Low-level magic harming high-level demons? Ha! That's like trying to win a boxing match by throwing feathers. You'd get laughed at, pummeled, or—worse—ignored.
It's a bit like getting rained on. Annoying? Sure. Dangerous? Not unless you're a wicked witch of the west. But a rock? Now that'll ruin your day.
Duke, ever the tactician (and also a guy who liked keeping his organs un-fried), knew exactly where he stood. And it wasn't at the top of the magical food chain—not yet. He didn't know if Khadgar had run into this demon Tristan in the original timeline, or if this was one of those delightful time-travel-induced surprises. What he did know was that if he didn't up his game fast, he'd be as useless as that poor priest earlier—basically a decorative paperweight with prayers.
From his duel with the orc warlock, Duke had gleaned one depressing truth: powerful magic users don't even flinch at low-level arcane spells. Their mana-charged bodies auto-dispelled the stuff like immune systems sneezing out weak sauce.
But physics? Oh, physics was still king.
Unless you were dealing with titanic bosses like dragons or world-devourers, the right amount of blunt force trauma worked just fine.
Enter: Kirrick.
Compared to other demons, Kirrick was a big boy. Compared to humans? He was knee-high and had the threatening presence of an angry toddler with glow-in-the-dark fangs. A support caster, his strength lay in annoying fireballs and screechy noises, not tanking hits.
So when he showed up—poof!—like an overeager party crasher, Duke had just the thing for him.
Arcane Blast
Textbook spell. Build up magical pressure, increase damage, then blow something to magical kingdom come. Downside? The spell gets hungrier for mana with each stack. Most mages could only stack it four times before turning into mana-depleted raisins.
Duke, however, had unlocked the cheat code.
Thanks to his unique Arcane Fire Circuit, he had more mana than a hot spring has steam. He barely needed to worry about conservation—he was a one-man fireworks factory.
While most would wince at a triple-stack Arcane Blast, Duke had been quietly building up seven full stacks, feeding it like a greedy furnace while having the AI autopilot spam lesser spells.
When Kirrick strutted out like a budget Diablo villain, Duke unleashed hell.
BOOM.
The Arcane Blast hit with the force of a magical freight train. Purple-blue energy surged through the room, sizzling through the air like angry lightning given caffeine.
But Duke didn't stop there. Why settle for overkill when you can add style?
The residual arcane energy, instead of dispersing, clumped together under Duke's iron mental grip, forming a gigantic arcane hand, shimmering, pulsing, magnificent. And then?
SMACK!
Down came the hand like the wrath of an angry god. Kirrick's tiny demon head took the hit with all the resistance of a watermelon dropped off a tower.
The room shook. Books toppled. Portals flickered. Somewhere, a bard composed a ballad.
Tristan, the satyr, actually flinched.
Kirrick was no longer a demon. He was now a cautionary tale. He exploded into purple goo, then disintegrated into a fine mist of regret and broken dreams.
Lothar, watching this spectacle, had the audacity to whistle. "Well played, Duke!"
Even Garona blinked.
At first, they'd both questioned why Duke nuked a glorified minion instead of the boss. But when Tristan staggered—actually staggered—they understood.
Whatever link Kirrick had to the big bad, it was keeping Tristan's power levels artificially boosted. With Kirrick gone, Tristan's speed, strength, reaction time—all of it nosedived like a brick.
Lothar's next strike practically glided through Tristan's defenses. The enchanted longsword sang as it sliced into the satyr's neck, opening up a gash so wide it made Duke consider starting a butcher shop.
Purple blood fountained out, theatrical and grotesque, splattering everything like demon-flavored jam.
If Tristan had been human, he'd be decorating the floor by now.
But demons? They don't die easy.
Tristan let the rest of his body take the hits while covering the gaping wound with a clawed hand, trying to stop the bleeding like someone frantically putting duct tape on a bursting pipe.
Sensing the kill, Lothar and Garona pushed forward.
Duke? He joined in, naturally.
What followed was a beautiful chaos. Triangle formation—Lothar drawing attention, Garona backstabbing like a scorned ex, and Duke raining arcane pain from above.
It was... not what anyone expected.
Coordinating with mages was rare. Most were too snobbish or too explosive. Even Medivh rarely fought alongside others—in fact, if Medivh started casting, it usually meant everyone else should evacuate the continent.
So this? This was new.
Lothar was sweating, but not from effort—from amazement. This was their first real team-up. He and Garona had barely gelled, and now Duke joined the mix? The math shouldn't have worked.
One plus one plus one shouldn't equal five.
But somehow, it did.
Except... magic has no eyes.
Just as Lothar was wondering how Duke could possibly fire without hitting his allies, Duke did the unthinkable.
He started charging up another nuke.