Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 628: WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE LIGHT!?

Duke nearly jumped out of his chainmail, his face paler than a Forsaken's breakfast.

What in Azeroth's holy name is happening here?

Why the fel are they attacking Dalaran head-on? That's like bringing a knife to a dragon fight!

Throughout the annals of history, Arthas had carved a path of destruction from west to east like a tornado through a trailer park, first obliterating Quel'Thalas, then circling back to steamroll the magical kingdom of Dalaran like it was made of parchment. Even his skeleton crew had given Gilneas such a thorough beating that they couldn't tell their staff from their staves, forcing them to unleash the worgen in a move that backfired spectacularly - talk about opening Pandora's box!

In the original timeline, if Archimonde, one of the two head honchos of the Burning Legion, hadn't been summoned through that accursed portal with bigger than hell, and if Arthas hadn't been hell-bent on racing to Kalimdor like his undead pants were on fire, it wouldn't have been shocking to see the Scourge turn the entire Eastern Kingdoms into one giant graveyard.

However, the field report mentioned only massive hordes of bottom-feeder undead, and this intel made Duke more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Although the Scourge boasted more varieties of soldiers than a tavern has ales, plus enough monstrous abominations to make even Mannoroth wet himself, the true backbone of the entire undead army remained the commanding Liches and Death Knights - the real MVPs of the apocalypse.

Without a lich or high-level death knight calling the shots, no matter how many shambling corpses you throw at the problem, they're about as effective as bringing a mana potion to a sword fight - just a mindless zerg rush waiting to get farmed.

Duke's brow furrowed deeper than a canyon as he barked, "Get the mage handling message delivery over here, NOW! I need to start an emergency conference call at the throne level - and I mean yesterday!"

Within minutes, more than a dozen mages and their glowing scrying mirrors had transformed the command tent into something resembling a magical electronics store having a clearance sale.

The very next moment, from Silvermoon City in the northernmost reaches of Quel'Thalas all the way down to Stormwind City in the south, the most urgent alarm bells rang out from every royal communication chamber like a fire drill in the Stormwind stockade.

In every communication room across the realm, wizards decked out in robes fancier than a blood elf's wedding dress opened their eyes wide in absolute terror.

They nearly convinced themselves they were seeing things - that the magical communication network, which had fewer glitches than a gnomish invention (which wasn't saying much), was feeding them complete hogwash. Then the next moment they opened their throats and bellowed like banshees: "GUARDS! GET YOUR ASSES IN HERE!"

"WHAT IN THE SEVEN HELLS!? Duke's back? Lordaeron has fallen faster than a rogue's reputation?"

Whether it was Duke's dramatic return after vanishing for a decade like some kind of magical Houdini, or Lordaeron going down in flames, either would have been front-page news for the entire Alliance. But both together? This earth-shattering revelation hit harder than Deathwing's morning breath.

Magni Bronzebeard sprinted back to his throne from his personal forge on stubby legs that moved faster than a goblin chasing gold coins.

Anduin Lothar, who'd been enjoying retirement longer than most elves live, practically bulldozed his way into Varian's throne room like the Kool-Aid man.

Even the rulers of the three kingdoms who'd rage-quit the Alliance faster than players leaving a bad PUG had to drop everything and rush to their magic mirrors.

Because the man about to address them was none other than the legendary Alliance hero himself - Edmund Duke, the stuff of tavern songs and bedtime stories.

A tiny flame flickered to life in the pitch-black communication mirror like a single candle in Duskwood. In a heartbeat, it spread from that single point like wildfire through Teldrassil, consuming the entire massive mirror that stood taller than two tauren stacked on top of each other.

"CRACKLE!" The sound was pure magical energy, but it felt like the entire palace was having an earthquake and a seizure simultaneously.

A figure both hauntingly familiar and mysteriously changed materialized in the mirror's depths.

Duke!

Holy Light, it's really him!

Though he appeared more seasoned, it was purely in his bearing and presence, not his physical form. It seemed the void had been kinder to him than a priest's blessing - Duke still looked like he could get carded at a tavern, barely pushing twenty summers.

Does this guy have a portrait hidden in an attic somewhere?

Several monarchs exchanged knowing glances and suppressed grins. ƒгeewebnovёl.com

Truth be told, the kings had hit the nail on the head. Duke had received the ultimate gift from Alexstrasza, the Life-Binder herself - eternal youth locked at the ripe old age of eighteen, like some kind of magical fountain of youth on steroids.

Duke cut straight to the chase faster than a rogue's ambush: "I'm back, and the timing couldn't be worse if I'd planned it with a drunk goblin. This isn't some half-baked prophecy from a mad hermit anymore - this is a real, honest-to-goodness crisis that threatens to turn our entire world into a smoking crater. The Burning Legion's master plan worked like a charm. Kil'jaeden took Ner'zhul - you remember him, the third orc warchief we stomped into the ground last time - and turned him into the Lich King."

Duke laid out both rock-solid evidence and some future knowledge, painting scenarios so vivid and terrifying that they made the assembled kings shake like leaves in a Stranglethorn hurricane.

"Hold it - you're telling us that if we let Arthas and his merry band of corpses run wild, he'll punch through the Sunwell like it's made of tissue paper and summon Archimonde the Defiler, one of the Burning Legion's two top dogs?" Genn Greymane's frown could have carved stone.

"Absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent correct!" Duke declared with the confidence of a paladin facing undead.

He'd figured that dropping Archimonde's name - a boss-level baddie that could make even Ragnaros think twice - would be enough to scare these fair-weather allies back into line.

Clearly, a mountain of drama had unfolded during Duke's decade-long magical mystery tour that he knew nothing about.

The first to fire back was Elf King Anasterian, cooler than Northrend in winter: "The Sunwell is locked down tighter than a dwarven vault, and the high elves have more than enough firepower to defend our ancestral lands. We've upgraded our entire defense grid this time around. Eversong Forest's defenses are more unbreakable than ever."

"But wait, there's more—" Duke tried to interject, but got cut off faster than a warlock's healthstone supply.

"We high elves express our deepest sympathies for the fall of a Lordaeron but we elves can handle this. Thanks for the heads-up, Sir Edmund." And with that parting shot, the Elf King disconnected faster than a player rage-quitting after a wipe.

Before Duke could process what just happened, Genn chimed in: "Gilneas can handle its own borders just fine, thank you very much. The Greymane Wall is more invincible than a paladin's holy shield."

And just like that, Genn also pulled the plug.

Then Galen Trollbane fixed Duke with a stare that could melt ice elementals and delivered his own knockout punch: "The Wall of Thoradin makes the Greymane Wall look like a picket fence."

Duke suddenly realized he'd stumbled face-first into the original timeline's biggest plot hole. It finally dawned on him why the Scourge had rolled through the northern continent like a hot knife through butter after Arthas committed the ultimate act of patricide. Sure, the Scourge's snowball effect was more broken than a pre-nerf raid encounter.

But the other side of the coin? Thanks to post-war rebuilding drama and border disputes that made guild drama look tame, the once-mighty Lordaeron had been feuding with neighboring kingdoms more than Horde and Alliance on a PvP server. Then this collection of turtle-strategy wannabes didn't truly grasp until their final death screen that even a sheep armed with epic gear is still just sheep fodder against a pack of wolves.

Sweet merciful Elune, this hand is more rigged than a goblin casino!

Just then, Antonidas's ancient mug suddenly burst into the magical conference call: "Duke! Get your behind to Dalaran RIGHT NOW! Those damned walking corpses are coming! They're rising from the lake bottom like some kind of aquatic nightmare!"

Before he could elaborate further, Antonidas's face vanished from the communication grid like a disconnected raid member.

The remaining Alliance kings went whiter than fresh snow in Dun Morogh.

Duke clenched his teeth hard enough to crack walnuts: "Communication blackout means only one thing - some seriously overpowered magical force just disrupted the elemental balance of the entire region like a mage's polymorph gone wrong."

In Duke's mind, only one possibility made sense - the Shroud of the Damned.

Only the most powerful undead overlords could forcibly corrupt an entire sky's worth of elements into the dark magic that symbolized death and decay, turning the heavens themselves into their personal death zone.

Could it be Arthas himself leading the charge?

The script of destiny seemed to have gone completely off the rails, more derailed than a runaway mine cart in the Deeprun Tram.

Duke had no clue yet, but this clusterfuck was actually his own doing!

If it weren't for his brilliant Emergency Evacuation scheme, Lordaeron would have been completely steamrolled this time around. It was precisely because the Edmund Chamber of Commerce's ships had rescued tens of thousands of civilians that Arthas got his undead panties in such a twist that he changed course and marched south like a raid leader having a meltdown.

And just when things couldn't get any worse, another piece of terrible news arrived like a second raid wipe: A massive orc warband was laying siege to Durnholde Castle!