Invasion

Knowing it earlier? Priceless. But there's no magic potion in all of Azeroth for regret. Seeing Duke's men vanish like smoke, Orgrim Doomhammer was so sick to his stomach, he probably could have coughed up a hairball the size of a goblin.

All this way, he'd had to wrangle a pack of bloodthirsty orcs, keeping them on a leash just to pull off this 'stealth' maneuver. The demon blood coursing through their veins gave the orcs incredible strength and physiques that could crush boulders, but it also cranked their warlike nature up to eleven, making them about as subtle as an ogre in a china shop. These were not subordinates; they were a stampede waiting to happen, a truly unruly bunch.

The price the Horde had to pay to keep the orcs' bloodlust and destructive urges simmering was astronomical. If Duke had just stood his ground and fought, even if the Horde had taken a beating, Orgrim could have spun it, put a good face on it. But Duke's army? They were slicker than a greased pig, harder to catch than a greased goblin, and utterly refusing to stand and fight. Orgrim was left scratching his head, utterly powerless.

Duke, the cunning fox, clearly wanted to run the Horde ragged, bleed them dry, and let them chew on their own tails. Now that the orcs and trolls had just joined forces, there were more frictions than a goblin's workshop and more minor squabbles than a family of murlocs arguing over a shiny pebble. For different forces and races to truly unite, beyond a common goal and non-conflicting interests, the most vital ingredient was victory. Any new organization, any fresh alliance, needed to be fed by victory, nourished by success, to truly thrive.

The reason Duke had rocketed to such a high reputation in the Alliance was simple: he was the undefeated marshal, the guy who always brought home the bacon. Orgrim couldn't have promised the trolls a juicy elf-flavored feast and then delayed attacking the elves. On the contrary, the longer this whole charade dragged on, the better it was for the Alliance.

From the holy city of Stratholme to the east, it was basically a desolate wasteland, a land fit only for tumbleweeds and despair. Even if the Horde made a mess here, the impact on Lordaeron wouldn't be a deal-breaker. And once the Hinterlands were cleared, Duke would be rolling in reinforcements: twenty thousand elite human soldiers and an entire Wildhammer dwarf gryphon aviation corps. This was the hand Duke was playing, and he was playing it like a master.

Unfortunately, Duke's plan was precise, a finely tuned clockwork trap, but Orgrim was even more of a bastard, a ruthless force of nature.

Looking at the empty human camp, every single orc warrior had a face like thunder, resentment and unwillingness simmering in their eyes. The trolls, on the other hand, mostly sported disdainful smirks and a hint of mockery, a silent 'I told you so.'

Orgrim, his voice a guttural roar that echoed through the night, bellowed: "'Did you see that?! These are the cunning humans! Humans who never dare to fight the brave orcs head-on! Despicable, cowardly, shameless, and lowly! And yet, they made fools of the brave orcs! Can we tolerate this?!'"

"'No! Never!'"

"'I absolutely cannot tolerate this!'"

At that moment, the crowd was in turmoil, a sea of green rage. Tens of thousands of orcs roared together, a deafening chorus of fury. They raised their weapons, shaking them at the empty camp, venting their collective anger.

"'I need a brave general to carry out a very dangerous sabotage mission for the Horde! Who will step up?!'"

Immediately, more than a dozen generals, eager for glory and a chance to prove their mettle, stepped forward, their axes gleaming in the moonlight.

However, Orgrim finally chose Noggergar! Noggergar, who bore the terrifying title of 'Flesh Ripper'! This was a general from the Warsong Clan, famous for his bravery and ferocity, a living legend of brutality! When he first stomped into the world of Azeroth, he was just an insignificant grunt, a bottom feeder. Now, he was a general, a force to be reckoned with. Where did his military exploits come from? Just ask the human warriors he'd ripped limb from limb! At least three champion knights, the most powerful warriors in the human world, had become part of his terrifying legend, their screams echoing in the tales of his savagery.

Orgrim unfurled a detailed map, snatched from the humans, and pointed. "'I need you to select ten thousand of the most violent orc warriors to destroy here and here, and then come here to join us. Can you do it?'"

Noggergar's eyes flashed with bloodthirsty ferocity, a predatory gleam. "'No problem, Warchief. Consider it done.'"

The next morning, Duke smiled bitterly, a grimace that barely reached his eyes. The Horde, with its sheer numerical advantage, was qualified to split its forces. A detachment of ten thousand orcs wasn't too much, but it wasn't too little either. If Duke's thirty thousand-strong army wanted to defeat them with all their might, they'd have to change their entire game plan, alter their course.

And ignoring them? That was a no-go. That was out of the question. Because Orgrim clearly had Duke, or rather, the Alliance's Achilles' heel, in his sights. The Alliance had always been a loose union based on different kingdoms, a collection of cats in a bag. It wasn't like the Horde, where the Warchief had a clear, iron-fisted subordinate relationship with the chieftains of the major clans. The Alliance, especially the current one, needed to take into account the interests of each kingdom and the delicate feelings of the people.

Now, that detachment was deliberately staggered from Duke's thirty thousand-strong army and headed straight for Dalaran County in the south of Stratholme. In addition, an independent team was heading towards Maris Farm to disrupt Lordaeron's food production, a direct hit to the breadbasket.

King Terenas nearly had a heart attack when he heard the news. Three magical messages in one hour! Duke was annoyed beyond belief, ready to pull his hair out.

"Why isn't there a spam filter for magic messages?" Duke grumbled, rubbing his brows. He pondered for a moment, then built a mental barrier. Now, no matter who sent a magic message, Duke couldn't receive it. He also gave the System AI a new task: figure out how to develop a magic version of the blacklist, pronto.

Finally, Duke decided to give Terenas a good scare, a dose of tough love.

"'According to my assessment of the battle situation, the main force of the Horde army is preparing to attack Stratholme. So I can only focus on the Holy City and temporarily give up attacking the Horde's small forces.'" Duke spun a yarn, lying with his eyes wide open. Ilucia, who was in charge of helping Duke convey the message and taking the heat, rolled her eyes so hard they almost popped out, but she still sent the message. To bear the political pressure from the leader of the Alliance was something no ordinary person would dare to do. One could only imagine the mountain of trouble and criticism Duke would face afterwards.

"'Order! Evacuate the people from all towns in the entire region, including Darrowshire, and take refuge in the Barov family's Caer Darrow or Stratholme. Order! After clearing out the remaining enemies in the Hinterlands, Seamus... holds the designated position and builds a northern fortress.'"

This was all for her Quel'Thalas, a desperate gamble, and the price was that most towns in the region, except Stratholme, would be reduced to ashes, razed to the ground. Alleria pressed her lips into a thin, grim line and silently clutched Duke's hand tightly, like a lifeline.

On May 18th, the main force of the Horde finally left human territory and stomped into Quel'Thalas.

"'Be quiet, or die!'" Zul'jin warned his men in the harshest tone, his voice like grinding stones. They were moving rapidly through the forest, a silent, deadly wave, and into the borders of Quel'Thalas. Even though they hadn't reached that damn magically protected forest yet, Zul'jin didn't mind having some appetizers first, a little snack before the main course.

His keen trollish instincts, his nose for trouble, were reminding him that the elves were not far ahead of him. He slowed down, taking each step on the tree flexibly and lightly, a predatory grace in his movements. Zul'jin's movements were so silent that it was hard to imagine that he was a troll over 2.2 meters tall. His huge and slightly slender body was incredibly light and agile, and Zul'jin didn't even touch a single leaf or branch.

He held the axe, humming with bloodlust, tightly in both hands, and danced through the canopy, a phantom among the trees. He didn't want the elves to know they were coming, not yet. He wanted to catch them with their pants down. He and the Amani trolls around him watched silently, their eyes gleaming in the gloom, as a twenty-man elven border patrol team walked right into their ambush circle, a perfect, unsuspecting trap.