The Art of Chaos

It's easy to imagine what would happen if the Scarlet Crusade came charging in like knights in shining armor trying to rescue Dalaran - they'd end up deader than a murloc at a sushi convention. Right now, the Orc Army was staring down the same barrel of catastrophic failure that would make the Scarlet Crusade look like tactical geniuses.

Duke's smile could have melted ice elementals. "If we march straight into Dalaran, we'll be facing nearly one million Scourge soldiers and hundreds of thousands of Orcs - basically a mosh pit designed by the Lich King himself. But now, with the Orcs playing the role of enthusiastic meat shields, we're sitting prettier than an elf at a mirror convention. More than 5 thousand hammers blessed with King's Blessing and Might's Blessing in exchange for hundreds of thousands of elite Orcs as our unwitting reinforcements? That's a bargain that would make even a goblin merchant weep tears of joy."

Duke maintained an expression calmer than a pandaren monk in meditation. Watching him orchestrate two supremely powerful enemies into mutual annihilation while chatting like he was discussing the weather - this level of strategic brilliance was beyond the reach of other generals. Even Mograine, the former Alliance commander who'd seen more battles than a Stormwind guard had seen tavern brawls, couldn't match this kind of tactical wizardry.

Duke remained blissfully unaware that a stunning female general standing behind Abendis - whose facial features bore a striking resemblance to the General himself - was gazing at him with the kind of fanatical worship usually reserved for legendary artifacts or really good ale.

Abendis inquired: "When do we crash this undead party?"

Duke propped his chin thoughtfully, like a chess master contemplating his next world-shattering move. "Well, the moment Arthas decides to personally introduce Orgrim to Frostmourne's business end, we strike. Remember - no looking back, no second thoughts, no 'wait, I forgot my lucky charm.' We carve through the enemy camp like a hot knife through butter, punch straight through Dalaran's center, link up with the mage brigade, then turn around and give Arthas the surprise party he'll never forget. Fair warning though - Arthas is wielding Frostmourne, which basically makes him a walking apocalypse. To be brutally honest, he's essentially achieved demigod status now. Our chances of victory are slimmer than a gnome's chance in a giant wrestling match."

Abendis ventured cautiously: "What about our scaly friends at Wyrmrest Temple...?"

"Already checked that avenue," Duke replied with the resignation of someone who'd just discovered all the taverns were closed. "The Burning Legion has dispatched enough powerful demons to make Azeroth's space barrier look like swiss cheese. Malygos and Nozdormu are tied up playing cosmic defense, and the Emerald Dream has been more unstable than a goblin's experimental explosives lately, so Ysera can't abandon her post either."

Furthermore, Alexstrasza remained trapped in Karazhan's void-touched depths, leaving Wyrmrest Temple in a classic case of 'too many dragons, not enough leadership' - basically a scaled-up version of a headless chicken situation.

Duke had previously wondered why Wyrmrest Temple was stationed in Northrend, and how the Scourge's walking refuse could dominate the entire continent while sweeping away all life like the world's most thorough and unpleasant janitor.

Only by diving headfirst into this historical maelstrom did Duke truly grasp the terrifying depth of the Burning Legion's resources and planning.

Obviously, a veritable army of Kazzak-level demon generals and dreadlords were keeping the dragon flights busier than innkeepers during Brewfest, leaving them no time to deal with the comparatively mortal threat of the Scourge. In the Dragonblight Wasteland, the sole guardians of Wyrmrest Temple could barely protect themselves, let alone intervene in mortal conflicts.

Duke's mouth curved into a grin that could have been carved from ice. "We're about to challenge a demigod in single combat. Anyone feeling nervous? Because now would be a perfectly reasonable time to soil your armor."

"If this demigod were anyone other than that treacherous bastard Arthas, I'd be terrified enough to wet myself like a recruit facing his first orc," Abendis seemed to smile with the bitter irony of someone who'd watched their world burn. "But since it IS Arthas... well, terror and righteous fury make strange bedfellows."

Mograine's jaw clenched tight. "Loyalty above all else! I'd rather die standing than live kneeling - retreat is not in my vocabulary!"

Duke released a sigh heavy enough to crush a small building.

If it were entirely up to him, he'd evacuate everyone faster than lighting. Dalaran housed countless brilliant mages - losing them all here would be a tragedy that would echo through the ages like a particularly depressing ballad. However, wars are fought by people, and people carry the weight of their convictions like armor.

Even with Princess Calia serving as their rallying banner, Mograine and Abendis would never be satisfied with retreating without at least attempting to avenge King Terenas. Honor demanded blood, and honor was a harsh mistress who accepted no substitutes.

With Uther missing in action and unreachable, Duke found himself desperately short of powerful warriors. Attempting to challenge Arthas with only Mograine, Abendis, and Antonidas would be tantamount to suicide - like challenging Deathwing to a staring contest while blindfolded.

The equation would change dramatically if they could add Orgrim, Grom Hellscream, and Rexxar to their roster.

In the original timeline, Grom had earned legendary status by personally slaying a demon lord - a feat that put him in very exclusive company, somewhere between 'incredibly badass' and 'probably clinically insane.'

By forcing the orcs into battle with Arthas first, Duke could transform his undermanned force into the decisive 'reinforcements' in what amounted to the most unfair fight since David met Goliath - except this time, David had backup.

Naturally, Duke had no intention of letting Mograine and Abendis become heroic corpses for the history books.

"We have absolutely no idea what Frostmourne is truly capable of - that blade has more dark secrets than a warlock's spellbook. If everything goes sideways faster than a speeding bull, we retreat in the exact opposite direction from wherever the orcs are running. Our primary objective is reaching the South Sea coastal defense line alive and preferably with all our limbs attached. Once we make it to those coastal fortifications, with proper cannon support, we'll be safer than gold in Ironforge's deepest vaults."

Mograine and Abendis nodded in unison, then cast one final glare toward Prince Arthas's position north of Dalaran - looks that could have melted steel - before turning and departing with the grim determination of soldiers who knew they might be marching toward their doom.

Nobody could accurately count how many undead the Scourge had spawned - it was like trying to count snowflakes in a blizzard, if the snowflakes were homicidal and had an unhealthy obsession with consuming living flesh.

From the murky depths of Lake Lordamere, undead continued emerging from the water with the persistence of the world's most unwelcome fishing expedition.

Even with the Scarlet Crusade's finest warriors, attacking such a nightmarishly vast Undead Army would be riskier than juggling fel fire while riding a blindfolded gryphon. One wrong move, and the Scarlet Crusade would become the Undead Crusade faster than you could say "ironic transformation."

Not a single soldier of Lordaeron showed even a flicker of hesitation, because standing before them was the traitorous snake, the regicidal monster who had murdered the king to whom they'd sworn lifelong loyalty - Arthas! The name alone was enough to turn their blood to liquid fire and their hearts to steel.

Every soul from Lordaeron descended to make their final preparations, moving with the focused intensity of warriors who knew they were about to either write their names in history or become footnotes in someone else's story.

"Ilucia, you should return with Calia immediately. What lies ahead is a war zone that would make the Twisting Nether look like a peaceful meditation garden."

Calia had been safely teleported to Stormwind City ages ago, protected like the crown jewel she essentially was. Even though she possessed the magical power of a regional bishop, her status as Lordaeron's de facto Queen meant that nobody with half a brain would want her anywhere near the front lines - she was far too valuable to risk in direct combat.

Duke finished speaking, but Ilucia remained rooted in place like an ancient oak.

"Hmm?"

"Duke, how much longer are you planning to keep this charade going? Are you seriously intending to face an evil demigod with magical circuits so damaged?"

Duke jolted as if struck by lightning, then smiled with the bitter irony of someone whose carefully constructed facade had just crumbled.

"You saw right through me, didn't you?"

"Hmph! Where's your legendary Hand of the Mage? Ten years ago, you wielded enough power to single-handedly obliterate half a legion without breaking a sweat. Don't think I missed your pathetic display back in Tarren Mill - that kind of basic spellcasting was no different from any run-of-the-mill archmage having an off day. Actually, scratch that - apart from your admittedly impressive technique, you might not even be able to defeat me in a straight magical duel anymore."

Ilucia's assessment cut deeper than Frostmourne itself, because she was absolutely, devastatingly correct. Duke's condition was worse than a broken catapult in a siege.

Since his return to this timeline, Duke had been secretly attempting to repair his magical circuits with all the desperate hope of a shipwrecked sailor trying to patch his vessel with seaweed and prayers.

Unfortunately, the chaotic space transmission across impossible distances had not only placed tremendous strain on his system's magical framework, but the countless spatial rifts encountered during transit had subjected Duke's magical circuits to sustained high-load stress that would have killed lesser mages outright.

His magical pathways weren't simply damaged - they were catastrophically ruined. Many circuits had been literally burned and melted beyond recognition, twisted into useless lumps of magical scar tissue. Calling them 'damaged' was like calling a volcano 'slightly warm' - a gross understatement that missed the true scope of the devastation.

Duke turned his head slightly, gazing toward the fierce battlefield stretching into the distance like a tapestry woven from violence and desperation.

"Ilucia, I have to go forward. There's no other choice."

A tragedy of epic proportions was about to unfold before their eyes. If it wasn't to heal the regrets that had festered in his heart like infected wounds, what was the point of traveling to Azeroth in the first place? What was the meaning of all his struggle and sacrifice?

The Duke standing here today was no longer the carefree strategist who'd lived comfortably fifteen years ago, content as long as he avoided becoming zombie fodder. That man had died somewhere in the space between worlds, and what emerged was someone who understood that some things were worth dying for - even if the odds of survival were worse than terrible.