If Duke had seen this scene, his jaw would've dropped so hard it might've broken through three floors of Karazhan and landed in Deadwind Pass.
Atumen the Hunter.
A name that sounded like the lovechild of arrogance and apocalypse. Supposed to be an undead boss in the future, here he was — already demonic, already deadly, and already spoiling everyone's day like a flaming party crasher on hooves.
No one knew his origins. Some said he was a cursed knight. Others swore he used to be a stablehand who looked at a cursed saddle the wrong way. But none of that mattered now. Because today, this mid-level boss came to play early access… with cheat codes enabled.
He wasn't alone.
No.
He rode a mount that could only be described as the bastard child of a volcano and a rampaging murder-rhino.
The flames licking across the beast's hide hissed with infernal energy. Its hooves — molten-hot and glowing red — burned actual craters into the stone floor just by standing still. You know you're dealing with a nightmare when the floor starts crying under your feet.
Then with a terrifying "WHOOMPH!", the living blaze on four legs — the hell-steed known as Midnight — thundered onto the battlefield like a comet of doom. Smoke billowed from its nostrils. Its eyes gleamed with malice. It neighed like the scream of a dying soul dragged into the Twisting Nether.
Compared to it, the warhorses of Stormwind looked like underfed donkeys wearing cosplay armor.
Screams filled the air. Soldiers panicked. Swords were dropped. One poor guy even tried to hide behind a tree that wasn't there.
As Midnight charged, its sheer presence tore through morale like a hot knife through soft cheese. The sound of hooves hitting stone was like thunder having a bad day. Every time it galloped, at least one man learned what it felt like to be turned into pancake jelly.
And then... there was Windsor.
Young, relatively inexperienced, but with the heart of a lion who'd downed five espressos and decided "today, we're fighting death itself."
"Your responsibility is not light," Duke had told him. "Hold for one hour. That's your mission."
An hour? Against this? That was like asking a candle to survive a hurricane.
But Windsor remembered Lothar's warning — how true fear wasn't the fireballs or claws or flaming nightmare hooves, but that invisible knife called hesitation.
If you freeze, you die. And when you die, your dreams, your love, your legacy, your cat back home — all gone. That's the real horror. And it comes faster than you think.
"Heaven looks left, warriors look right."
Duke had said that cryptically, like a sage drunk on prophecy and mead. Windsor had never understood it... until now.
Now, standing before death incarnate, the words finally clicked.
Everything burned. Hell's light danced on ash-streaked armor. Friends fell. Screams rang. It was chaos incarnate. But Windsor? He wasn't scared. He was alive — burning with something sharper than fear: resolve.
No more strategy. No more orders. Just instinct.
Midnight lowered its flaming horns for another charge, about to reduce another poor soul to red mist — when Windsor moved.
CHARGE!
Not a soldier's shuffle. Not a panicked sprint. This was a warrior's charge — a comet of steel and will.
With a BOOM, Windsor slammed full-force into Midnight's side. The hell-horse skidded, eyes flaring wide. It staggered. It. Staggered.
"COME ON, YOU FOUR-LEGGED BARBECUE! LET'S DANCE!" Windsor bellowed, smashing his lion-emblazoned shield into the beast's snout.
Shield Slam.
Midnight's jaw did a half-spiral.
Then came Atumen, elegant and terrifying, his sword swinging like death's own signature.
Windsor blocked it — perfectly — with a glowing sword forged of steel, sweat, and a healthy enchantment called [Demon Slayer].
The momentum shifted.
Elite soldiers of Stormwind, inspired by Windsor's defiance, roared and swarmed Atumen like a tide of vengeance.
From untouchable doom-bringer to surrounded punching bag, Atumen's situation had changed faster than a mage's mana bar after Arcane Blast spam.
Meanwhile, outside Karazhan's rear entrance…
Lothar was pacing. More than pacing. Practically carving a trench with his boots.
"What are you waiting for?!" he growled.
Duke wasn't helping.
The mysterious mage stood still, ear pressed dramatically to the cold stone door like a nosy aunt eavesdropping at a family scandal. Lothar was half-convinced he was faking a divination spell and just being nosy.
"Is he casting something?" Garona asked.
"Who knows," Lothar muttered. "Maybe he's... listening for demons? Gossip? Lost his mind?"
In truth, Duke was listening — with science, not sorcery.
Duke had a hypothesis: Karazhan wasn't just a tower. It was a living antenna. A magical radar system. At its peak, arcane pulses rippled outward like sonar, pinging back signals from every hallway, stairwell, and unwashed demon hiding in the pantry.
To the world of Azeroth, this idea was madness.
To a time-traveling Duke with a PhD in modern physics and a D-minus in patience?
It was just Tuesday.
A slow grin crept across his face.
"Got it!"
Duke's eyes gleamed. The magic ripple had bounced off something big and central — a blind spot in the tower's detection grid. A gap in Sargeras' arrogant defenses.
The moment had arrived.
Stormwind's charge had done its job — and now, the real game was about to begin.