cold snort, Samuro immediately brandished his sword, a blur of steel, and pounced forward.

The fighting prowess of the seven human kings varied wildly. Those who could fight were like human nuclear bombs, like Antonidas. Those who couldn't, like Terenas or Aiden, would fall over if a stiff breeze blew their way. In general, the martial spirit of Emperor Thoradin had been passed down. The martial arts of Llane and Thoras Trollbane were above average. And after learning how to transform, King Genn's martial arts had also become quite formidable, only slightly weaker than the future Queen Higurashi. Of course, King Daelin was also a force to be reckoned with, having stepped into the realm of heroes. In history, if it weren't for the infuriating incident of selling his own father, Daelin would never have been killed by Rexxar and other Horde heroes. Now, in a one-on-one fight, Daelin, still in his prime, clashed with Samuro.

As the Horde sent their strongest warriors to attack, the warships of both sides continued to close the distance at high speed. About a thousand meters away, on Duke Farrell's ship, the orcs tasked with monitoring the Duke couldn't help but exclaim when they saw the arc of light unleashed by their hero's slash. "Huh? I didn't expect there were still strong people among humans!" Orcs, after all, worshipped strength. For them, a powerful warrior could earn their respect across any racial divide. A thousand meters away, a person was just a tiny dot, but that didn't stop the orc from knowing that Samuro hadn't taken down the enemy chief.

"There are many more powerful people in the world than you think," Duke Farrell said coldly.

"But that doesn't include you," the orc retorted, cutting the Duke down harshly.

"Hmph!" The Duke snorted coldly, and the orc Blademaster standing behind him took a threatening step forward.

"Now you can play your favorite artillery battle."

The orcs' arrogant, indifferent order almost sent Farrell over the edge. You wouldn't let me seize the weather gauge, and now that your brainless commandos are no longer effective, you expect my ships to take over the fight? The frustration and utter helplessness were driving Farrell to the brink of madness. What else could he do? He and his fleet were now just lambs to the slaughter, serving the orcs' bloody agenda. He had no choice but to raise his hands, making the gesture to prepare for shelling.

"Target…"

"The orcs' rubbish warship." A cold, clear voice, like ice cracking, interrupted the Duke's command.

Without giving anyone time to react, a chilling breath instantly exploded on the ship's deck. The biting cold swept across the faces of everyone nearby like a lightning bolt, freezing only the orc guard and the Blademaster solid. In less than a hundredth of a second, all the orcs near Duke Farrell were transformed into grotesque ice sculptures. Every ferocious expression, every bulging muscle, every half-drawn blade… all the gruesome details were perfectly preserved. Unfortunately, they were just ice sculptures that had lost their lives.

A figure in a blue and white robe suddenly materialized less than three meters in front of Duke Farrell. "Sir Edmund Duke," the pirate lord muttered to himself, his voice filled with disbelief, "I didn't expect that you, as the Deputy Commander of the Alliance, would take action personally…"

Duke, making a grand entrance, raised his hand and unleashed an Ice Cone technique that combined the characteristics of a tornado, effortlessly sending the orc ice blocks flying off the side of the ship with a sickening CRACK!