Chapter 160: Duke by Mirror Lake

In the world of Azeroth, followers don't concern themselves with nationality, faith, or even race. They pledge their loyalty to Duke, a powerful mage. Vassals, on the other hand, serve a specific noble. Although the nobility has subordinates who are not their direct vassals, a king still cannot directly control them. However, if a vassal betrays their noble, they can still claim to maintain loyalty to the king. In terms of relationships, followers are more intimate and better suit the interests of the two young mages. Despite knowing the two had limited potential, Duke accepted them as his followers, marking the end of their shared journey since leaving the Northshire Abbey. "Alright, I'm assigning you a task now…" After making arrangements in Stormwind City, Duke did not head out that evening but enjoyed a good night's sleep. When Lothar asked why he was so certain the orcs would not attack that night, Duke replied, "Because the current Warchief of the Horde is Blackhand." Lothar couldn't understand this reasoning. Duke confidently shook his finger, a benefit only a traveler from another world could possess. Only such a traveler would know the difference in military styles between Blackhand and the next Warchief, Orgrim Doomhammer. Blackhand was indeed an exceptional orc leader, with his ferocity and personal bravery. Having consumed the blood of demons, Blackhand shared the common weakness of the green-skinned orcs—impulsivity and irrationality. He had only one strategy: face his enemies head-on. Orgrim, on the other hand, had not consumed demon blood, which left his mind clear. This gave him a natural advantage in warfare, being more intelligent and rational. Historically, Orgrim was one of the most cunning orcs, and he nearly defeated the entire Alliance singlehandedly. If it weren't for a certain traitor, the Horde may not have been defeated in the First War. Duke's certainty that the Horde would not mobilize that night was based on his understanding of Blackhand. At that very moment, in the Horde encampment. Blackhand's carbonized and incredibly hard hand, transformed by the chaotic powers of nature, smashed into Orgrim's face. Despite Orgrim bracing himself for the blow, his face still momentarily contorted under the force. His massive body was sent flying out of the tent by Blackhand's punch. "You coward! The Horde has no need for cowards like you!" Blackhand roared. "Their spellcaster is powerful! Where is Gul'dan when we need spellcaster support? Where are the warlocks of the Shadow Council?" Orgrim retorted indignantly. Despite the orcs' bravery and irrationality, they still had rules. Mystics had their role, and so did warriors. To counter the enemy's spellcasters, the orc shamans were responsible in ancient times. After their decline, warlocks took their place. Temporarily at a loss for words, the Warchief finally said, "Gul'dan has more important tasks, like repairing the Dark Portal!" Though a weak argument, it was a good reason. If the Dark Portal were repaired, the Horde would have a constant stream of reinforcements. Though the remaining Horde warriors in that devastated world were not the elite, their sheer numbers would be overwhelming. Orgrim shook his head and stubbornly stood up, "Blackhand! Tomorrow! Grant me 20,000 elite Blackrock orcs! If we still cannot win, you shall have my head." "Fine!" Blackhand agreed, prepared for a brutal battle. Mirror Lake lay south of Stormwind City. From Goldshire, a town southeast of Stormwind, one could easily spot the massive lake to the left of the main road. Now, Mirror Lake had also become a lifeline for the orcish army. During the sweltering heat of summer, the scorching sun baked the earth, causing equal discomfort for both the attacking and defending forces. When not engaged in battle, most orcs preferred to rest in the shade of trees. To prevent the accursed murlocs and naga, who obeyed the commands of the humans, from following the river into Mirror Lake, the orcs had no choice but to employ thousands of laborers to construct a temporary dam, turning the area into the ideal watering hole for the orcish army. Mirror Lake was situated at the foot of a low mountain. To prevent humans from poisoning the water, all that was needed was to deploy sufficient patrols near the spring at the top of the mountain. From the mountaintop, one could clearly see any movement atop the outer walls of Stormwind City, nestled in the valley's chokepoint. However, on this day, a nearly full circle of atmospheric currents surrounded the small mountain. The constantly rotating currents created a storm, forming a nearly 300-foot-high wall of air at the peak of the small mountain. Patrolling orcs attempted to pass through the invisible barrier to see what was happening inside, but all who tried were instantly torn apart by the raging winds. The next moment, in harmony with the dawn, clusters of flames began to descend from the mountain summit, accompanied by the brilliance of the sun's first light, majestically raining down upon the vast earth below. At first, every orc believed it was an illusion. But soon enough, as the scorching flames fell onto the coarse, disorganized rooftops of the orcish encampment, the fire easily spread. "Fire! Fire!" Barely awake, the orcs were roused from their slumber to find their entire camp engulfed in a sea of flames. The orcs were not unprepared for a fire attack from the humans. Many orc officers commanded their dim-witted subordinates to extinguish the flames with sand. Others ordered orcs to fetch water from Mirror Lake to put out the fires. However, as the flames in the sky grew more intense, the increasing blaze rendered the orcs' efforts futile. Most of them, bewildered, clutched their weapons and ran into open spaces, unsure of what to do. "Look at the mountain!" Finally, an orc noticed something amiss atop the mountain. An imposing figure stood at the highest point of the peak, and behind him, his cape fluttered in the wind like a billowing battle flag, drawing the gaze of every orc. Bathed in the morning light, the figure was dazzling, as if he were the radiant sun itself, as if he were the son of light who dispelled all darkness from the earth. Under the illumination of the dawn, every fine line and mysterious character on the silver magic circle floating beside him was imbued with a brilliant golden hue. Countless fireballs erupted from these magic circles, tracing arcs of red that symbolized death and destruction across the sky before crashing down to earth in a breathtaking display. In a matter of mere moments, the entire landscape was transformed into a sea of fire! Ogrim Doomhammer burst out of his tent, glaring at the mysterious and terrifying figure. Gritting his teeth, he forced out the words: "Duke Makkus!" (To be continued.)