In this way, suddenly, everything made sense or at least most things that hadn't made him want to pull his hair out yet.
Lothar, battle-hardened and ever vigilant, had absolutely no clue that someone—some mad genius, had been quietly setting up so many backup plans behind his back. Like a chess player with a thousand hidden moves. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. What if this old man in front of him was actually the mastermind enemy? Oh, that would be spectacular. Plot twist: the ancient dude with the raggedy hood and suspiciously perfect timing was a villain in disguise.
"I know the situation's about as urgent as a cat stuck on a ticking time bomb, but I gotta ask... why help us?" Lothar's eyes drilled into Duke's disguised old-man face like he was trying to see if a secret tattoo would pop out.
Duke slowly stretched out his hands—revealing two withered, painstakingly aged appendages that looked like they'd been through a century of lotion and grueling cosplay. Then, with the theatrical flair of a wizard dropping the mic, he peeled back half his hood to reveal a grand, surprisingly majestic gray beard that screamed "wise old guy" without a hint of irony.
"Because… I'm human," he said simply, like it was the most profound thing ever. "Isn't that reason enough?"
Lothar's whole body gave a little shake—like he'd just been hit with the truth cannon. Yes! Such a stupidly simple reason! Humans versus invaders? Naturally, they'd band together. It was like saying water is wet or orcs are mean—basic, but true.
Lothar nodded with the gravity of a man who just realized his "complicated" war plans were probably overthinking things. "We have many wounded soldiers. We never abandon our own."
Duke clapped his hands with a grin that suggested he was about to unleash Act Two of some grand, magical circus. "Alright boys, second phase!"
From the back mountain erupted a swarm of burly lumberjacks—East Valley's finest—hauling ox carts like they were pulling chariots into battle. Their faces were set like stone, but their eagerness was palpable. These weren't just random civilians; they were ready to help move the wounded, drag them from the mud and chaos onto carts with care and speed.
Lothar's jaw almost hit the dirt. Someone actually planned all this? Deep breath—he realized this mysterious wizard wasn't just some random old dude with a beard; this was a noble, a tactician, a freakin' legend in disguise.
He raised his voice to the troops. "We're pulling back. Now."
One brave soldier immediately protested, "No way! Soldiers don't leave civilians behind!"
Duke chuckled a dry, sardonic laugh that made it clear he was not here to negotiate. "Haha! You're armored to the teeth how fast do you think you can outrun a bunch of javelin-throwing fishermen with nothing but sheer anger and dead aim? Besides… I'm the last one here. Objections?"
The soldiers' faces dropped into awestruck silence. Then, like some perfectly rehearsed scene, every one of the semi-injured and fully-armed soldiers rose to their feet, pressed their palms to their chests, and raised swords skyward.
Sword salute. The highest honor a warrior can pay.
Three hundred warriors, including Lothar himself, saluted Duke. The old man barely flicked a hand as if to say, "Alright, go on. Don't stop me from massacring orcs. I'll catch up and show you the encore."
But just as Duke finished speaking, a wild howl echoed from the firing holes on the fortress walls—a harpooneer, not badly hurt but clearly in agony.
Duke's eyes narrowed to slits, teeth clenched. "Painful curse!" he spat.
Lothar grimaced. "Sir, I…"
Duke waved him off with a wave like swatting flies. "This is a wizard's war. No place for mere warriors."
That phrase alone made Lothar's blood run cold, and simultaneously sparked a little excitement. Wizards' war? That sounded dangerous. And mysterious. And "don't get in my way or get evaporated" kind of dangerous.
Nodding gravely, Lothar turned to lead the retreat, his men and the javelin throwers, down the mountain. The mountaintop fortress emptied in minutes, leaving only the howling wind and ominous silence.
There, standing alone before the fortress gates, Duke faced the chill of the early spring breeze. Moist and cool against his face, it was oddly refreshing, if you ignored the pungent stench of blood and fear hanging in the air.
His eyes flicked over the winding mountain trail below. Every step was littered with bodies, human and orc alike. The orcs, with grotesque grins and yellow fangs flashing like jagged daggers in the sunlight, growled low warnings. Thousands of them.
If Duke didn't know better, if he forgot orc dietary customs, he'd probably be worried he'd be ripped apart and eaten just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But no, now was not the time to get eaten. Duke had one job: buy time for the Griffin Legion's escape.
The orcs snarled, ready to charge, but then they spotted the hundreds of wizard hands floating eerily above Duke, firing arcane missiles in a hypnotic, deadly ballet.
The orcs flinched. They'd learned their lesson the hard way: messing with a hundred wizard hands is a bad idea.
Suddenly, a hunchbacked orc clad in black robes emerged, parting the horde like the Red Sea. Orcs split to either side, bowing low.
High-ranking.
Not a clan chieftain, but definitely no regular grunt.
There was only one legend in the orc world who commanded that kind of respect, the infamous warlock of the Shadow Council.
Duke's brain fired off all kinds of game references. Warlocks: the spawn of hell, soul-manglers, and the worst for wizards like him who'd once been beaten silly in a game by their demonic powers.
Warlocks bring hellhounds? Nope, this guy had none. Maybe he was waiting to summon a succubus? Or just looked down on Duke?
Duke, despite his time-traveling wizard self, couldn't help but think like a gamer—complete with dread—and simultaneously smirked at the absurdity.
This was not Gul'dan, the demon-king of the warlocks, but still… a dangerous fight for sure.
These warlocks toyed with souls and summoned demons like a bad magic party trick. Duke wasn't eager to find out if dying meant becoming a mindless ghoul under their control.
The warlock spat out a torrent of guttural orc nonsense. Duke's system AI tried translating, spitting out nonsense like: "The Imperial Army requests your weapons but won't kill you." Duke stared at the screen, fist clenching in frustration. I swear, one day I'm deleting this AI.
Words were pointless. Duke's answer was simple: he raised his middle finger high and proud—the official universal gesture of "Nope, not today."
With that, Duke kicked off his first move: Blizzard.
In games, casting Blizzard on a warlock might be foolish. But here? The icy spikes began raining down like angry, frozen needles, obscuring the warlock's vision with biting cold and crystalline chaos.
The warlock retaliated with a Shadow Arrow.
Thanks to the AI's ballistic assistance, Duke sidestepped with the grace of a cat avoiding a puddle, letting the arrow thud harmlessly into the fortress gate.
Then, like a conductor leading an orchestra of death, Duke summoned all 108 wizard hands to grab weapons from the fortress armory.
"I'm sorry, but I'm not your average magic user," Duke growled, eyes blazing. "If you've got nothing better, you can go straight to hell."
With a thunderous, almost comical precision, 108 javelins were launched, cutting through the air like a deadly hailstorm. From sky to earth, they trapped the warlock from every angle.
But as Duke stood his ground, an avalanche of horrifying visions slammed into his mind.
Fears he'd buried deep, nightmares lurking in the shadows of his soul—all rushing back.
Suddenly, in his mind's eye, he saw it: a monstrous, venomous snake slithering in the dead of night. It lunged, jaws wide, fangs dripping poison, biting down hard on his face.
The pain was so real, so primal, that Duke let out a scream that echoed from the depths of his soul—half terror, half pure, unfiltered agony.