Rokama

From the get-go, Duke knew Orgrim wasn't playing checkers, he was playing chess – and the naval battle was just a pawn sacrifice. Win or lose, as long as over 60% of those transport ships made it to shore, the orcs would call it a win. If they hit 80%, it'd be a victory so crushing, it'd make a mountain look like a molehill.

Out on the shimmering horizon, stretching farther than a goblin's greed, Duke could clearly see the Horde's transport armada. They practically carpeted the entire sea, a number so vast it was enough to make a seasoned sailor wet his breeches. Ignoring the chaos of the skirmish, these lumbering behemoths barreled north, every orc laborer on board paddling like their lives depended on it, or perhaps, like the devil himself was nipping at their heels.

A flicker from his system elf – a warning, no doubt – snapped Duke's attention to a particularly ugly orc warship. He barked out orders, sharp as a freshly honed axe:

"Zjara, get your lads on those orc warships! I want these floating coffins sunk faster than a lead balloon. Let's send them straight to Davy Jones' Locker and turn 'em into fish food!"

"Mogor, once you've finished mopping the floor with those sword masters, I want you to go after those transport ships. No mercy, no quarter!"

Duke then turned to Farrell, his gaze unwavering. "Don't you worry about Daelin, or your standing in the Alliance. As I promised, fight well today, and your fleet will be directly under the banner of Stormwind. No strings attached."

A so-called duke, exiled from his kingdom, with a noble title that was barely worth a hill of beans and a new career as a pirate, was a dime a dozen compared to Duke, the Alliance's golden boy. Farrell bowed deeply, a grimace that could curdle milk fleetingly crossing his face – a silent testament to the bitter pill he was swallowing.

The transferred Kul Tiras Second and Fourth Fleets, the venerable Stormwind Kingdom Fleet, and the notorious Bloodsail Fleet, all surged northeast. Their objective was simple: send as many orcs as possible to the briny deep, ensuring they'd be sleeping with the fishes long before they could even think about fighting back.

Duke leaped from his vessel, the churning sea beneath his boots freezing solid in an instant. This wasn't about saving fifty thousand Stormwind soldiers this time, so Duke wasn't going to waste a single drop of mana. He kept the ice patch tight, a mere fifty-meter diameter, bobbing with the waves like a cork. He was, of course, making a beeline for a truly monstrous orc warship.

Suddenly, several hulking shadows materialized. Duke's eyes narrowed. Two hulking demon guards, wielding weapons that could cleave a gronn in two, and two even larger doomsday guards – these four monstrosities lined up, surrounding an orc warlock, hovering ominously above the waves.

"Haha! Greetings, human mage! I am Rokama Sharptooth, Warlock of the Stormreaver Clan!" The old, hunchbacked orc offered a mockingly polite bow, his left hand placed on his chest.

Duke's brow furrowed. Great. Just great. He'd clearly thrown a wrench in the gears of fate. Rokama Sharptooth was indeed a name whispered in hushed tones of power. Before Gul'dan got played like a fiddle by Medivh and slipped into a coma, Rokama was the Shadow Council's unofficial ringleader, second only to Gul'dan himself. The kicker? In the 'normal' timeline, this old warlock had kicked the bucket, used as a guinea pig for Gul'dan's twisted Death Knight experiments.

Why in the blazes is he still kicking!? And so strong!

As if the very ocean dared to defy him, a dark, suffocating aura billowed from Rokama. The colossal waves within a two-hundred-meter radius around him and Duke simply… parted. The sea surface, despite the raging battle, became as calm as a millpond. Countless fish and shrimp, caught unawares, bit the dust instantly, their lifeless bodies floating to the surface.

More than a dozen portals ripped open around Rokama. More demons poured out, a veritable demon circus: over a hundred cackling imps, dozens of burly voidwalkers, twenty glamorously dressed succubi, and ten snarling demon hounds. But the main event? Over two hundred demon guards, and their numbers were still climbing. This wasn't just a small army; it was a whole shebang of hellspawn.

What in the blazes makes a warlock who specializes in demons this powerful? Guess he's truly worth his salt as the Shadow Council's former second-in-command.

The ice beneath Duke's feet continued to snake forward, and he strode slowly, answering with a booming voice:

"Duke Marcus!"

That's the name of the game, isn't it? You could be nobility from here to the Dark Portal, but if nobody knows your name, you're just a tree falling in the forest. But once you've made a name for yourself, for good or ill, your name speaks for itself. Utter it, and a thousand whispers and legends flood the listener's mind.

Not many orcs would know the names of the kings of the seven human nations, even after running amok through the ruins of Stormwind City. A few might remember Lothar, who put the previous chieftain Blackhand six feet under, but there was only one human truly known by the entire Horde. He was the destroyer of over two hundred thousand orcs, the 'Apostle of Flame' in their eyes, and the most insidious, cunning devil of them all – Duke Marcus.

A guttural gurgle rose from Rokama's throat, followed by a shriek that was neither human nor beast, but pure, unadulterated demonic agony. "Waaaaaaaaa—" Dark energy surged from the gaps in the bone spurs and muscles on his back. Then, Rokama produced a bloody, horrific necklace from a dimensional pouch and draped it around his neck.

Duke's pupils constricted, his facial muscles twitching in uncontrollable fury. It was sickeningly simple: each 'bead' on the necklace was a shrunken human head – the head of a mage from the Stormwind Royal Family Mage Corps. He hadn't been best friends with them, most were just nodding acquaintances, but each had once stood as his peer. Using their heads to craft forbidden artifacts? That wasn't just an insult; it was a blasphemy against the entire Kingdom of Stormwind, against the whole damn Alliance.

"Pa! Pa!" Though no physical blow landed, Duke felt like he'd been given a swift kick to the gut, his face burning and stinging.

"Haha! Angry? Unwilling? No problem, you'll be joining them soon enough! Ever since we started tangling with you human wizards, it's been a lucky day for us warlocks. Condense a few of your magic circuits from your brains, give 'em a special twist, and poof! Our spellcasting capabilities go through the roof! Hahahahaha!" Rokama cackled like a banshee, raising his hands.

Ten colossal portals ripped open, and ten terrifying, yellow-skinned demons, each with massive wings and standing over six meters tall, lumbered through. The moment they emerged, their ferocious eyes, blessed by some vile magic, fixed on Duke.

Duke's head snapped up. "I never like to torture the souls of my defeated opponents, but for you, old man, I've decided to make an exception!"

Another warlock, a genuine orc powerhouse. The glaring red mark in Duke's system vision screamed 'danger.' The only silver lining? No skull mark in the strength comparison. This was the age of heroes, after all. Not many powerful figures with big reputations turned out to be all bark and no bite. Knowing he faced the Shadow Council's former second-in-command, Duke had no reason to hold back. Perhaps the two-headed ogre mage Cho'gall, who'd waltzed through the Dark Portal a few months back, was Gul'dan's new favorite, but that was just another name to add to Duke's hit list.

Duke inhaled a deep breath of moist, salty air just as a dense rain of fireballs whistled towards him from the gaggle of imps. He stretched his hands wide, drawing them left and right. A translucent wall of water shimmered into existence before the ice, five meters high and twenty meters wide. Duke pushed forward, and the thick water wall roared like a genuine tidal wave, rolling forward. The imps' fireball technique, low-level as it was, hit the water curtain like a cigarette butt falling into a puddle – instantly snuffed out.

"Hmph!" Rokama snorted, ignoring the chaos around him. He raised a hand, and a rain of fire, far larger and thicker than Duke's water wall, flew towards Duke's magical mask, pushing back.

"Sizzle——"

Fire rained down on the sea, condensing into a wall of pure flame, pushing back relentlessly against Duke. A continuous "crack! crack!" echoed as the frozen sea surface before Duke shattered completely. The sheer impact lifted the broken ice, rolling it towards Duke like a hailstorm. But the ice shards never fell. Instead, they decomposed mid-air from the intense heat, turning first into a powdery snow, then instantly sublimating into water vapor, and finally, vanishing into thin air.

Duke knew Rokama had taken his measure. And he was right. Based on raw magical power alone, Rokama was a top-tier Morning Star. But with that grotesque necklace, crafted from the heads of a dozen human wizards, Rokama's power had shot through the roof. In terms of sheer mana reserves, he was easily on par with a first-class Shining Moon wizard.

Duke sneered. Total magic power? I'm not playing with a stacked deck, old man!

The next moment, Rokama's demon hounds charged. Warlocks often used these foul beasts against mages. For physical fighters, demon hounds were a sitting duck. These dog-like demons, with their red hides, two horns, and two strange tentacles, had no outstanding features in attack, defense, or speed – they were, in fact, below average for most demons.

The truly disgusting thing about a demon hound was its ability to disrupt magic. It wasn't exactly a magic ban, more like an elemental light wave that could throw a wrench into a mage's spellcasting. Not only did it prevent low-level mages from drawing elements from the elemental world, but if the stars aligned just right, it could even inject energy turbulence into a mage's magic circuit during a cast. To put it bluntly, they were a real pain in the neck. Gross, but effective.

Each demon hound fixed its beady eyes on Duke, eager to strike when he was mid-cast and inflict maximum pain. But they were sorely disappointed. Duke's move was beyond the comprehension of these dim-witted dog-demons. Duke himself wasn't casting; it was all the system elf's doing.

Without warning, 108 spectral Magician's Hands materialized neatly behind Duke, shimmering with a faint blue arcane light. Their five fingers pulsed with dazzling energy, and the demon hounds, dozens of meters away, were suddenly impaled by massive ice spikes erupting from the sea. When the bowl-thick spikes pierced their hearts, more ice spikes riddled the demon hounds like sieves.

"Huh?" Rokama's face darkened like a thundercloud. Demon hounds boasted high magic resistance, but their physical defense was, to put it mildly, terrible. Converting ice magic into a physical attack against them showed Duke had clearly done his homework on demon warlocks.

Though Duke held the title of "Orc Slayer," he'd rarely faced a true mage. Aside from the enigmatic "Hundred-Handed Death God," this was Duke's first formal duel against a warlock. Rokama had instinctively pegged Duke as an academic weakling, all bark and no bite.

"Extend the extreme cold!" Duke finally roared, taking action himself. With the demon hounds out of the way, there was no fear of interruption. Even with the system's help, Duke was confident he could quickly fix any magical circuit chaos, but he certainly didn't want to be silenced! Warlocks could drain energy, and demon warlocks were the lowest of the low. The one-on-one fight he'd agreed to had morphed into a full-blown brawl. It would be great if he could just mop the floor with them, but he had other concerns...

Just as Duke was busy turning the second wave of succubi, demon guards, and other monstrous reinforcements into glistening ice sculptures, Rokama, on the other side, was a blur of gestures, coordinating vile spells, unleashing curses and dark magic one after another. Most orc warlocks, having transitioned from shamans, seemed to enjoy attaching curses and spell rings to totem poles, extracting them when needed, making their casting speed frighteningly fast.

Almost simultaneously, Duke felt a barrage of changes in his body: pain, twitching, fatigue, a burning sensation, weakness... He stared at the series of negative statuses scrolling across his vision like a ticker tape parade of doom. Well, I'm up a creek without a paddle.

"You are affected by the Curse of Pain..."

"You are affected by the Fatigue Curse..."

Over a dozen curses of varying sizes, plus seven or eight negative states. Duke wasn't just human; even if he were a hundred orcs, his vitality would be drained away faster than a goblin's gold pouch. Without a moment's hesitation, Duke activated his Ice Barrier. A wave of intense cold washed over him, instantly expelling all elements and powers from his body, save for the pure ice.

"Tsk." Rokama snorted, a frustrated sound. He'd been planning to wait out the Ice Barrier's invincibility, then unleash every curse and negative spell he had on Duke. But then, a storm he'd never witnessed before swept through his demon army. White frost, searing red flame, and crackling purple arcane energy, three wildly different elements, perfectly blended, shot towards his hellish forces.

Frostfire Arrow.

Rokama had seen this spell before. This kind of damage, drawing the essence of three types of magic, packed a serious punch against any enemy. If it could be fired continuously, even a demon warlock with his blood-thirsty defenses would get a splitting headache.

And now, Rokama had a splitting headache.

Duke, who had just unleashed a wave of bone-chilling ice, stood there, a living monument to arcane power. But even as the frost settled, Rokama, a warlock, heard it: a chorus of perfectly synchronized spells, chanting in Duke's own voice. The incantations were so clear, so distinct, Rokama swore he could hear every single byte of the arcane code. The only catch? There wasn't a soul in sight, no mouth moving, just… one hundred and eight disembodied wizard hands floating in the void around Duke.

Rokama's eyes bugged out like a goblin's coin purse. All he saw were those ghostly white elemental hands, each pushing a shimmering three-colored energy ball – fire, frost, and arcane – forward, coalescing into a swirling maelstrom. A storm of frostfire arcane arrows! Each one packed the punch of a full-strength attack from a peak Archmage. It was like facing a firing squad of one hundred and eight top-tier Archmagi, all pulling the trigger at once. Rokama's already green face turned a sickly, dark, almost bilious green.

A colossal, dazzling glare of light spun at terrifying speed, ripping across the sea. It tore through the bodies of Rokama's demons, who were blessed with the 'Water Floating' ability, shredding them into a torrential rain of bloody flesh and gore that splattered into the churning waves.

Almost immediately, Rokama's demon army was reduced to his most powerful Doomguards. These hulking, yellow-skinned brutes flapped their slender, leathery bat wings, gritting their teeth as they barely, barely, managed to withstand that first, devastating volley.

As soonama raised his hand, these colossal Doomguards charged Duke like a pack of rabid wolves, but before they could even close the distance, the second and third rounds of Frostfire Arrows rained down on them, a relentless magical barrage.

Rokama stared, dumbfounded, as his demon army – a force powerful enough to wipe out a five-thousand-man human legion with ease – was systematically beaten to a pulp by this impossible storm of magical arrows, unleashed by hands that weren't even attached to bodies.

Duke, meanwhile, dropped his ice barrier. Rokama's fear spell, a nasty little trick, actually landed. Duke, for a glorious second, stumbled around like a drunken sailor on a stormy sea, caught in a horrible illusion, looking like a complete fool. But then, his willpower, apparently forged in the fires of a thousand bad decisions, kicked in. He snapped back to normal in just one second, shaking off the fear like a wet dog shaking off water. By all rights, a wizard whose mind was in such a state of disarray shouldn't have been able to keep casting a single spell. But Duke? Duke did just that.

Thirty-six wizards, grouped together, kept pumping out Frostfire Arrows. The barrage never stopped, not for a second, automatically homing in on the enemy with pinpoint accuracy. The hit rate was flawless, as if each and every Frostfire Arrow was being guided by a fully concentrated Archmage. No matter how the Doomguards dodged, no matter how they tried to block, the Frostfire Arrows automatically adjusted their trajectory, slamming into the demons' vital points with sickening precision. At that moment, Rokama almost suspected Duke had pulled the same dirty trick he himself employed: enslaving a whole gaggle of wizards and forcing their souls to cast spells for him.

Unfortunately for Rokama, he didn't have time to play detective. He gritted his teeth, desperation clawing at his throat, and unleashed every curse spell and negative enchantment hidden on his totem pole, pouring them all onto Duke. Duke's Icecrown magic circuit, however, roared to life, instantly activating 'Rapid Cooling,' giving him the juice to throw up his Ice Barrier again. The powerful ice element, like a divine broom, swept away all the cursed states, and then…

"Have you cast all your instant curses, you green-skinned idiot?! Is all your mana gone?! Then pray – you damn greenskins! The punishment of destruction is coming!" Duke's roar echoed across the waves, and in response, ten arcane circuits, then a hundred, then the entire colossal Arcane Throne magic circuit within him began to hum, then thrum, then scream with power. How many times did the colossal arcane energy circulate in that circuit in a single second? How many times did the raw power of a nuclear generator explode within him? Duke had lost count. As if responding to Duke's righteous fury, the sky above them suddenly turned dark, bruised with angry clouds, and thunder and lightning flashed, a cosmic light show.

A massive, blinding purple-blue light burst forth from Duke's body, so dazzling that Rokama could barely keep his eyes open. This was it: the top-level metamagic expertise, 'Arcane Energy Storm!' A devastating blow that overloaded his entire arcane circuit, increasing energy consumption by a terrifying fifty percent. Without a second's hesitation, Rokama summoned twenty Voidwalkers in one breath, then, with a frantic wave of his hands, sacrificed every single one of them, turning their essence into a colossal protective shield that wrapped tightly around him. Rokama knew, with chilling certainty, that this monstrous shield, built at the cost of forty precious soul fragments, couldn't be breached even by an entire mage coven. In theory, it was impossible. Even the two powerful mages (Kel'Thuzad and Krasus) they'd encountered in Southsea Town couldn't have pulled off such a feat. But now, Duke was radiating a threat so overwhelming, so utterly lethal, that Rokama felt like he was staring death itself in the face.

Rokama tried to summon even one more demon hound, just to harass Duke, but he couldn't. The sheer, overwhelming arcane energy erupting from Duke was so immense it began to actively repel the existence of all other elements in the airspace around him. Space itself became unstable, a living nightmare for a demon warlock who made his living by yanking creatures from other dimensions. "No!" Rokama shrieked, suddenly snapping the skull necklace around his neck, a desperate, last-ditch effort. "Idiots! I command you to stop him!"

The emblem of the Storm Royal Mage Order on Duke's robe gleamed brightly under the arcane light, and the enslaved souls, trapped within the warlock's totem, seemed to have a brief, terrifying moment of clarity. They roared in impotent rage, and then… they flat-out rejected Rokama's orders.

Circle after circle of arcane light, like colossal balloons deflating, shrank back into Duke's right palm from afar. That bizarre, shrinking sensation, as if giant spheres were compressing to the size of a fist, made Rokama instinctively feel that something was terribly, terribly wrong. He desperately wanted to unleash another attack on Duke, but his Shadow Arrow and Scorching Pain spells were about as useful as a chocolate teapot against Duke's impenetrable Ice Armor shield.

Finally, Duke delivered the knockout punch.

Was it a seven-layered Frostfire Arrow? Or a seven-layered Arcane Blast infused with frost and fire elements? Who knew, who cared? What mattered was the terrifying, red, white, and blue ball of magical energy, twice the size of a carriage, that burst from Duke's hand, instantly evaporating the ice in front of him and the very seawater near Rokama. The sailors and generals of the Kul Tiras First Fleet who hadn't yet fled the battlefield, and the fiercely battling Lord Tirion Fordring, Daelin, and the orc Blademaster Samuro, all unconsciously froze mid-swing, their jaws dropping as they watched the spectacle on the sea, a sight they would never, ever forget.

A stark white line, visible to the naked eye, appeared on the distant sea. It wasn't long, only a few dozen meters, but it split left and right, forming a terrifying canyon on the surface of the ocean that plunged almost straight down to the coral reef at the bottom of the bay, just a few meters shy of touching the seabed itself. The ravine was at least thirty or forty meters wide, and on both sides of it, two parallel waterfalls of seawater, repelled by the sheer, colossal magical power, stood frozen in mid-air.

Holy cow! It was just a hair's breadth away from the legendary feat of splitting the sea itself! Everyone's eyes were wide as saucers, and they collectively forgot how to breathe. Time itself seemed to grind to a halt in that moment. Not until Rokama, the Warlock who had dared to challenge Duke, was utterly reduced to ashes, and not until the colossal, cylindrical valley stirred up by the magic was slowly, inexorably, filled by the returning sea, did time seem to resume its flow.