Army

"I'm sorry, my child. This is the strongest force I could scrape together for you," Anasterian sighed, his voice heavy with a weariness that seemed to age him by the minute.

Kael'thas's face, already a mask of grim determination, twisted with incredulous fury. "For the Sunwell's sake, Father! Didn't I send you raven after raven, screaming about the Horde threat a year ago? My letters practically had smoke coming off them!"

"Every single motion to prepare for war was shot down by the parliament, son," the Sun King groaned, running a hand through his thinning hair. "On the grounds that Quel'Thalas was somehow immune to the war, and there was 'no reason' to inflate the defense budget. Honestly, until three days ago, those self-important windbags still firmly believed our rune stone array was invincible, a magical brick wall no one could breach! Now, the whole of Quel'Thalas is in a state of utter chaos, a chicken with its head cut off, and the country is woefully unprepared for any kind of pre-war mobilization. We're playing catch-up, and we're losing." His face was etched with a sorrow and resentment that seemed permanently fused to his skin.

The Council! Oh, the blasted Council! The Silvermoon Council again!

Those stubborn, short-sighted barnacles clinging to the high elf race, holding them back, rejecting every single shred of progress and change! They were a cancerous growth on the very soul of Quel'Thalas!

The resentment in Kael'thas's heart swelled, threatening to burst from his chest like a runaway spell. No matter how perfectly groomed, how impeccably educated he was, he still felt the primal urge to scream, to tear his hair out, to vent his frustration until his throat was raw. Why, oh why, did he, a prince, spend so much time studying abroad in Dalaran? To put it nicely, it was to let His Royal Highness go out and absorb new knowledge, to broaden his horizons. To put it bluntly, the Silvermoon Council, whose power had eclipsed even the royal authority, had exiled him, sending him packing just to keep the monarchy in check.

Who knew the gut-wrenching pain of having a home, a birthright, but being unable to return to it, exiled by political machinations?

Kael'thas's iron-clad self-control, honed through years of arcane discipline, allowed him to clamp down on the volcanic anger bubbling within him.

Of course, Kael'thas had also picked up a thing or two in Dalaran over the years. Perhaps the high elves had an unparalleled, innate talent for wielding magic, but the development of magic itself was no longer the stagnant, unchanging world that had existed for thousands of years in the elves' minds. It was a dynamic, evolving beast.

It was bad enough that the elves' top brass refused to accept new ideas, but they were so arrogant, so utterly bone-headed, that they couldn't even be bothered to acknowledge the enemies practically breathing down their necks! Did they want the Horde to put a knife to their throats before they'd exclaim, "Oh, my stars! So there really are enemies here?!"

Though his blood was boiling, Kael'thas remained clear-headed. Having witnessed the raw, brutal power of the Horde firsthand, he knew in his gut that this hastily assembled, rotten-to-the-core army wouldn't stand a snowball's chance in the Twisting Nether against them.

But for the sake of his people, for the very soul of Quel'Thalas, Kael'thas swallowed his pride and resolutely accepted the impossible appointment.

No reason needed. Just because his last name was Sunstrider! He was the sole heir to the royal family of Quel'Thalas, the last hope of a dying lineage.

The perfectionist training he'd received from the moment he could walk had imprinted honor and responsibility into the deepest, most noble parts of his soul. It was his duty, his sacred charge, to save his burning homeland.

Kael'thas bowed his head deeply to his father, his voice a low, solemn vow. "Father, for the Sunwell and for the continuation of the high elves, I am willing to lay down my life for Quel'Thalas."

Lay down his life?!

Those words hit Anasterian like a physical blow, so grave, so utterly final, that even the Sun King was jolted, a cold dread creeping into his heart. He knew his son. Kael'thas would never utter such harsh, absolute words without a damn good reason.

Did the Sun King actually want his only heir to die on the battlefield? Don't be ridiculous! Anasterian had finally found a golden opportunity to challenge the Council's iron grip. He'd called Kael'thas back specifically so his son could return like a conquering hero, a king reborn, to solidify his claim to the throne and, one day, rein in the excessive, suffocating power of the Silvermoon Council.

"Child, is this... is the Horde truly that powerful?" Anasterian asked, his voice softer, laced with a rare vulnerability. His energy, already depleted by years of political infighting, wasn't what it used to be. Too much of his vitality had been consumed by internal squabbles, turning the king who had once ended the Troll Wars into today's "tyrant," a master of backroom deals and political maneuvering, but utterly out of his depth in a real war.

The entire Quel'Thalas high command, those stuffy, self-important mages, wouldn't give a damn about ordinary warriors. No matter how many orc brutes there were, they'd simply dismiss them as ants, easily crushed by superior magic.

After pondering for a moment, Kael'thas finally spoke, his voice carefully measured. "Apart from anything else, there's a warlock among the orcs, a scoundrel named Gul'dan. He went head-to-head with Antonidas of Dalaran, and the result was a draw. A dead heat."

"Hiss—" The Sun King actually gasped, a sharp intake of breath that echoed in the quiet tent. He was finally, truly shaken.

Most of them, whether it was him or the Silvermoon Council, looked down on human mages. But there was one glaring exception: Antonidas, the most powerful and talented Archmage in Dalaran in the past hundred years, a true titan of arcane might.

Thirty years ago, in a semi-public competition, Anasterian and Antonidas had fought to a standstill, a legendary draw. That battle had cemented Antonidas's transcendent status in Dalaran, making him a living legend.

The Sun King could look down on any spellcaster he pleased, but he simply could not look down on Antonidas.

True strength, he knew, transcended race or nationality. To value an orc warlock as highly as Antonidas was no exaggeration; it was a chilling, undeniable truth.

The Sun King stroked his chin, his mind working furiously. "My child," he said, his voice regaining some of its regal authority, "let me give you an arcane puppet brigade from the Silvermoon City garrison, plus ten mountain giants and two spellbreaker squadrons. Go forth, my son, and win a glorious victory. Bring it home."

A flicker of genuine joy finally appeared on Kael'thas's face, a rare sight amidst the gloom.

At this moment, neither the father nor the son realized they were still being played for fools, caught in a grand deception.

First of all, there was Gul'dan. Except for Duke, no one in the entire Alliance, indeed, no one in the entire world of Azeroth, knew the true, terrifying strength of Gul'dan. In terms of high-end military power, the elves had made their first, catastrophic misjudgment. They were bringing a knife to a dragon fight.

The second was their fundamental misunderstanding of the orc warriors' strength.

Except for the Windrunner sisters, not a single high-ranking elf had ever set foot on a real battlefield against the Horde. Their understanding of the orcs was purely academic, gleaned from dusty scrolls and reports. They only saw the casualty exchange ratio after the human-orc wars, and, seeing similar numbers, they foolishly equated the combat power of orc warriors with that of human warriors. What they failed to grasp was that this seemingly balanced exchange ratio was only achieved because Duke had pushed the power of his strategy to the absolute limit, squeezing every ounce of advantage from every situation.

Finally, there were the devastating changes brought about by the rune stones.

In the elves' arrogant, outdated impression, the rune stone defense circle was simply "broken." They couldn't begin to fathom how much the Storm Altar, built from those very rune stones, would boost the Horde.

Now, every single ogre in the Horde had become two-headed, their biggest problem – mental retardation – magically eliminated. The physical fitness of ogres was already off the charts on this planet. With their newfound intelligence, their combat power had at least doubled. Moreover, a terrifying number of ogre mages had emerged from the thousands of ogres, a truly horrifying development.

Could a single-core CPU possibly compare to a dual-core one? It was a rhetorical question, and the answer was a resounding "no."

And so, the great Prince Kael'thas, with the weight of his kingdom on his shoulders, heroically led his army to fight against the invaders, embarking on the first major expedition of his life.

The army of twenty-seven thousand people stretched from the capital of Silvermoon City all the way to the city gate, a magnificent, if utterly impractical, sight. In the mighty team, every soldier's armor boasted exquisite carvings and intricate patterns. Bright red backgrounds, gorgeous gold wire edges, and winged headbands that offered little to no protective capabilities beyond pure decoration... it was a parade, not a war march.

Since the battle was being fought on home turf, the Chocobos pulling the carts did not carry too much baggage. Instead, they hauled a ridiculous number of magic stones and various morale-boosting musical instruments, as if they were off to a grand concert rather than a bloody conflict.

Duke and his companions, far outside the border, were completely dumbfounded after seeing this spectacle unfold in the magic mirror sent by a wizard close to the Windrunners.

Even an upright, by-the-book young man like Reginald Windsor couldn't help but complain, his jaw practically on the floor: "What in the blazes?! Are we going to war or an armed parade? Because it looks an awful lot like the latter!"