Gift

Is Duke's strength already superior to Antonidas'? Of course not, not by a long shot. Antonidas, that old dog, used his spare magical juice to summon water elementals just to keep Gul'dan's annoying little minions from interrupting his spellcasting. The real power, the true killer moves, were still those fireballs and ice arrows screaming through the air. Duke, however, was playing a different game entirely.

He considered himself a summoner, a master of bringing forth elemental mayhem. His magic circuits were practically redlining, glowing with such brilliant arcane light that it burst through his very muscles and blood vessels. You could practically see the intricate patterns of Duke's magic circuits tattooed on his skin, pulsing with raw power. Duke was clearly holed up in a bunker on the defense line, but it looked like he was about to burst forth in a blinding flash of light, like a supernova in a stone box.

Gavinrad and Illucia, guarding near Duke, both had their jaws on the floor. Duke's method of spellcasting, which seemed to drain every last drop of his magical energy, was simply unheard of. It's like saying a guy can lift 500 kilograms just because he has 500 kilograms of strength. The power of a magic circuit rarely gets pushed to its absolute limit. The limit a person feels isn't the true, unbreakable limit they can endure. To truly push that boundary, you need countless hours of practice, endless contemplation, and a razor-sharp perception, improving yourself bit by agonizing bit. Likewise, many mages, in their quest to find their limits, accidentally overshot the runway, overloading and frying their precious magic circuits. Duke's current magical output was at its absolute peak, but it felt like he was walking a tightrope over a pit of hungry devils.

99.99%.

That kind of perfect, terrifying control made Illucia's eyes bug out. He was clearly teetering on the edge of oblivion, about to overload and kick the bucket at any second, yet he hovered there, right on the precipice of hell's gate, refusing to take that final, fatal step. The effect was nothing short of remarkable. Colossal, circular magic circles unfolded in the void above the bunker's top wall, directly over their heads. The magical fluctuations were so intense, Illucia could feel them vibrating through the thick stone walls.

"Gurgle!" Amidst a strange, almost liquid sound, a colossal, translucent, illusory waterfall materialized in mid-air. It was a massive spillway, over fifty meters wide, with an unimaginable volume of water pouring down from the heavens. It should have sounded like a landslide, a tsunami, but in reality, there was no sound at all.

"Ah!" Illucia cried out, a gasp escaping her lips. Had all the water just… vanished? Wrong. The water flowed directly into the bodies of some unseen elemental creatures. In a world invisible to mortal eyes, Illucia clearly saw that the colossal waterfall was being meticulously divided into 256 distinct parts. Each part, a perfect, shimmering segment, was constructing one of 256 colossal water elementals. Ten seconds later, those water elementals crossed the boundary between the ethereal elemental world and the gritty material world of Azeroth, appearing before the orcs in all their watery glory. So, to the wolf riders, it simply looked like water elementals were appearing out of thin air.

The wolf riders were so scared, they didn't even know whether to keep charging or beat a hasty retreat from the narrow bridge. In truth, no matter what they chose, it was a dead end, a one-way ticket to a watery grave. They could only watch, helpless, as death approached them, step by agonizing step. Through the firing holes in the bunker, Gavinrad watched the water elementals carve a bloody path through the orcs, indiscriminately killing everything in their path.

The biggest quirk of elemental creatures is that their very core is the element itself. If you don't destroy that elemental core, physically smashing their form doesn't mean squat. Try chopping a ball of water with a knife; can you actually cut the water in two and kill it? You might smash the arm of an earth elemental giant with a hammer, but the earth elemental, unable to resist its primal call, will simply absorb more mud from the ground, automatically rebuilding its shattered form. The key to dealing with elemental creatures is to dismantle the energy structure of their elemental core, to unravel their very being.

The wolf riders were in a world of hurt. They'd originally planned to charge in, find Duke, and chop him to pieces with a single swing. But who would have thought so many water elementals, impervious to blades, would suddenly appear? Especially these elite ones! Blades couldn't cut them, and war wolf fangs couldn't bite them to death. Faced with the unstoppable water elementals, the wolf riders could only try their best to dodge, to get out of their way. But here's the kicker: water elementals could also shoot ice arrows! The entire northern position of the bridge devolved into a one-sided beatdown, a brutal massacre.

"Let's go," Duke's voice was clearly weak, a mere whisper. Illucia looked at Duke, then turned to Gavinrad. "I don't have much mana left. I'll just support the master. You lead the way and provide cover." Duke felt a strange weakness in his limbs, an unexpected exhaustion that forced him to lean half his weight onto Illucia's soft, yet surprisingly firm, shoulders. Gavinrad didn't waste a second. He just pulled out his hammer and strode ahead, a one-man wrecking crew clearing the path.

His and Illucia's worries were, frankly, a bit overblown. Under the combined cover of the water elemental army and Sylvanas, the very embodiment of death, no orc was getting within a country mile of them. Even Zuluhed's dragons, seeing the sheer number of water elementals appearing on the battlefield, dared not approach. After many twists and turns, it didn't take long for Duke and his party to pass through the tunnel under the hill and arrive behind it, emerging into the open. The view before them suddenly cleared, revealing a hundred fully armed Stromgarde Highland knights, standing at attention, waiting.

After Duke had quietly sent away 80% of them, the knight candidates who had agreed to join him had come to Duke and sworn allegiance to him. Duke, following ancient ritual, had tapped the shoulders of these knights with his staff, the incomplete Atiesh, inherited from Medivh. The authentic knighthood, of course, was conferred by pointing a long sword at the left and right shoulders. First off, Duke was a wizard, and a wizard lord's rules dictated using a staff, not a sword. Secondly, Duke had just realized he didn't even have a suitable staff, aside from the head of Atiesh. Out of respect, he'd had to tie a sandalwood stick to Atiesh to use as a temporary staff. What truly annoyed Duke was that, even though it was just an Atiesh staff head, the magical bonus it provided put all the common market products to shame.

Regardless, the oath ceremony was sacred. King Thoras had even come secretly to witness the ceremony in person, then rushed back overnight. When a hundred swords were raised and lowered in perfect unison, when those uniform movements were performed before him, Duke's heart couldn't help but leap with joy at this soul-stirring display of power. He felt an urge to cheer, to shout with glee.

"Hail to our Lord, Grand Duke Edmund Duke!" The uniform roar pierced everyone's eardrums, as loud as a thunderclap. Yes! These outstanding knights were now Duke's strength, his personal army. Duke had a wide smile on his face. "Let's go, boys! We've got a big present to deliver to the orcs."

A big present? What kind of present? A gift that could cause even greater casualties than the thousands of soldiers who had volunteered to stay behind? Though the knights were fiercely determined, every single one of them was buzzing with curiosity and excitement about the "great gift" Duke had mentioned.

Cross the Thandol Bridge and enter the Arathi Highlands. Just follow the road that bends west, and you'll arrive at Stromgarde, the main city of the Kingdom of Stromgarde. As the ancient capital of the Arathor Empire more than two thousand years ago, and as a thick dirt road trampled by countless feet, horses, and various livestock for millennia, at this moment, anyone gazing at the road would feel the very ground shaking beneath them. Not just the dirt road, but the entire land was trembling, as if a clumsy waiter was serving a glass of beer on a tray, making the whole tray jiggle. No, the entire Arathi Highlands seemed to be quivering slightly.

If you could look down from a high altitude, you'd see three distinct groups of people running wildly on the road. The first group was nearly 10,000 Stromgarde infantry and craftsmen. After a night of forced march, they were less than 20 kilometers away from Stromgarde. Stromgarde's highland cavalry were providing cover not far from them, and mounted scouts were constantly ranging out, exploring the rear. A surprisingly small number of griffin cavalry also joined the reconnaissance team.

The group in the middle wasn't large, a pitifully small hundred riders and a single carriage. The last group was a sea of green orcs. At least 30,000 orcs were running wildly, less than half a kilometer away from the middle group, trying to catch up and tear them into tiny pieces. It wasn't that the group in the middle was faster, but every time a wolf cavalryman got within 300 meters behind them, a long arrow would pierce the morning light – its shining arrowhead, shaped like a black shuttle, seemed to deflect all light to its sides. With a sharp whistle, no matter whether the incoming orc dodged or blocked, the arrow would find its mark, hitting a vital point and dropping them dead.

On the back seat of the carriage, a figure held a bow, golden hair flying like a banner, and a green ranger cloak that rippled like a flag in the wind. That flag represented a name well-known throughout the Horde: Sylvanas! In front of the entire team, a knight, bathed in holy golden light, held aloft a flag. The pattern on the flag was simple, yet striking: a blue storm, like a swirling tornado. This flag was no stranger to the orcs. It represented another mortal enemy of the orcs, the human mage hero, Edmund Duke. Obviously, the Alliance had many other flags, but the simple-minded orcs only remembered a select few. Duke's blue storm flag was the most unforgettable. They were chasing Duke so madly, they didn't even realize they had already left the continent and were heading towards the northern part of the Arathi Highlands.

The orcs were stupid, but the knights who had just joined Duke were not. Why was Duke doing this? Wasn't it to lure away the orcs and prevent them from catching up with the last retreating soldiers of Stromgarde? Even though they had sworn allegiance, their origins wouldn't change, and their memories were still filled with deep affection for the Arathi Highlands. In an excited trance, the blue storm flag in their eyes transformed. It seemed to become the battle flag of Emperor Thoradin, shining on the battlefield 2,800 years ago. Duke's slender figure seemed to overlap with the legendary Emperor Thoradin. Equally noble and great. It was the same selflessness that transcended clans and national boundaries. For the reproduction and future of the human race, they stood at the forefront of the fight against foreign races, without regrets.

The knights' eyes were quietly moistened. Soon, their moist eyes widened with fear. The sun was at its zenith, its violent rays splitting the clouds in the sky, pouring down completely on the earth. The vast mountains to the north of the Arathi Highlands were bathed in golden light, breaking through the haze of the morning mist, painting the entire highland scenery with a golden hue. But in the increasingly ominous scenery in the distance, a huge human figure could be vaguely seen.

"My Lord! We can't go any further. That's one of the only few forbidden areas in the Arathi Highlands. There is…" A knight, his voice laced with trepidation, tried to warn Duke.

Duke smiled mysteriously. "Are you talking about Fuzruk? That's exactly what I'm looking for!" The knight was completely dumbfounded. What? My Lord is looking for trouble with Fuzruk?

The sunlight, like a colossal axe, cleaved the clouds in the sky, pouring down completely on the earth. On the Arathi Highlands, green grass stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted with vibrant spring flowers. But above the natural green of the grass, a dazzling, bright green covered everything. Tens of thousands of orcs, clad in newly made armor, marched in chilling unison, and countless crude battle flags came into the sight of Duke and his knights. As weird as ever. Each one was painted with symbols only an orc could understand: partridges, lions, axes, hammers, broken or intact hammers – a chaotic mess, but without any repetition. The only flag Duke recognized was a war banner emblazoned with a black tusk.

The Black Tooth Clan. After their father, Blackhand, the Warchief, was killed by Anduin Lothar, Rend and his brother Maim stubbornly insisted that it was Orgrim who had done the deed. They vowed to reclaim the power and status that rightfully belonged to their father from Orgrim. Their idea found public support among many orcs. To avoid a full-blown civil war and to show he had a clear conscience, Orgrim had grudgingly acquiesced to all this, and thus, the Black Tooth Clan was born. The Blackrock Clan was truly worthy of being the orcs' premier clan. They boasted an immense number of warriors and possessed formidable power. Even after their split, they remained incredibly strong. Orgrim had taken the most elite Blackrock clan warriors to the Hinterlands, and the rest had joined Rend's Blackfang clan.

The chief commander of the southern tribe, Rend Blackhand, rode a colossal black war wolf, standing out from the green tide. He was supremely confident in his reaction time and raw strength, and with twelve personal guards, he approached Duke and his knights, who were lined up in a neat row, at breakneck speed. Until, at a hundred meters away, Rend Blackhand suddenly pulled his wolf to a screeching halt.

"Edmund Duke! Today is the day you die! I won't even bother cutting off your head as a trophy, considering you're finally willing to face your death, you coward. The head of a conspirator isn't worthy of my military honor."

Duke bared his teeth, a silent thought echoing in his mind: Damn, I'm really being underestimated here! Duke then burst into loud, booming laughter. "Hahahaha! You want my head? You'd better beat my servant Fuzruk first!"

Suddenly, not only Rend, but even the orcs far behind him felt the ground tremble. It was the colossal, thunderous footsteps of a single, massive creature. The being capable of such heavy, earth-shaking strides had to be of unimaginable size. And sure enough, in the orcs' vision, an incredibly huge stone giant appeared, lumbering forward with solemn, deliberate steps. This giant stood thirty meters tall, its entire body forged from metallic ores and massive chunks of stone. Its clenched fist was as big as Rend's chief's tent. He was the living, breathing taboo of the Arathi Highlands – the stone giant Fuzruk!