Answer me!

To be honest, this wasn't Orgrim Doomhammer's first rodeo with these infernal contraptions. He'd seen these mechanical abominations, these soulless creations he couldn't for the life of him understand, chew through countless of Zul'jin's best. They had, with their baffling antics, turned a long-distance raid that should have been etched into the history books as a tactical masterpiece into a ridiculous, humiliating wild goose chase.

Now, the red lights were back, blinking malevolently all over the mountainside, like a thousand angry, demonic eyes. They seemed meaningless, yet every single one screamed "DANGER!" to every orc, a silent, terrifying warning.

What in the blazes do I do?! Orgrim fumed, his mind a whirlwind of frustration.

"Attack! This thing's not dangerous!" bellowed a centurion, full of bravado and, as it turned out, hot air. According to previous experience, the fool was right. These 'ghost things,' scattered across the mountains and fields, might be good for flushing out hidden trolls, but they themselves were about as aggressive as a sleeping gronn. Perhaps in the eyes of humans, these things were no different from the crude axes the orcs forged themselves – simple, predictable.

The centurion, a hulking brute named Grok, led the charge, roaring like a maniac, and with a mighty kick, sent a screaming monster spirit flying like a broken football.

If this were yesterday, or the day before, or any day before Duke showed up, Grok's experience would have been spot-on, and he'd have been hailed as a genius. But now...

"BANG——"

With a deafening explosion that rattled the very teeth in Orgrim's skull, the demon spirit detonated. The sheer, concussive force of the blast sent Grok, a centurion whose weight, armor and all, tipped the scales at well over six hundred pounds, flying backwards like a rag doll. Shrapnel, razor-sharp pieces of twisted iron, peppered his entire ugly face, blinding him instantly. What was even more terrifying, more gut-wrenching, was that while his thick armor had somehow blocked the fatal blow, the explosion had still ripped off one of his legs, leaving a bloody stump where a limb used to be.

A centurion, a grunt barely known in the Blackrock Clan, was laid off just like that, with extreme prejudice.

At this horrifying moment, the demon spirits, those malevolent little red-eyed abominations, suddenly accelerated, surging forward with a chilling speed, rushing straight towards the tribal army.

"No! Stop them!" Orgrim roared, his voice cracking with desperation.

How do you stop a suicide bomber?! The Horde only now realized, with a sickening lurch, that most of their trolls, who were actually good at long-range attacks, had already been killed off by Duke's previous traps. If you had any courage left, you could throw away the only weapon in your hand and maybe, just maybe, save your own hide. But if these things got really close, even if the explosion wasn't enough to blow you to smithereens, it was certainly enough to break the arms and legs of any orc, leaving them screaming in agony.

"BANG! BANG! BANG!" Accompanied by a continuous, terrifying symphony of explosions, the elven rangers on the opposite side, those infuriatingly accurate archers, began to rain arrows down on the wooden wall again, adding insult to injury.

Suicide bombings, even before Duke traveled through time, were still an almost unsolvable problem, a nightmare for any military strategist. The only "problem" for Duke was that he hadn't yet found the remote detonation technology. These demons that rushed forward were all pre-equipped with bombs, and Duke, with a flick of his system-controlled magician's hand, simply detonated them directly. Even so, it was enough to make Orgrim's scalp tingle, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow.

It wasn't an attack. It wasn't not an attack. It was a slow, agonizing bleed. The losses were already astronomical, enough to make a lesser Warchief weep. The Horde wasn't afraid of sacrifice, no, but what the Horde feared most was this fruitless, infuriating "death by a thousand cuts," this soft knife slicing through their flesh without any tangible gain. Ten thousand warriors had died in total, and apart from demolishing six wooden walls of the Alliance, they had killed almost no one.

Including the trolls' javelins, the casualties on the Alliance side definitely did not exceed 300. The sheer, astronomical casualty ratio made the orcs feel uneasy, a gnawing dread settling in their guts. There were only about 30,000 people left along the way to Orgrim's position. Now, after this meat grinder, there were only about 20,000 left, and many of the orcs were in low morale, their fighting spirit chipped away. How in the blazes could they fight like this?!

Duke, standing on the five-story command tower, was the picture of patience, a cat watching a mouse. He hadn't yet made a direct move, hadn't even lifted a finger. Or rather, it wasn't yet time for him to make his grand entrance.

The elite core members of Orgrim's forces, those hardened veterans, hadn't moved an inch. Those 10,000 warriors were the last, best hope of the Blackrock Clan, the cream of the crop. These 10,000 weren't simple grunts. The system AI, in a rare moment of enthusiasm, had reminded Duke that these guys actually had surprisingly good magic resistance. Not only fire resistance, but also some frost and arcane resistance, which almost covered most of the mainstream magic. They were tough nuts to crack.

The one that Duke was most unsure of, the wild card in this whole twisted game, was Orgrim Doomhammer himself. Physical classes were different from magic classes. Mages were neatly divided into five levels: Earth, Sky, Master, Archmage, and Dawn Sun – a clear, defined hierarchy. But physical classes were vague, a blurry mess, generally divided into the realms of "good players," "strong men," and "heroes." According to Alleria, it seemed that people like her who entered the hero realm would awaken certain unique traits. For example, she specialized in speed and agility, and then awakened additional wind attributes at the Storm Altar, turning her into a living whirlwind. Orgrim... Duke thought. If he didn't find a chance to force the Warchief to use his full strength, to show his true colors, he might never know what he was truly up against.

Originally, Duke wanted to wait until the elite of the Horde had bled themselves dry, until they were nothing but a bloody pulp, but then a line of system prompts flashed across his vision, startling him.

"Send the order! Send the Silver Hand to appear."

As the massive drawbridge, hastily repaired, groaned and creaked its way down, the huge east gate of Lordaeron opened with a thunderous rumble. A cavalry of several thousand people, a shimmering wave of steel, burst out of the gate and stopped less than a kilometer away from Orgrim's rear army, a silent, menacing threat. The brilliant holy light of the Paladins, a beacon of defiance, could be seen clearly from a long distance, a stark contrast to the grim, green horde.

The Knights of the Silver Hand weren't numerous, in fact, less than half a regiment, only 60 hardened warriors. Moreover, the most capable Uther Lightbringer was off doing whatever Uther did, and the only ones leading the team were Tirion Fordring and Gavinrad, two first-generation paladins, still figuring things out.

The holy light of the Paladins, however, was enough to blind the eyes of the tribal scouts, sending them scrambling. Thousands of Alliance knights did not attack, but stood there, a silent, unmoving wall of steel, at the side and rear of the Horde, a constant, nagging presence. After that poor, breathless scout crawled to Orgrim to report, Orgrim's face suddenly darkened, turning a shade of green even deeper than usual. He immediately realized, with a sickening lurch, that Duke was trying to persuade him to quit, to throw in the towel.

"Warchief, we can't retreat!" Orgrim's deputy, Sabek, roared, his voice raw. "The humans are really capable of that! They attacked early in the morning! They're hitting us from all sides!"

"I know," Orgrim growled, his voice a low rumble.

Orgrim was torn, caught between a rock and a hard place. Duke's tactical strategy was clear as day: to kill the elite of the Horde to the maximum extent. Duke, who never stuck to a city or a place, was only interested in killing people, but now he was here, trying to persuade the Horde in the east to retreat. It was obvious that there had to be a problem in the Alliance, a chink in their armor. Duke must be willing to give up the price of annihilating the eastern legion of the Horde and concentrate on encircling and annihilating the west.

But what was that variable? What was the catch? Orgrim didn't know, and the not knowing was driving him absolutely insane. He was now extremely envious of the Alliance's communication methods, those infuriating magic mirrors and whispers. This allowed high-level commanders to quickly grasp changes in the situation, to adapt on the fly. Unlike the backward communication methods of the Horde, where almost everything had to be delivered by sending people in person, often at great risk. Now it depended entirely on whether Orgrim would gamble or not, whether he'd roll the dice.

Even though Orgrim knew, deep down, that the human cavalry behind his army was definitely not elite, probably just a bunch of greenhorns, he couldn't ignore the existence of this force. It would be very dangerous to attack blindly, to charge headfirst into the unknown. Once the number of tribes dropped to 10,000, it seemed that the attack from both sides a few days ago would definitely happen again, a pincer movement that would crush them.

"Damn it!" The huge Hammer of Doom slammed into the ground, creating a crater the size of a small troll hut.

At this very moment, the Alliance suddenly counterattacked, a surge of unexpected aggression. Led by hundreds of demon spirits, their red lights flashing like angry fireflies, nearly three thousand elven rangers came down from the wooden wall, moving with a terrifying grace. They slowly advanced forward, shooting arrows amid the continuous explosions, a deadly dance of death. Orgrim also discovered, to his growing frustration, that not every demon spirit would explode. However, every one of these flashing red lights looked exactly the same, making it impossible to tell which was which.

Orgrim suddenly did something that surprised all his guards, making their jaws drop. He actually rushed to the front of the formation, his massive frame pushing through his own bewildered troops. His huge roar, a primal scream of fury and desperation, penetrated the chaotic battlefield and reached the Alliance formation, a challenge flung across the bloody ground.

"Edmund Duke! Answer me – are you in cahoots with Gul'dan!?" he bellowed, his voice echoing with a mix of accusation and a desperate need for answers.