End

It wasn't just Duke and his merry band who crashed the party. In the distance, Kilrogg Deadeye and Zuluhed arrived with nearly a thousand orc warriors, looking like they'd just been called in from a backyard brawl.

But the Alliance was no slouch either. The Twelve Holy Knights, a shining wall of righteous fury, led a whole wave of human soldiers. The Knights of Stormwind had already blasted through Orgrim's personal guards, forming a tight circle around their esteemed leader, Lothar.

And if that wasn't enough, over a hundred steam tanks rumbled onto the field, their dwarven crews firing like mad, clearing out orcs across the entire sector. In the distance, the tank assault group had already sliced through the orc army like a hot axe through butter, leaving it in shattered pieces. Barely a handful of tribal battle flags still stubbornly flapped in the wind. These clans were fighting tooth and nail, but with more and more mages and heavy artillery pouring onto the battlefield, their resistance was about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

The orcs were caught between a rock and a hard place. If they clumped together, they'd be cannon fodder for the mages. If they spread out, the human shield walls would pick them off one by one. The most terrifying beast on the field? The dwarf's colossal tank destroyer. It was a bulky, slow-moving behemoth, but give that monster a minute or two to aim and reload, and its shells would hit the ground with mountain-shaking force. Within a 200-meter radius of impact, not even a blade of grass would dare to sprout.

The orc army was stuck in a vicious circle: mass up and get vaporized, or disperse and get systematically butchered. On top of that, their rear lines were a shredded mess from the dwarves' blitzkrieg, and 40,000 dwarf infantrymen were still breathing down their necks, bleeding the orcs dry.

The rallying cry of "Lok-tar, ogar!" had long since been replaced by the desperate cries of orcs dropping their weapons and hightailing it out of there. Instead, the battlefield was filled with the triumphant roars of "Long live the Alliance!"

Duke, perched imperiously on his tank, looked down at Orgrim and delivered a pronouncement that sounded suspiciously like a death sentence: "The Alliance has won!"

Orgrim clambered to his feet again, shaking violently, spitting out a mouthful of blood. He was so badly injured he couldn't even lift the Doomhammer, but he still managed a hoarse, defiant shout: "This time, the Horde failed. But so what?! The Horde will welcome their third warchief! Warriors of every race in your alliance will die at the hands of the orcish warriors! Until your world belongs to us!"

Suddenly, Orgrim let out a roar that would curdle milk: "Zuluhed! Kilrogg! Kargath! Go! Get out of here – the Horde hasn't failed! The Horde will never fail—"

Lothar sighed softly. "Take him alive!" Even at a lowered volume, his notoriously booming voice still sounded like a shout to ordinary folk.

Led by the Twelve Paladins, over five hundred knights spurred their mounts forward, thundering towards Orgrim.

Kargath Bladefist responded with action, his gray muscles bulging. He grabbed Orgrim with his single remaining hand, his intention as clear as day: a last-ditch effort to save his Warchief.

Tirion Fordring arrived in the nick of time. His warhorse accelerated, and his hammer struck with blinding speed. With a resounding "BANG," Kargath barely managed to block the attack with the massive bladed fist attached to his arm.

Without a second to catch his breath, Gavinrad and Saidan Dathrohan's hammers slammed into him simultaneously. "Oof!" Even a seasoned hero like Kargath, a gladiator born and bred for death, was sent flying over 20 meters by the combined force of two top human warriors. He rolled on the ground several times before gasping for air. Unfortunately, he was now a long way from Orgrim. He slammed his fist into the ground, then made a grim, resolute retreat. Yes, he'd given it his all!

Kilrogg Deadeye, wielding a vicious bone-spiked axe, knocked a human knight away with a single blow. The hardened bone-china axe head pierced the knight's armor, hooking out the poor guy's intestines. He cast his single remaining eye towards Orgrim, who was now surrounded by the Twelve Paladins, then turned tail and vanished without a moment's hesitation.

But Zuluhed… Orgrim's loyal deputy, charged forward, wielding a monstrous sledgehammer, cutting through the battlefield like a maniac, in the midst of everyone's stunned gazes. That's right! He was going to rescue Orgrim, snatching his beloved chieftain from under the noses of nearly a thousand human knights, twelve furious paladins, and three female ranger heroes sharper than a tack. This wasn't courage or reason; at this moment, Zuluhed was pure, unadulterated fanaticism. And he wasn't alone. Over 300 orc warriors followed him into the charge, every one of them a hell-bent warrior.

"Uther!" On the other side, a breathless Lothar called out to the paladin leader. No explanation was needed; everyone understood. Duke raised his hands, subtly stopping Sylvanas and Vereesa from loosing their arrows. Magni, who had been about to order the cannons to fire, also lowered his hand. This was it. The final, dramatic act of this campaign. A true warrior transcends boundaries, even race. They deserved respect.

Uther led a large group of knights forward, starting at a trot, then kicking their horses into a full gallop. At this point in the battle, not a single knight still carried a lance. Victory would be decided in the close-quarters mêlée, by sheer riding skill, and in fleeting, life-or-death duels.

Closer!

Closer!!

Closer—

Zuluhed's orc warriors were seasoned veterans when it came to battling knights. Killing a knight outright wasn't easy; a rider with good horsemanship could dodge or use their cavalry shield to deflect most attacks aimed at their upper body. The orcs swung their hammers in wide arcs. The lucky ones managed to land a full-force hammer blow on a horse's head. Hundreds of horses went down, blood gushing from their shattered skulls, their limbs twitching their last. The knights either panicked and were trampled by the orcs or leaped off at the last second, rolling clear, then scrambling back into the fight. Many knights, at the very last moment before an orc's hammer or axe connected with their mount, reined their horses sharply, allowing the beasts to narrowly escape death, then used their momentum to deliver a fatal counter-blow.

In the first wave of this brutal collision, the Alliance and Horde stood at a grim 118:230.

Uther, a beacon of holy might, perfectly blocked Zuluhed's attack. With the overwhelming power of the Holy Light, he shattered Zuluhed's right shoulder armor. Everyone watching Zuluhed heard the sickening sound – not just the armor cracking, but the very bones of his right shoulder bursting apart. Zuluhed's entire right chest was utterly obliterated by Uther's righteous blow. His arm, which had held the hammer high, flew into the air, spinning like a grotesque propeller before it finally tumbled to the ground.