Showdown

The Knights of Stormwind Kingdom crashed into the battlefield like a rogue wave, and hundreds of orcs, caught flat-footed, were instantly flattened by the thunderous iron hooves. Those who managed to dodge were swiftly introduced to the business end of a knight's sword or hammer. This wasn't a massive army, just a thousand or so steel-clad warriors, but their sudden, terrifying appearance accelerated the Horde's front-line collapse like a house of cards in a hurricane.

In this twisted timeline, thanks to the mysterious Duke throwing a monkey wrench in things, Lothar and Orgrim's fateful first dance had been postponed. So, this was their grand debut, a true meeting of titans.

From a mystical perspective, it was the universe's sixth sense, a primal radar, that allowed them to lock onto each other. From a grunt's eye view, it was simply a matter of presence. Both were figures who stood out like a sore thumb in a sea of green and gold.

Lothar himself was a giant among men, his physique so massive it could rival an average orc warrior. Puny nags just wouldn't do for him. So, when he became the Alliance's commander-in-chief, King Terenas, eager to butter him up, gifted him a stable full of equine behemoths.

This magnificent warhorse, aptly named Light of Lordaeron, stood nearly two meters at the shoulder, its legs like tree trunks, and tipping the scales at over a ton. It devoured feed like a hungry Ogre at a banquet, easily four times what a regular horse could manage. But its gargantuan size came with mind-blowing endurance and explosive power. Even loaded down with 800 kilograms of gear, it could gallop at nearly 90% of its top speed for over a kilometer. Naturally, it sported the most sophisticated horse armor money could buy.

And Lothar, gleaming in his silver plate, astride this beast, was a beacon on the battlefield. From a distance, you'd swear an orc was riding that horse, he was so imposing. Wielding a Stormwind shield the size of a small door and the greatsword Quel'Zaram, which practically glowed with divine light, Anduin Lothar looked less like a general and more like a war god who'd just crash-landed in Azeroth.

Orgrim wasn't exactly chopped liver either.

Surrounded by a whirlwind of ogres, who were throwing themselves at the Alliance like angry toddlers, the hulking Orgrim swung his black Doomhammer, which crackled with hellfire. The long tassels on the hammer swished wildly as he spun the monstrous weapon, and with every blow, at least one Alliance soldier exploded into a messy collection of broken limbs and shattered armor. The bloody fragments, instantly incinerated by the hammer's flames, turned into grotesque little fireballs that splattered across the scorched earth.

Unlike the clumsy, shuffling gait of most orc warriors, this brute moved with surprising grace and cunning. Even in his heavy, black plate armor – which looked like it could shrug off a cannonball, deflecting javelins with a casual clang – he was as agile as a nimble rogue.

"Orgrim Doomhammer!"

"Anduin Lothar!"

Though a hundred meters of chaos separated them, their voices boomed across the din, recognizing each other instantly. They shared a knowing grin. The other was the ultimate prize, the top dog of the enemy faction. Take them down, and the morale of the Alliance (or Horde) would hit rock bottom faster than a goblin zeppelin. Yes, the opponent was the heaviest weight on the scales of victory, the whole ball of wax!

"Get out of my way!" Orgrim casually swung the black hammer, a weapon that would make a human grimace, and effortlessly cleaved the upper half of a human soldier who dared to block his path. Ignoring the still-twitching torso, Orgrim delivered a swift kick to the backside of an orc who was also in his way, sending the cursing warrior flying.

Anduin, witnessing the carnage caused by Orgrim, spurred his magnificent steed forward, charging into the fray like a thunderbolt.

A two-headed ogre, spotting Anduin, roared and brought its massive club down in a furious arc. The club, thicker than an adult's thigh, whistled through the air with enough force to rearrange a small mountain. Anduin, however, didn't even bother with his shield or veering his beloved horse. His greatsword flashed, a blur of golden light, and in one clean stroke, decapitated both of the ogre's heads and sheared off its entire shoulders. Like a hot knife through butter, Anduin, with his Stormwind Knights close behind, advanced at breakneck speed. He wielded his shining sword, clearing a path through the enemy ranks like a raging tidal wave.

From start to finish, the Alliance's supreme commander kept his eyes glued to the orc chieftain.

"Come on!" Orgrim's roar of defiance seemed to tear through the very sky. His gaze never wavered from Anduin, even as fierce fighting raged around him. Any Alliance soldier foolish enough to approach was either instantly dispatched by Rexxar and other guards with bone-shattering force or tangled up by the other orcs. A few brave souls occasionally reached Orgrim, but after a flash of the black giant hammer, there was nothing left but dust.

Anduin's high-speed charging warhorse was a major headache. Orgrim distinctly remembered how those twelve hateful paladins had galloped past him earlier, turning the Horde's formation upside down like a cheap rug. Orgrim decided to nip that problem in the bud. Facing Anduin's mounted charge, he swung his hammer in a smooth, flowing arc, almost… light?

Anduin was indeed taken aback. How could a hammer that looked like it weighed a ton be so light? Orgrim truly made it look effortless, wielding Doomhammer, estimated to weigh over 200 kilograms, with the grace of an embroidery needle. The next moment, the monstrous hammer accelerated, aimed squarely at the horse's head. It was practically a given: in a second, the horse's skull would be pulverized, blood would gush, and the renowned Lordaeron warhorse would be twitching its last.

Then, something truly amazing happened: this incredibly intelligent warhorse suddenly snapped its head up, dodging the fatal blow by the skin of its teeth. Then, the galloping warhorse slammed on its rear brakes, reared up on its front legs, and kicked Orgrim squarely in the chest with lightning speed.

"Whoa—!" Orgrim, caught flat-footed, tumbled backward.

Anduin seized the golden opportunity, and Quel'Zaram descended like a bolt from the heavens. In that very instant, the Horde Warchief, Orgrim, was on the brink of meeting his maker at the hands of the Alliance's war god. But in a flash, Rexxar was there.

Two blood-stained battle axes, twin streaks of lightning in the chaotic air, shot out: one aimed at Anduin's right abdomen, the other at his chest.

"Hmph!" The armored muscles in Anduin's right arm visibly bulged. In this critical moment, Quel'Zaram, already descending, seemed to waver in a way it shouldn't.

"Ding! Ding!" With two sharp metallic cries, Rexxar's twin axes were instantly sliced into four pieces by the divine sword Quel'Zaram.

Impossible! Rexxar was left holding the short end of the stick.

If the one facing Anduin at this moment had been Grom Hellscream, fresh from his countless battles in Silverpine Forest, he wouldn't have been so arrogant. Only truly high-tier epic weapons could even hope to avoid being cleaved in half by Quel'Zaram; even Gorehowl would be cutting it close.

But there are no "ifs" in war. Even Grom himself was holed up deep in the dense forests of Tirisfal Glades, elusive to both Horde and Alliance. No one had bothered to warn the eastern tribes about the sheer power of Anduin. And during the First Dark Portal War, no famous chieftain had coincidentally faced Anduin head-on. Rexxar, blissfully unaware, bit off more than he could chew.

If Rexxar hadn't arched his back like a bridge at the last second, dodging backward, he would have been sliced in half, no matter how tough he was. The result of this blow was a horrifying wound over a meter long and thirty centimeters deep, running from Rexxar's left shoulder, across his chest, and down to his right abdomen. It looked like Rexxar had been ripped open like a sack of grain. But that was for ordinary humans or orcs. For Rexxar, who inherited the robust blood of ogres and boasted chest and abdominal muscles twice as thick as a prime cut steak, the sword was excruciating, and he was definitely out of the fight, but he wasn't dead yet.

"Rexxar!" Orgrim roared, and even as he tumbled backward, he still managed to twist his body, slamming a backhanded hammer blow into the Light of Lordaeron's left front leg muscles.

The majestic warhorse neighed in agony. Anduin instantly knew his beloved mount was on its last legs. A warhorse, after all, wasn't a griffin; it didn't possess that kind of stubborn vitality or battle prowess. Orgrim hadn't put his full strength into that hammer blow, but it was enough to temporarily cripple the warhorse.

Anduin, with a spectacular somersault, leaped from the stirrups, dismounting with a flourish. As he landed, he didn't forget to give his horse a sympathetic pat on the rump, a silent farewell to his dying companion.

The royal knights were locked in a brutal dance with the ogre guards, and whether by design or accident, only Anduin remained directly in front of Orgrim. The battle around them seemed to fade, replaced by a silent understanding: this was the main event, a clash of the titans reserved for the top dogs. Both colossal figures raised their weapons simultaneously.

On one side, the Storm Sword Quel'Zaram, gleaming with golden runes.

On the other, the black giant Doomhammer, pulled from the churning lava of a fiery crater.

Then, in a whisper-soft collision, they struck. They had but one goal: to kill each other and put an end to this brutal mineral war. This was destined to be a no-holds-barred brawl.

Anduin Lothar was a mountain of a man, his physique almost on par with a second-rate orc warrior. Orgrim was bigger, stronger, and younger. While Lothar might have been slightly behind in years and raw speed, his experience and skill more than leveled the playing field.

Orgrim once couldn't wrap his head around how the former Warchief Blackhand, despite his superior physique and speed, had fallen to Lothar. Even with Duke's shadowy manipulations, an ordinary human shouldn't have survived such terrifying power and speed. Now, Orgrim knew.

Orgrim initiated the attack. Each swing of his massive hammer was accompanied by a chilling, ear-splitting scream. Weak-minded opponents would be frozen in their tracks by the sheer sound, and of course, the price for that paralysis was their lives. It was a hammer blow delivered with every ounce of his being, a primal force surging from the earth, through Orgrim's bulging, spring-steel thighs, abdomen, and chest, exploding into his right upper arm, which was swollen to the point of bursting. With flawless power, Doomhammer descended like a comet, growing impossibly fast in Lothar's vision.

Lothar didn't block. He executed a cautious T-step, nimbly dodging to his left and back. The hammer's textured head zipped past him by less than twenty centimeters, the flames licking at the very ends of Lothar's long hair.

If you don't hit, you don't hit. Without giving Orgrim a snowball's chance in hell to counterattack, Lothar, having dodged, sprung back like a compressed spring. His greatsword followed the hammer's trajectory, sweeping from the side towards Orgrim's lower ribs, a sly move into an absolute blind spot. Orgrim was indeed trying to muscle the hammer back into position for another strike, but he was a step too slow. Quel'Zaram easily sliced through the black iron plate armor under Orgrim's right armpit, leaving a deep, bone-exposing wound on Orgrim's right chest. Blood gushed, painting the black armor a grotesque, vibrant red.

If Orgrim's second hammer hadn't come down so fast, Lothar might have ended the fight then and there. With no other option, Lothar surged forward, brushing past Orgrim's right side. Orgrim's counterattacking hammer swung through empty air. Just as the two titans seemed poised to separate, Lothar was blindsided: Orgrim continued to sweep his hammer horizontally to the right. Doomhammer described a massive semicircle in the air and smashed into Lothar's back. For such a super-heavy weapon, trying to block without enough mana would be signing his own death warrant. As a last resort, Lothar executed a somewhat awkward forward roll, barely avoiding the blow from behind.

Lothar scrambled to his feet, regained his footing, and turned to face Orgrim.

"Huff, huff, huff!" Both had been carving through enemies moments before, each with the blood of at least a hundred foes on their hands. But neither had been made to breathe so heavily until now.

"You're bleeding," Lothar quipped, trying to get under his skin.

"If you're the kind of chump who's happy with just a scratch, you can hit me a hundred times, and you'll still be the one pushing up daisies in the end," Orgrim scoffed, unfazed.

Lothar smirked. This time, he was the one to initiate. Quel'Zaram, still shimmering with golden light, executed a perfectly ordinary straight stab. Unexpectedly, Orgrim met it with the top of his hammer. Even with Quel'Zaram in hand, using the sword tip against a hammer was generally a recipe for disaster. However, Lothar knew this, yet he did it anyway, remembering Duke's cryptic words: "What if the Horde's chieftain, Orgrim, is a noble-minded individual who cares about the entire tribe?"

Who was Duke, you ask?

Recognized as the most learned, wisest, and greatest military strategist in the entire Alliance, Duke had amassed an unimaginable wealth of knowledge from his eccentric old friend's collection of tomes. Duke's foresight was legendary. He never did anything without a reason. Many of his seemingly insignificant, even boneheaded actions, always turned out to be perfect, far-sighted preparations. So there was no way Lothar was going to take Duke's words with a grain of salt.

This sword thrust was a test. If anything happened to Quel'Zaram, Lothar wouldn't hesitate to draw the spare blade at his waist and keep the fight going.

The golden sword light and the hammer's fiery glow collided. Lothar was slightly startled, but his worst fears weren't realized. The sword tip, hitting the hammer, felt a bit off, but it certainly didn't shatter; it was the inevitable clash of a sharp weapon against an impossibly heavy hammer. Without going all-out, he naturally had room to adjust his tactics.

Both men were already planning their next moves. Orgrim's counter was subtle: a gentle lift of the hammerhead, less than twenty centimeters, before slamming it down again. He wanted the hammer to connect squarely with Quel'Zaram's blade. If Lothar guessed correctly, Orgrim was trying to exploit the inherent weaknesses of a sword against a hammer, hoping to destroy the holy blade.

Lothar nimbly stepped to the left, dodging the blow with his greatsword, but Orgrim then flipped the hammer handle, swinging the weapon in the opposite direction. The hammer passed under Lothar's chin, forcing him to lose balance and step back. Then, an utterly unreasonable hammer blow followed, but Lothar raised his sword in time, blocking the hammer handle. For a moment, both warriors poured every ounce of their strength into it, their weapons locked. Doomhammer swung down again, but was once more pushed aside by Lothar. Both weapons vibrated fiercely but held firm. Then, Lothar twisted his sword, successfully knocking the hammer away. While Doomhammer was retracting his weapon, Lothar leaped forward, sword poised to strike…

The battle raged hotter than a dragon's breath.

Five minutes ago, the Twelve Paladins were still charging. At the perfect moment, Gavinrad caught the reflective signal from a steam tank in the distance. He immediately bellowed, "Look! Our commander-in-chief is in a death match with the orc chieftain!"

At that moment, whether it was Uther, Turalyon, or any of the other paladins, they were all locked in brutal combat with the orcs in front of them. At Gavinrad's shout, almost every paladin delivered a final, bone-shattering hammer blow to their opponents' heads. Their attention snapped to the duel between Lothar and a hulking orc at the very heart of the battlefield.

Because Duke often used him as muscle, more than one member of the Silver Hand had seen Orgrim in action. They instantly grasped the danger. If Lothar won, it would be a triumph for the ages, etched into history. But if Lothar lost... they couldn't even fathom the chaos that would ensue without the Alliance's unified banner.

Perhaps the Alliance would eventually pull itself together under external pressure, but everyone knew Lordaeron's petty squabbles had already sown seeds of discord. If Lothar, the last descendant of Arathi, fell now, the Alliance would likely descend into petty infighting and tear itself apart.

Without a single word, the twelve holy knights immediately wheeled their horses around and charged towards the center of the battlefield. Their heavy hammers, wreathed in holy light, drew golden arcs of light more beautiful than any sword dance, and every orc touched by these arcs was instantly annihilated.

If someone had been looking down from above the battlefield, they would have seen more than just the twelve holy knights. Including the blitzkrieg tank troops, two other groups of orcs – a total of four distinct forces – were all frantically trying to hack their way through the maelstrom to reach the two leaders.

At this very moment, the two leaders clashed again, a symphony of hammers and greatswords. The brutal battle drained them both rapidly; neither was as spry as they had been. Unable to dodge, Lothar was forced to block Orgrim's full-strength attack with his lion-headed emblem shield. The fierce blow nearly drove him to his knees. The crisp cracking sound of the epic shield was so sharp that Lothar's entire left arm went numb.

But Lothar was no worse for wear. His sword, in turn, carved a deep gash on the chieftain's breastplate. The massive wound, over five centimeters deep, gushed blood, a vivid red against the dark armor.

Orgrim staggered back, his lips twisted in a grimace of pain and frustration. Then, with his left hand, he yanked at the straps on his shoulders, tearing off the damaged armor. On the other side, Lothar also took a step forward, ripped off his shield – now little more than a rotten piece of wood – and tossed it to the ground.

"Ptooey!" Lothar spat out a mouthful of grime and blood.

Even more horrifyingly, Orgrim used the searing heat from Doomhammer like a branding iron, searing the wound on his chest to staunch the gushing blood.

Then, both men let out a primal roar and resumed their dance of death.

Without his armor, Orgrim was lightning fast, and Lothar, wielding his greatsword two-handed, made its destructive power even more terrifying. After a blindingly fast exchange of blows, both men took a punishing hit. A deep gash appeared on Orgrim's abdomen, revealing a glimpse of intestine. Lothar's left arm was also hammered hard. His body reeled. He didn't even need to feel the excruciating pain in his left arm; just seeing the unnaturally bent limb told him he had at least five fractures. His left shoulder also screamed in agony; it, too, might be shattered.

Both men stumbled back to their feet, ready for round three.

Orgrim raised his warhammer high with both hands, leaping forward with every ounce of strength, smashing it towards Lothar's head from nearly five meters away. The cunning Orgrim unveiled his incredible leaping ability for the first time. Before this, he'd carefully cultivated the illusion of being a powerful but slow brute. Clearly, he'd succeeded. The warrior skill he employed now reeked of a finishing move.

At this precise moment, an unforeseen event occurred, a total curveball Lothar never saw coming. Rexxar, lying seriously wounded on the ground nearby, suddenly shot out a hand and grabbed Lothar's left foot. The feeling of being restrained, like a vise, left Lothar utterly unable to dodge.

Lothar instinctively raised Quel'Zaram to block the sneak attack, pouring every shred of his remaining strength into the blade. Doomhammer smashed down with a scorching momentum that seemed destined to wipe out all existence!

Time itself seemed to hold its breath.

Because…

—The sword shattered!

When the fragments of that impossibly sharp, legendary blade, which had been Lothar's constant companion in battle, exploded in mid-air, every witness gasped. Turalyon felt his lungs seize, and Orgrim's attack continued, unimpeded. Doomhammer continued its deadly arc, slamming heavily onto the top of Lothar's helmet!

In the eleventh hour.

The runes on the armor Duke had specially crafted for Lothar suddenly flared to life. An enormous metal fist materialized out of thin air right in front of Lothar's chest, and with a roaring uppercut, it slammed into Orgrim's face, sending him reeling.

Almost simultaneously, an unknown shout echoed across the battlefield. The sudden, bizarre change in fighting style stunned everyone who witnessed it.

This… this… what in the blazes was that?!

The moment the holy sword Quel'Zaram shattered, Anduin Lothar had mentally prepared himself to die in battle. It wasn't that he hadn't heard Duke's warning, but he never expected that Quel'Zaram, which had held up fine when not at full strength, would break under his full power when he had no room to maneuver. One might call it the sword's betrayal, or perhaps he simply never believed Orgrim was truly "noble" enough in the sword's eyes.

Lothar wasn't one to wallow in self-pity, nor did he blame Rexxar for suddenly grabbing his foot. This was a battlefield, not a gentleman's duel. In war, it was fair game to use few against many, or many against few. To kill the enemy and save your own skin in the ultimate chaos, you needed not just strength, but a hefty dose of luck.

For a second, Lothar thought his luck had finally run out. How could he have imagined that the armor Duke gave him would have such a miraculous, "pull a rabbit out of a hat" kind of magical effect? For most enchanted armors, basic arrow protection was a bonus. The next step up was an Intermediate Magic Shield, which might absorb a bit of elemental damage. But this?

While Lothar recognized the magic came from his armor, he couldn't for the life of him figure out what kind of bizarre sorcery it was. "Bizarre" didn't even begin to cover it.

The magical fist, appearing seemingly from nowhere near Lothar's chest, rained down on Orgrim like a hailstorm. With no leverage or means to dodge, Orgrim was pummeled black and blue by the mysterious, magically condensed fists. These weren't fatal blows, but each one made Orgrim wince. He could only throw one hand up to protect his fangs and the other to cover his open abdomen, hoping to keep the wound from widening.

Finally, what seemed like an endless barrage of punches was actually just ninety-nine – or, as some mystics would say, eighty-one. When the last illusory fist connected with Orgrim, the phantom fists vanished instantly. And Orgrim was sent flying ten meters away.

Orgrim wasn't about to roll over and play dead. He wasn't the kind to throw in the towel. Without missing a beat, the moment his right leg touched the ground, he shoved off hard, unleashing his mountain-splitting Leap Slash once more. Even though Lothar had kicked Rexxar away and drawn his backup blade, Orgrim could see at a glance that Lothar's spare sword was a far cry from Quel'Zaram.

One more hammer blow! Just one more!

I can end the Alliance supreme leader right here, on this battlefield, with honor! The Alliance's morale will crater, those pathetic human soldiers will turn tail and run, and the Horde will snatch victory from the jaws of defeat!

The voice in his head was deafening; Orgrim completely tuned out the rest of the world. All his focus was on Lothar's movements. He saw Lothar preparing to take a small jump back. That was meaningless, he thought, because he'd anticipated that jump by at least two steps, and the trajectory seemed identical to before. If Lothar retreated, he'd just catch up. If Lothar didn't retreat, this would be a fatal blow, soaring over Lothar's head and crushing the back of his skull.

Sure enough, Lothar walked right into the trap. As a pure warrior, he was no match for the more calculating Orgrim. After jumping back, Lothar was shocked to find himself still under the shadow of Orgrim's blazing, fiery hammer. If nothing unexpected happened, Lothar was toast.

Orgrim's eyes narrowed as he saw the magic runes on Lothar's armor dim again, knowing the armor wouldn't be a problem in the short term. A victor's smile spread across Orgrim's face, but to Lothar, it was a grotesque, cruel sneer.

At that moment, Orgrim's focus shattered. He stared, eyes wide with terror, at the arrow streaking across half the battlefield like a meteor, hurtling directly towards him.

"No way?!" The ferocious smile twisted into a desperate scream. Orgrim, suspended in mid-air, tried to twist his body to dodge the arrow coming from his left, but he was horrified to find the glowing green arrow bending in mid-air, still zeroing in on him.

Orgrim, refusing to give up the Leap Slash, furiously swung his left fist, ready to swat the arrow away at the cost of his hand turning into a bloody pulp.

The next moment, time seemed to stand still.

Because Orgrim discovered, to his utter horror, that it wasn't just one arrow. It was three. Behind the first glowing green arrow, a steel-tipped feather arrow suddenly crackled with lightning, and a swift arrow, almost hidden by the wind, followed in the exact same trajectory.

Orgrim was a sitting duck.

At this critical juncture, an orc with a broken arm and a serrated blade as a prosthetic limb burst forward, throwing himself in front of Orgrim—Kargath Bladefist, chieftain of the Shattered Hand, had arrived in the nick of time.

Unfortunately, it was all for naught.

The three arrows seemed to have a mind of their own. They danced around Kargath's desperate block, drawing graceful arcs in the wind, and continued their deadly pursuit. The third arrow, wreathed in fierce winds, struck first, slamming violently into Orgrim's left lung.

The second, a thunder arrow, made a dull "thwack" sound as it punched through the socket of Orgrim's right shoulder, completely impaling his broad body. The lightning power attached to the arrow instantly paralyzed most of Orgrim's massive form. The small green arrow, the very first one loosed, swerved again and suddenly buried itself in his calf.

"Agh!" Orgrim finally couldn't hold back a scream, tumbling headfirst to the ground from mid-air.

Orgrim struggled to his feet, staggering a step forward, pressing his left hand hard against his abdomen, the largest wound on his body. Blood gushed between his fingers, but he fought to stand straight, trying to raise his warhammer with his right hand again.

He failed.

The damage inflicted by those three arrows dwarfed all the blows Lothar had landed. And then, in the very next second, three more arrows slammed into him. This time, Kargath managed to block two, but the sheer force of one thunder arrow still knocked Orgrim sprawling.

Only then did Lothar look to his left, a dazed expression on his face.

He saw Duke, cross-legged, perched atop a roaring steam tank a hundred meters away, flanked by three stunningly beautiful High Elf rangers. With a wide grin, Duke waved to Lothar: "Yo!"