Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 638: Party

"You think you can curse someone and murder them in cold blood without consequences!?"

Suddenly, with a devastating Arcane Uppercut that would make even a Tauren warrior weep, Gandling's chest imploded like a goblin's engineering experiment gone horribly wrong.

"You're not living like a man, but groveling like a cur at the feet of your undead masters!"

WHAM! Another thunderous Mage Fist of Righteous Fury smashed into Gandling's face, rearranging his features in ways that would make even a troll's mother cringe.

"You dare occupy my beloved's homeland and desecrate her sacred resting place!?"

Then Duke unleashed the devastating Arcane Palm of Obliteration, driving Gandling's turtle-like skull so deep into his chest cavity that it practically kissed his spine.

As wise men say, it takes a mage to know a mage—and Duke knew exactly how to make this one suffer. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

A mage who has fallen to the dark path of warlockry possesses control abilities more numerous than murlocs in Dustwallow Marsh.

Blink, Frost Nova, Ice Barrier, Polymorph, Fear, Banish—the list goes on like a dwarf's drinking songs.

However, when Duke's assault came faster than a rogue's blade in the shadows and Gandling couldn't activate a single defensive spell, the most efficient way to shatter his mage barriers wasn't through elemental attacks, but through the most brutally direct physical punishment.

The most merciless aspect of Duke's Arcane Fist series—no longer the laughably named "Pork Hands" technique—was its ability to convert pure elemental energy into devastating physical force. This completely blindsided Gandling, who had configured his Mage Shield specifically to deflect magical attacks, leaving him as vulnerable as a gnome in a giant's wrestling match.

If Gandling had realized he was facing Duke—the legendary Alliance champion whose name still echoed through taverns across Azeroth from his heroic deeds during the Dark Portal campaign over a decade ago—he would never have been foolish enough to waltz into this death trap like a sheep volunteering for slaughter.

But Duke had vanished from the world for ten long years!

How many souls would waste their time remembering a fallen hero who had been missing for a decade and officially declared among the war dead? People had more pressing concerns, like whether their next meal might try to eat them first.

Even Kel'Thuzad had only mentioned Duke's name in passing, as one might reference an old, dusty tome.

This time, Gandling's spectacular demise was truly earned through his own magnificent stupidity.

"Gwaaaaahhhhh—" Along with Gandling's gurgling death rattle that sounded like a drowning murloc, the supreme command structure of the Scourge's northern and eastern legions surrounding Dalaran shattered like glass struck by a war hammer.

In any era, among any military force worth its salt, eliminating the commanding officer is the equivalent of kicking over an anthill and watching the chaos unfold—it's military suicide of the highest order.

The Scourge was certainly a force to be reckoned with, and low-level undead feared nothing because they lacked the capacity for such sophisticated emotions. But they also possessed all the strategic thinking of a brain-dead zombie, requiring constant direction from their superiors. The liches and death knights who served as the Scourge's middle management weren't mass-produced like disposable footsoldiers.

You can't simply murder a peasant and expect them to rise as a lich—that's not how undeath works, despite what some amateur necromancers might believe.

Similarly, you can't just grab any random soldier, wave some dark magic around, and expect them to emerge as a death knight. The process requires more finesse than a goblin's approach to engineering.

The power of any undead creature directly correlates to their strength and the quality of their soul during their breathing days—death is merely a career change, not a power upgrade.

The current Scourge was a pale shadow of the apocalyptic force that would later sweep across Lordaeron and Quel'Thalas like wildfire through a forest. That future Scourge would be truly terrifying—an endless tide of mages-turned-liches and knights-turned-death-knights, each one a walking catastrophe.

But because Lordaeron City hadn't been completely devoured by the undead plague, many of the kingdom's elite forces had managed to escape by sea, taking their skills and knowledge with them to safety.

Arthas's current Scourge was like a suit of armor with gaping holes—impressive from a distance, but lacking in crucial areas. Aside from the spider legions that skittered across the battlefield like nightmares given form, even the commanders had to be recruited from Kel'Thuzad's Cult of the Damned—hardly the cream of military leadership.

With Darkmaster Gandling reduced to a very dead pile of formerly animated flesh, the rear echelons suddenly found themselves without a commanding figure capable of unifying the various lich factions and their competing agendas.

The discord among the Scourge ranks was obvious.

They had lost Gandling and couldn't establish contact with Arthas, who was currently preoccupied with his own problems.

At this very moment, Arthas found himself under siege by several tribal heroes who were giving him the fight of his unlife.

Some undead commanders led their forces to continue the assault, others wanted to pivot their troops and launch a retaliatory strike against the Scarlet Crusade, while still others chose to retreat toward Lake Lordamere after receiving no fresh orders—like confused sheep scattering when their shepherd abandons them.

The chaos rippling through the Scourge ranks was more entertaining than a goblin demolition derby.

Duke claimed his prize—the Dean's Staff, recognized as one of the seven legendary weapons of the age—from the cooling corpse of Darkmaster Gandling.

The staff was a masterwork of malevolent craftsmanship: a goat-horned demon skull crowned its apex, while multiple layers of bone spurs decorated both head and shaft. Its appearance was so thoroughly evil that it could make a warlock blush with embarrassment.

The staff's greatest feature was its Enlightenment enchantment. When activated, it enhanced the intelligence of all allied personnel within its aura range—a boon that allowed magic apprentices to safely experience temporary intellectual enhancement before their natural intelligence reached the required thresholds, giving them a taste of higher-level magical arts.

If Duke planned to recruit disciples in the future, the Dean's Staff would prove invaluable as a teaching tool.

Of course, that ghastly skull was an absolute eyesore—like finding a perfectly good weapon with the aesthetic appeal of a diseased boar.

It reminded Duke of those irritating moments in his past adventures when some thick-skulled warrior would equip the Dean's Staff purely to boost the intelligence of nearby mages, creating a visual paradox that offended his sensibilities.

Duke had no immediate use for the staff's intelligence enhancement—that modest boost was like offering a cup of water to someone drowning in an ocean. He casually tossed the Dean's Staff into the storage bag that Ilucia had given him, then stood with his hands clasped behind his back in a pose of casual authority.

In less than a minute, the cavalry of the Scarlet Crusade thundered past his position like an avalanche of righteous fury.

As if witnessing the legendary miracle of a hero parting the Red Sea with nothing but willpower, the crimson torrent of mounted warriors flowed around Duke's position and instinctively divided into two streams, creating a path of respect around their impromptu battlefield commander.

"Long live Lord Edmund!"

"Hail to you—the greatest hero the Alliance has ever known!"

As they charged past, the knights didn't forget to offer their salutes to Duke, their voices carrying across the battlefield like a battle hymn.

Duke had never been a knight, much less a paladin, but many of the warriors in today's army had grown up hearing tales of Duke's legendary exploits—stories that had grown taller with each telling around countless campfires.

Many had wondered whether such a powerful wizard could truly exist—someone capable of single-handedly changing the tide of entire battles like a force of nature.

Today, they witnessed with their own eyes the return of this mythical figure who had seemed more legend than man.

There was only one thought blazing through their minds like holy fire:

His reputation was well-earned!

As a mage, he had taken point in the cavalry charge like a berserker!

One man and one horse, yet nothing could stand against him!

Though he appeared as fragile as morning mist, he could claim an enemy general's head among thousands of soldiers as easily as plucking an apple from a tree.

Fortunately, Duke chose not to continue his killing spree, otherwise even with 80,000 elite troops backing them up, the Scarlet Crusade would have lost all credibility as a military force—they'd have been as relevant as a chocolate sword in a real battle.

"Kill them all!"

"Smash these walking bone piles back to the grave where they belong!"

After Duke expended the last of his magical reserves to bring down the remaining gargoyles that had been circling overhead like vultures, the blood-red cavalry easily divided, destroyed, and scattered the disorganized undead army like a hammer striking brittle glass!

After what felt like an eternity of glorious combat, the Scarlet Crusade finally linked up with the Dalaran forces that had sallied forth from the city to join the battle.

"Duke! Where is Duke?" Riding a pristine white stallion and using mastery over ice magic to sweep away all battlefield debris, Antonidas's appearance was more dramatic than a theatrical performance—the man was clearly growing more flamboyant with age, like fine wine developing character.

Surrounded by a retinue of high-level mages and elite guard knights, Antonidas hurried to locate Duke with the urgency of a man seeking his missing fortune.

On a modest hill overlooking the battlefield, Duke stood with Abendis at his left flank and Mograine serving as his right-hand protector, waiting to welcome Antonidas like a king receiving courtiers.

"By the beard of Magni Bronzebeard! Am I seeing a ghost? Duke, you magnificent bastard, you're actually still breathing! I guess seeing is believing!"

Duke felt a flush of embarrassment color his cheeks.

The next moment, Antonidas' next words made Duke's mood sour faster than milk left in the sun.

"If it had been you who came to warn us instead of Medivh—that enigmatic figure who may or may not have been corrupted by demonic influence—Dalaran wouldn't have suffered such catastrophic losses. Light preserve us, why didn't you return sooner!?"