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"I'm sorry, little guy. Consider this a friendly tap on the shoulder. And a heads-up: the women of the Windrunner family aren't to be trifled with. If you're aiming to get your hooks into my elder sister… you'll first need to become a hero in the hearts of the high elves." By the time Sylvanas uttered that last sentence, she was already a blur hundreds of meters away, the wind carrying her pointed warning, word for word, into Duke's ears.

Duke managed a bitter chuckle, not because of Sylvanas's seemingly capricious nature or her playful jabs, but because it hit him like a ton of bricks: wooing Alleria was going to be harder than nailing jelly to a tree! Fortunately, he thought, it wasn't a lost cause entirely… But then again, the women in the Windrunner family were either roses with thorns or stubborn as mules, refusing to take advice from anyone!

After sending the aggressive Red Dragonflight packing, defending the Thandol Bridge was no longer a problem. What was once a natural bottleneck that a thousand brave souls could hold was now guarded by nearly ten thousand, making it safer than a dragon's hoard. Duke wasn't even sweating the thought of some Horde strongman forcing a breakthrough, because among the ranks of Stromgarde's army, there was another powerhouse with the same surname: Trollbane. This guy wasn't exactly a household name yet, but in the annals of history, his statue would stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Alleria's in Stormwind's King's Valley, worshipped by the masses. He was a legend in the making, one of the five heroes of the Dark Portal.

Duke scratched his head, finding himself with nothing to do for the moment. Little did he know, a pair of eyes were fixed on him, un blinking. The owner of those eyes was none other than Miss Illucia Barov. As Duke's second-in-command in the arcane arts, Miss Barov had been quietly performing her duties, leading the mage contingent for Duke. She was humble, unassuming, and usually blended into the background of Duke's bustling camp.

At this moment, Illucia let out a soft sigh. "People who can steer their own ship… truly enviable."

Everyone could see the sparks flying between Duke and Alleria. Illucia wasn't envious of Alleria; what truly moved her was the sheer brilliance of Duke, a man who seemed to defy fate itself. Unburdened by the chains of family, born into humble beginnings, he had risen to a position of immense power amidst the world's great upheavals, seizing control of his own destiny. For some reason, a strange longing stirred within Illucia, a desire for Duke. She knew she shouldn't even be thinking it, but she couldn't suppress the thought: If it were Duke, maybe I could break free from the shackles of my own family and find true freedom…

Just then, Duke finally felt Illucia's gaze and turned around. "Lady Barov, is something amiss?"

"No, well, that… it seems quite a few Horde transport ships have slipped through the strait. Shouldn't we give chase?"

Duke flashed a wicked grin. "Knowing that the Horde might try to pull a fast one and attack the northern continent from this direction, do you really think I, the deputy commander, would leave that door wide open?"

Duke wasn't kidding. He hadn't left the Horde a snowball's chance in the Twisting Nether. Just as the Horde's transport fleet desperately scrambled under the Thandol Bridge, thinking they were finally out of the Alliance's ambush, five kilometers east of the bridge, the orc laborers rowing their boats discovered, to their utter despair, that the strait – which had been reported clear just the day before – was now blocked tighter than a drum. Tens of thousands of tons of rockfall had choked off the northern sea lane, while to the south, dozens of merchant ships, deliberately scuttled and filled with rocks, lay at the bottom, completely blocking the entire waterway.

"When in the blazes did this happen…?" The orcs in the transport fleet plunged into a spiraling abyss of despair and fear. Soon, however, they no longer had to fear, because the human crossbows, materializing from the cliffs above, easily sent them all to the bottom of the sea to feed the fish.

An hour later, at Grim Batol Fortress in the Wetlands of the Southern Continent, Dragonmaw Clan Chief Zuluhed was in a full-blown rage, smashing everything in sight. He stormed into the most mysterious room, and there, before the steel gate, he found a limping old orc.

"Necros, where is she!?"

"Inside, but the situation's a bit… off."

Nekros, a half-baked warlock and an immature shaman, was Zuluhed's trusted confidant, possessing a unique ability to control something called the Demon Soul – the very key to controlling the red dragons. After securing the guardian's reluctant consent, Zuluhed finally burst in, grabbing the red-clad woman.

"Hey! Round up all those runaways you let loose! The Horde needs their services, Alexstrasza!"

"You pig-headed brute! Who do you think I am!?" The red-haired woman roared, an invisible wave of power radiating from her, enough to scare a timid goblin straight to the grave. Unfortunately, it had no effect on Zuluhed. As she lunged at him, the guardian of the Demon Soul materialized. Its flaming claws seized the woman's curved horns and slammed her regal face onto the hard stone floor. Blood immediately oozed from the corners of her mouth.

"Yes, Alexstrasza, the most powerful and greatest Dragon Queen, but so what?" Zuluhed cackled wildly, watching the guardian mercilessly grind the beautiful face of the Red Dragon Queen, in her human form, against the cold, rough stone. The sharp, uneven ground left several shallow, bloody streaks on Alexstrasza's wheat-colored face.

"Lowly orcs!" The Red Dragon Queen roared, struggling fiercely. The relentless humiliation was driving her to the brink of madness, but it was no use. Not far away, the artifact clutched in the lame orc Nekros's hand was draining her strength, leaving her helpless.

Ten thousand years ago, the five Dragonflights had converged at the Dragon Rest Temple, at the behest of the Black Dragon Aspect Neltharion, to create the Dragon Soul – an artifact imbued with all their combined power, meant to fight the invading Burning Legion. The dragons had all joined the war against the demons. Neltharion, wielding the Dragon Soul, had annihilated all the demons on the battlefield, only to betray the dragons and the resistance. The Blue Dragon Aspect, Malygos, had tried to stop him, but the blue dragons suffered catastrophic losses, almost wiped out entirely. The Blue Dragon Queen, Sindragosa, also perished in that tragedy, and Malygos himself descended into madness. Neltharion, unable to withstand the immense power of the artifact, transformed into a monstrous creature of living lava, forever known as Deathwing.

Later, the Dragon Soul passed through many hands, eventually becoming corrupted by demonic power and transforming into the Demon Soul. Under the insidious guidance of the conspirator Gul'dan, Zuluhed had sensed the Demon Soul's presence and unearthed it. Ten millennia had passed, and the artifact's effects had changed, but the raw dragon power within it remained undiminished. Through the Demon Soul, Zuluhed was able to suppress Alexstrasza, using her as a bargaining chip to hold the entire red dragon race hostage. The red dragons had no choice but to submit, for the Red Dragon Queen was the very wellspring of their reproduction and strength. Without her blessing of life, no young dragon could ever grow into a true, powerful dragon.

No matter how furious they were! Even if they dragged their feet! The red dragons continued to fly into Grim Batol Fortress, one after another, treated like common steeds by the orcs. They were roughly fitted with saddle-like riding gear, becoming the orcs' unwilling mounts.

Zuluhed knew, deep in his gut, that the failure at the Thandol Bridge was a fluke, a one-in-a-million accident that wouldn't be repeated. There were probably only five high elf rangers with such ghostly skills in all of Quel'Thalas. And they'd just happened to run into two of them. What was even worse was that incredible, gravity-defying fighting style. Even now, Zuluhed felt like he was living in a nightmare. This time, failure is inevitable. Zuluhed believed the Horde needed more red dragon cavalry. He didn't believe that the high-speed flying red dragons would encounter that strange combination of magical ice platforms and ghostly archers wherever they flew.

Alexstrasza shrieked, her voice raw with fury. "Zuluhed, I will kill you! I will kill every single green orc! I swear it! I will!"

With a sneer, Zuluhed watched as the guardian of the Demon Soul pressed the Red Dragon Queen's face to the cold ground. He cackled wildly, "Hahahaha! Maybe that day will come, but before then, you'll be the Horde's slave! Now, call them! Bring our red babies back!" As Zuluhed raised his hand, Nekros behind him cranked up the power output to the Demon Soul. Both Nekros and Alexstrasza winced in pain. The Demon Soul was no gentle artifact; the price of controlling it was one's own vitality. Nekros didn't care; his life had been saved. In a battle with the Draenei, he'd broken a leg, but unlike other strong-willed orcs who would have embraced death with an enemy, he hadn't. He was looked down upon by his peers, and after surviving, he didn't value his life anymore than a broken twig. He inflicted upon the Dragon Queen the greatest pain an evil artifact could deliver.

Afterwards, Zuluhed was met with a burst of cold, wild laughter. "Hahahaha! They are free! I don't know what happened to them, but they are no longer bound by me!" The Red Queen cackled, a chilling sound.

"What!? What's going on!? Tell me!"

Under the suppression of the artifact, the very source of dragon power, Zuluhed received devastating news. Those red dragons that had escaped couldn't be called back, and they weren't dead either. "No, I must report to the Warchief!"

Zuluhed rushed to Orgrim, practically tripping over himself, explaining everything with the attitude of a condemned sinner. "I'm sorry, Warchief, I screwed the pooch! Not only did I fail to protect the transport fleet, but I also lost a large number of red dragons…"

Orgrim bared his teeth, a grimace of pain or frustration, but in the end, he did not unleash his wrath. "Destiny…" Orgrim's voice was low, slow, and deliberate. "Zuluhed, do you believe in destiny? Do you think the most powerful shaman can truly see the river of fate? If he can truly predict the future, what price must he pay?" Orgrim asked three seemingly unrelated questions in a row, leaving Zuluhed a little stunned. But he quickly answered: "Destiny does exist. Shamans aren't the only ones who can peek into the future. As for the price… Kilrogg Deadeye is a prime example."

Orgrim slapped his chest with his hands. "The orcs have strayed from the shamanic path, and fate no longer whispers its secrets to us. On the contrary, our enemies seem to be masters of it. I once thought this was just a simple strategy, beyond the wit of orcs. But when I found that all my pre-planned moves had been discovered, I was secretly terrified for a long time. Finally, I woke up."

"Awake?"

"Yes! My opponent, Edmund Duke, can clearly see the flow of the river of fate. So, the only way to avoid the machinations of this terrible enemy is if I don't even know what I'm going to do next."

Zuluhed was secretly astonished. This was tantamount to his own Warchief admitting that the human Duke was smarter than any prophet.

Orgrim led Zuluhed to a cliff in the northeast of the Wetlands, and the scene there left Zuluhed speechless. "The orcs achieved this miracle with their sheer grit and stubbornness. I just told my men to find a way to cross the sea, come hell or high water."

Zuluhed gaped at the "solution": Perhaps it was because the Warchief had been standing near the cliff that separated the northern and southern continents when he'd issued his order. Those thick-headed orcs, unable to think outside the box, had spent an entire winter carving a slope out of the cold, hard cliff, dozens of meters high and covered in ice and snow, stretching from the plateau right down to the beach. It was a colossal ramp, fifty meters wide, easily enough to lift the largest transport ship from the Wetlands onto the beach. And it was less than five kilometers from that cursed strait.

That's right, it was this "method," which the Warchief himself wasn't entirely clear about, that had created an even more profound chain of schemes. Be it the head-on attack on the various small and medium clans in Southshore, the siege of the transport ships and the Red Dragonflight attempting to cross the strait and the Thandol Bridge, or the frontal assault of the 200,000-strong tribal army that would hit the Southshore Coast in two days – all of them were nothing more than a smokescreen for this elite tribal force, personally led by Orgrim himself.

Tonight, these fifty thousand elite orcs will cross the natural barrier that has blocked the Horde for more than half a year, under the cover of darkness.

"Warchief, you are truly the strongest!" Zuluhed praised from the bottom of his heart, genuine awe in his voice.

"After I leave, the Wetlands are yours. You must keep the Alliance on their toes, maintain sufficient pressure. Especially your Red Dragons. Don't just hit one spot. There aren't many hotshots of that caliber in the Alliance." As if recalling something, Orgrim added, "Last time, it seemed those two elves were giving Grommash Hellscream a run for his money, right? Now, you tell me, how many Grommash Hellscreams do we have in our tribe!?"

Hearing this, Zuluhed's eyes gleamed with renewed confidence. Orgrim punched Zuluhed in the chest, a gesture of trust that Zuluhed didn't flinch from, but rather embraced. It's all on you. That was the Warchief's message. Watching Orgrim, with his famous Doomhammer slung over his shoulder, and his army vanish into the night on the beach, Zuluhed's heart swelled with a fierce, burning zeal.

At this very moment, Duke was surrounded by a bunch of red dragons with golden vertical pupils…