Celebration

"Welcome! Welcome, you magnificent bastards and the lovely lass!" Kurdran boomed, his voice a booming echo in the throne room, gesturing with a sweep of his arm for them to settle into the stout, dwarven-made chairs.

"You are more welcome than a fresh keg on a thirsty day! We were, truth be told, more worried than a goblin with an overdue loan that those greenskins would turn our homeland into a pile of rubble. Our ancestors, even if they were the scrawny laborers with the combat prowess of a startled squirrel, as you so delicately put it, there were still too many of them! Fortunately, your timely arrival ended that nightmare, and we, the Wildhammer dwarves, are eternally grateful. Well, almost eternally."

"Greetings, King Kurdran. Please allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Edmund Duke, currently the deputy commander of the Alliance and the supreme commander of this very army." Duke, ever the picture of composed diplomacy, patiently laid out the grim truth of the Horde. He recounted every vile deed the orcs had wrought, painting a chilling picture of Stormwind's fate, a fate that could have easily been Aerie Peak's.

In the end, Duke pulled out the big guns, decisively invoking the unimpeachable moral integrity of the legendary Medivh. At this moment, Duke seemed to shimmer with a divine aura, a kind of undeniable trustworthiness that made even the most suspicious dwarf want to hand over their gold.

"Kurdran, will you and your people join our Alliance?"

Kurdran's brow furrowed, his fingers tugging at his magnificent beard as if seeking wisdom from its tangled strands. He once again pulled out the crumpled letter Magni had sent him, its words now leaping off the page, no longer just ink and parchment, but grim prophecies. Mixed with Duke's chilling commentary, the horrors seeped into his imagination.

A green frenzy, a tide of destruction no different from the one they'd just repelled, flooding Khaz Modan. The brutish greenskins seizing control of the mines, plundering every last ounce of iron ore. The monstrous black iron warships, symbols of conquest, proudly crossing the seas, their cannons silencing the mighty Kul Tiran fleet. The green disaster sweeping across the entire continent like a plague.

After collecting all the information, the grim reports, and seeing the carnage with their own eyes, the stark, brutal truth of the matter made Kurdran and the other Wildhammer dwarves shudder down to their very bones.

"Indeed." Kurdran sighed, a sound like grinding stones. "We Wildhammers once had more spats with the Bronzebeard tribe than a griffin has feathers – that's why we packed our bags and left Khaz Modan. But they are still our brothers, our kin, for better or worse."

When Kurdran uttered those words, Duke felt a surge of hope, a glimmer of light at the end of a very long, very boozy tunnel.

"These dirty greenskins, this damn Horde, first they attacked our brothers, plundered their land and the ore that had been passed down for thousands of years. And let me tell you, ore is the very wealth and lifeblood of the dwarves! Now they come to attack us again, right on our doorstep! It was only thanks to your timely reinforcement that we escaped the fate of having our homes smashed to smithereens." At this point, Kurdran's tone shifted, a mischievous glint entering his eyes. "Yes, I do dislike your perfect timing. It's almost too perfect for my liking. But..."

"But?" Duke prompted, raising an eyebrow, a tiny bead of sweat forming on his temple.

"But since these dirty guys are a real threat to the entire world, and you have indeed saved Aerie Peak Mountain from becoming a giant orcish latrine." Kurdran slammed his hand down on the armrest of his chair with a thud that echoed through the room. "Of course, we will join the Alliance! We must work together to wipe out these orcs until they're nothing but pitiful, whimpering creatures who can't even swat a fly, let alone pose a threat to anyone!"

He stood up, extending a calloused hand to Duke. "You will undoubtedly receive assistance from the Wildhammers."

Duke reached out, grasping the dwarf king's hand, then briefly bared his teeth in a silent grimace. Holy Light, Kurdran was a petty guy! He used so much force on his hands! My fingers are practically mashed potatoes!

Kurdran suddenly let out a cackle that sounded like rocks tumbling down a mountain. "But, boy, dwarves hate hypocrisy more than a goblin hates a fair deal. The Wildhammer will definitely help, but how much additional assistance you can squeeze out of us depends entirely on your… ability."

The Wildhammer king crooked a finger, and a phalanx of short, stocky dwarves came scuttling forward, laden with the very wine barrels Duke had sent as a diplomatic gift. Ten barrels, lined up like a firing squad.

Kurdran slapped a wine barrel with a resounding thwack. "Come on, stop playing coy. King against king, general against general. One cup each time. If you get drunk by me, I'll send out half of my Griffin Knights. If you have the guts to drink me under the table, I'll bring every single one of my Griffin Knights to follow you! Of course, you also have the right to refuse..."

It was, in the end, a complete, unadulterated threat. A painful, liver-shattering threat.

Duke's eyes darted unconsciously to the side, a desperate plea for help.

At this moment, Stormwind's shining star generals were on display:

Gavinrad Doom, one of the original five paladins, looking stoic and utterly useless in this situation.

Reginald Windsor, who would later become Field Marshal, now looking like he'd rather face a dragon than a drinking challenge.

Tom Seamus, a man who had cheated death once, now looking like he was contemplating a second, more permanent, demise.

Now, all the generals took a synchronized step back, a movement so neat, so perfectly executed, it was as if they'd rehearsed it countless times.

Damn it! Even if you don't have any sense of loyalty, you should at least have some common decency, right?! Duke's eyes almost popped out of his head.

Hey, there's still one who didn't retreat!

Duke's brief surge of hope evaporated faster than a puddle in the Barrens when he realized the lone holdout was Sylvanas! The Ranger-General raised her long, golden eyebrows, her face clearly broadcasting: What does it have to do with me if you men want to pickle your livers?

"Master, just relax and celebrate. I will take you back to your bedroom and make sure you don't do anything that would be against the etiquette of the Alliance and your status as a duke." Vanessa, the little maid who had inexplicably accompanied the army on this expedition, performed a perfectly proper lady's salute.

But why, oh why, do you have dozens of coiled ropes hanging around your waist, Vanessa? Once I get drunk, you'll tie me up like a holiday roast, won't you? Oh, damn, are you the master or am I the master here?!

At this time, the image of Kurdran began to expand infinitely in Duke's vision, growing larger than any dwarf God could possibly become. Well, that was definitely a demon-level size and an oppressive feeling that could crush mountains.

Kurdran stood up, and while solemnly (deceptively) pulling Duke's hand, he held it, then plunged it into a huge, barrel-shaped wine glass overflowing with fragrant, rich wine.

"As the King of the Wildhammer, I thank you on behalf of fifty thousand fellow citizens of Aerie Peak. Duke! Cheers to the friendship between dwarves and humans!"

He spouted a torrent of grateful words, but they all boiled down to one simple, terrifying command: You better drink it, boy!

He only said this, but it was enough. The group of ungrateful bastards behind him also raised their glasses, their voices a unified roar: "For the Alliance!"

Alliance, my foot!

Duke's face turned ashen. In order to please these dwarves, I poured extra potent alcohol into their beloved sweet fruit wine! This is what it means to be hoisted by your own petard! If I don't do it, I'm dead meat. Why would I want to die for no reason?!

When Duke raised his glass with a face twisted in bitter resignation, the wine table devil Kurdran grinned. "I'll drink first, you take your sweet time, but remember to be fair."

After saying that, the Kurdran Demon King downed at least 500 milliliters of the so-called fruit wine, a concoction with a concentration of at least 50%, in three glorious seconds. "Great! This is a real wine! Damn it, what I drank before was just dishwater!"

Duke... before crossing over, he was just a college student, a bookworm who had never truly stepped into society's rough-and-tumble. He certainly wasn't some seasoned barroom brawler who'd weathered countless storms of alcohol. After crossing over, his body might have been decent, but without any special training, his alcohol tolerance was strictly average.

Duke suddenly had to face off against the Demon King-level Kurdran, and he wanted to cry tears of pure, unadulterated despair.

Duke secretly wept in his heart: Why didn't I just follow the original history and bring Lothar? With Lothar taking the lead, it would never have been my turn to face this liquid death!

The moment the wine touched his throat, a miracle happened.