Chapter 531: The Hero's Triumphant Return

It is only after almost losing something that one truly begins to cherish it.

It was precisely because King Llane believed he had lost Duke forever, his most steadfast and powerful ally since the destruction of Stormwind, that he had previously sunk into such despair.

Now, while Duke might look battered and bruised, knowing that he wasn't in any mortal danger made his current state merely a source of light-hearted amusement.

The darkness of the nightmare had lifted.

A bright future stood before them.

How could Llane not be moved to tears?

Indeed, the eyes of King Llane were red, moist with emotion.

Countless eyes were fixed on Duke, jesting with the king and the ministers.

Marshal Bolvar Fordring gazed at Duke in the midst of the gathering, took a deep breath, and his voice boomed throughout the area:

"Salute to the hero of the Alliance, Duke Marcus of Stormwind!"

Three thousand Stormwind soldiers, in a coordinated motion, drew their swords in unison and saluted Duke.

In this moment, the sea of gleaming blades looked as if it could swallow the entire horizon.

"To Duke Marcus."

The powerful chant echoed throughout Dalaran.

These soldiers weren't just ceremonial guards. They hailed from all over Stormwind, from the elite Gryphon Brigade to local militias, and even refugees who'd fled to Southshore. Now, they all bore a unified title—Stormwind Elites.

Each of them had the blood of at least five orc warriors on their hands.

They weren't just the cream of Stormwind but elite soldiers across the Alliance.

Strong, steadfast, skilled in combat, and with iron discipline.

Yet, their voices carried a note of reverence.

Although Duke no longer directly commanded the armies of Stormwind and had amassed a private army of thirty thousand, his name alone would command respect.

For the people of Stormwind:

It was he who tamed the Bloodsail Fleet and rescued six hundred thousand civilians from certain doom right under the noses of hundreds of thousands of orcs.

It was he who brought food for the starving refugees, who cultivated barren lands in the Hillsbrad Foothills, providing a life of warmth and peace.

For the soldiers of Stormwind:

From the Burning of Stormwind to the battles at Baradin Bay, Southshore, the Hinterlands, Lordaeron, and the rescue of the Red Dragon Queen... Duke's name was synonymous with honor, with miracles.

He was the very embodiment of a war god.

And this legendary figure was just 17 years old! Seeing Duke's graying hair, his wrinkled skin resembling that of an old man, thinking of the curse he bore and the hardships he endured for this shattered kingdom, every soldier's eyes reddened, much like King Llane's.

Before Duke stretched a sea, a sea built of gleaming blades.

As Llane, Anduin, and Duke progressed, the swords parted, reminiscent of legendary tales where seas split open.

At the end of this 'sea', the king and his two most trusted advisors boarded an open-top carriage, slowly heading towards Dalaran's Violet Square.

Although dusk had set in, cheers could be heard from every direction.

Countless Dalaran citizens, magic apprentices, and wizards lined the streets, eager to catch a glimpse of the Alliance's foremost mage.

To them, Duke, having lectured in Dalaran, was undeniably one of them.

"Duke! Duke! Duke!" The uniform chants resonated like thunder.

The scene, the atmosphere, relegated King Llane and Anduin, seated opposite and beside Duke respectively, to mere background figures. Both, however, didn't mind and just smiled at Duke.

Duke waved with his right hand, holding high in his left the "Grand Marshal's Battle Staff", a gift from Antonidas.

Having survived the direct impact of Deathwing's shadow flames and the subsequent explosion, the staff remained pristine, shimmering silver. Its intricately carved winged horse emitted a faint silvery glow, looking immaculate and beautiful.

As Duke held up this magnificent staff crafted in Dalaran, the cheers reached their zenith.

On the square, representatives from all nine Alliance nations had already gathered.

Each monarch, each representative looked at Duke with a mixture of awe and envy.

Unexpectedly, at that moment, an abrupt voice cut through the jubilant atmosphere.

"Duke, now that you're a hero and have told us the Red Dragonflight is no longer with the Horde, I must ask, to whom do I seek vengeance for my son's blood?"

Had it been any ordinary soldier uttering these words, he'd probably have been dragged away and executed by the enraged soldiers.

But the voice belonged to none other than Lord Admiral Daelin Proudmoore of Kul Tiras.