Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 637: Battle

With a bone-chilling shriek that could wake the dead, the fireball hovering around Duke erupted like a powder keg in a goblin workshop.

It was a spectacle more terrifying than a thousand demon hunters descending from the heavens, raining liquid fire upon the cursed earth.

Wherever the blazing inferno touched.

Thunder crashed like the hammers of the dwarven forge-masters, sparks cascaded like molten gold from Ironforge's greatest foundries, stone crumbled like week-old bread, and chunks of bone and rotting flesh painted the battlefield in a macabre symphony of destruction.

The hellish scene from the Burning Gorge thirteen years past blazed anew in Mograine's battle-scarred memory.

Back in those dark days, it had taken an entire battalion of dwarven siege tanks, their cannons roaring in perfect unison, to unleash such devastating fury. But now Duke—by the Light's grace—had conjured this apocalyptic maelstrom with nothing but his own arcane might!

Perhaps it still fell short of the raw destructive power of that legendary bombardment, but its sheer theatrical magnificence was every bit as awe-inspiring as watching Ragnaros himself throw a tantrum.

Far to the south, Orgrim's pointed ears twitched as the thunderous cacophony rolled across the battlefield like an avalanche of pure sound.

Such bone-rattling fury could only mean one thing, and it struck fear into his black heart like a cold dagger.

Just as spine-tingling as before.

Just as perfectly timed as a rogue's backstab.

Even though the curvature of Azeroth blocked his direct view and the fierce melee around him demanded every ounce of his attention, Orgrim couldn't suppress the name that had haunted his nightmares for over a decade—a name that made even hardened orc warriors wet themselves in terror:

"Edmund Duke... that magnificent bastard..."

Duke tore through the undead horde like a lit fuse racing toward a goblin mine, and with this blazing trail as the epicenter, every shambling corpse was hurled aside—not voluntarily, mind you, but in the delightfully violent form of airborne bones and putrid flesh.

Mangled human limbs spun through the air like grisly confetti, spider legs scattered like broken toothpicks, and gargoyle fragments rained down like the world's most disgusting hailstorm...

The visual carnage was so gloriously brutal that everyone witnessing this magnificent butchery felt their jaws drop to their bootstraps.

Duke's velocity was more excessive than a goblin rocket's final moments before catastrophic explosion. It took several heartbeats for man and mount to streak past like lightning given form, before the massive fireballs crashed into the distance with earth-shaking detonations. The ground looked as if some titan had decided to plow a field using a flaming war hammer, sending dirt and debris flying like popcorn in a furnace.

As Duke blazed through their ranks, thunderous explosions erupted behind him like a string of firecrackers, turning the once-organized undead formation into a chaotic mess that would make a kobold's cave system look orderly by comparison.

Charging cavalry head-first into a wall of spears is about as wise as teaching a murloc to sing opera.

Even when your enemies have their backs turned, a frontal assault against a tightly packed formation is like trying to hug a porcupine—painful and ultimately futile.

After all, the undead ranks bristled with massive abominations, cave-dwelling demons towering nearly twice the height of a man. Colliding head-on with such monstrosities would turn both rider and steed into the consistency of strawberry jam.

Only when the enemy formation showed the proper gaps could cavalry truly shine, like finding the perfect opening to land a critical strike.

Spotting several gaping holes in the Scourge's defensive line, Mograine and Abendis roared in unison with voices that could shatter glass: "By the Light—MAGNIFICENT!"

Duke had never commanded cavalry for even a single day in his life, but his years of military leadership had taught him to read battle formations like a scholar reads ancient tomes.

If the Scarlet Crusade couldn't capitalize on such a golden opportunity, they'd be about as useful as a chocolate teapot in the depths of Molten Core.

Darkmaster Gandling—the scheming worm who had seized the Barov Family Fortress like a parasite claiming a corpse, transformed Caer Darrow into the Cult of the Damned's festering stronghold, and perverted it into his twisted academy of necromantic arts—let loose a shriek that would make a banshee weep with envy: "NOOOOOO!"

In Kel'Thuzad's absence, he and Ras Frostwhisper were locked in competition fiercer than two goblins fighting over the last copper coin. Ras represented the Scourge's interests, but Gandling's loyalty lay with Kel'Thuzad's inner circle like a faithful hound.

Moments before, when Ras had been getting his undead posterior handed to him by the orc forces, Gandling had been enjoying the show like a spectator at a gladiatorial match. But now the tables had turned faster than a rogue's fortune, and it was his turn to dance with disaster.

He couldn't even begin to imagine the creative torments Arthas would inflict upon him if he lost this entire army mere hours after the Death Knight had entrusted it to his care.

After all, in the twisted hierarchy of the Lich King Ner'zhul's court, Arthas ranked far higher than Kel'Thuzad—that soul-damaged former mage whose arrogance had been his downfall. Moreover, Kel'Thuzad currently resided in the realm of the permanently deceased, courtesy of Arthas's own blade.

Gandling's calculating mind immediately identified Duke as the lynchpin of the entire human assault. Eliminate this spearhead, and he'd have a fighting chance—perhaps seventy percent odds—of catching his breath and then devouring the human forces like a spider consuming trapped flies.

Unable to contain his desperation any longer, he struck with the fury of a cornered beast.

Seven consecutive teleportation flashes, each more dazzling than a mage's light show, allowed him to traverse over a thousand meters in the blink of an eye, materializing beside Duke like death itself.

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As any seasoned warrior knows, amateurs watch the fireworks while veterans count the mana costs.

Duke's spectacular Sea of Fireballs might have appeared devastatingly powerful—capable of single-handedly dismantling half the Scourge like a one-man wrecking crew—but to truly experienced eyes, Duke seemed like nothing more than a clever amateur with a few flashy tricks up his sleeve.

The reason?

Duke had been hurling low-level Pyroblasts like they were going out of style!

Duke's seemingly magnificent but actually underwhelming tactics had even fooled Antonidas, who was observing the battle through his Mage's Eye from afar. The venerable Archmage subconsciously assumed that Duke was still suffering from grievous injuries sustained during his harrowing escape from the void.

In truth, this assumption was partially correct, but no one could have predicted that Duke had been restored to almost full fighting strength using Ilucia's magical essence—a resurrection more complete than a paladin's most powerful healing spell.

At this moment, Duke radiated power that could rival the most formidable archmages.

The title of "Duke the Magnificent Deceiver" was truly well-earned!

"Time to die, you flashy fool!" Gandling materialized with murderous intent, immediately unleashing a Sacrifice spell that could melt steel!

He failed to notice the hint of predatory amusement dancing across Duke's lips like a cat toying with a particularly stupid mouse.

Mirror Image of Truth activated faster than a goblin's excuses.

The only casualty of Gandling's demonic flames was Duke's poor, unfortunate mount—may it rest in pieces.

The next instant, the brilliant light of a Flash spell illuminated the space directly behind Gandling like a lighthouse beacon.

Oh, bloody hell! I've been played like a fiddle at a tavern!

Duke's sudden surge of elemental power—how could this possibly be the feeble magical signature of a wounded mage? This was clearly the awesome might of a Grand Magus, operating at the same tier as Gandling himself!

And this wasn't just any ordinary Grand Magus, but a Half-Step Antonidas Master—one standing on the very threshold of legendary power, needing only a single step to ascend to the ranks of the truly mighty!

Gandling's regret was so profound that his intestines practically turned green with envy of his own stupidity.

What had possessed him to charge in like some brain-dead orc berserker?

How could he have been so monumentally foolish as to personally engage the enemy's trump card in single combat?

Those who charge alone into battle are either complete idiots with rocks for brains, or beings of such tremendous power that they can afford such audacious tactics. Obviously, his opponent belonged firmly in the latter category.

Without a moment's hesitation, Gandling activated Flash with the urgency of a man whose robes had caught fire.

But then a sight that chilled Gandling to his very bones materialized before him—the Flash range of an archmage-level mage typically exceeded a hundred meters with casual effort.

When he pushed his abilities to their absolute limit, Gandling could teleport over two hundred meters in a single bound.

Within a radius of two hundred meters lay an enormous area of potential escape routes.

He never anticipated that at his chosen Flash destination, the same brilliant Flash light would ignite almost simultaneously with his own arrival.

That's right! Duke's relentless pursuit was like a vengeful spirit that refused to be shaken!

"This is absolutely impossible!" Gandling screamed with the desperation of a man watching his own execution.

Such precision would be impossible for any other mage in existence.

In this accursed region, blanketed by the Undead Sky and saturated with the choking miasma of death, how could anyone detect such subtle magical fluctuations from a warlock who had originally trained as a wizard before embracing the dark arts?

"This defies all known laws of magic!" As if to confirm his mounting horror, Gandling activated Flash once more, only to release another soul-crushing scream of despair.

The fusion of Duke's natural talent with the system's artificial intelligence made the impossible not just possible, but laughably easy!

In Duke's enhanced vision, combined with the holographic tactical display projected by his system's scanning capabilities, Duke could track every single magical fluctuation in the surrounding space that bore Dean Gandling's unique signature like a hunter following blood drops in fresh snow.

The final boss of Scholomance, one of Kel'Thuzad's most trusted lieutenants, had been reduced to nothing more than a dancing puppet on Duke's strings—a cosmic joke being played out before countless witnesses.

"Your time is up, you pathetic worm!"

Duke unleashed a devastating series of magical strikes that would have made even the most seasoned battlemage weep with admiration. This master of the cursed arts, who had not yet completely abandoned his mortal flesh, was systematically dismantled by Duke's overwhelming power—beaten to death in the midst of thousands of troops, witnessed by countless beings, like a public execution designed to send a message that would echo across the battlefield for generations to come.