When Lothar stepped into the colossal hall, a flood of déjà vu slammed into him like a rogue trebuchet shot. The floor tiles and wall decorations were suspiciously similar to those in Medivh's study and bedroom — the kind of detail only someone who'd spent decades dodging exploding arcane traps and sassy magical insults could notice. His gut twisted with a spicy cocktail of dread and certainty: Medivh was nearby, lurking behind some twisted illusion or mystical curtain.
Decades of friendship with the mysterious mage had taught Lothar one crucial thing—Medivh's wizard tower wasn't just a building, it was a labyrinth of trial levels, like an evil magical video game designed by a sadistic warlock who hated casual players.
For the kingdom. For Llane. For the poor sods waiting outside who didn't sign up to be chess pieces in this nightmare—Lothar squared his shoulders and marched on without a flicker of hesitation.
That didn't mean he wasn't freaking out on the inside.
The sheer gap in military might was enough to make a seasoned commander want to rethink all his life choices.
The chessboard beneath them? Gone. Replaced by a sprawling battlefield that looked like someone had hit the "Expand" button on reality itself. The iconic black and white tiles still peeked out here and there, but the whole scene had stretched into an endless plain of madness.
Ahead, like a nightmare from a drunken orc warlord's fever dream, stood at least three hundred orcs. And these were no ordinary orcs. These beasts were hulking monsters, their armor a terrifying patchwork of jagged metal plates and scars that covered half their bodies. The kind of guys who probably bench-pressed a small boulder before breakfast.
Lothar's elite troops were giants by human standards, averaging a statuesque 1.9 meters — practically walking skyscrapers among the seven kingdoms. But here? The enemy orcs were literal mountain men, pushing 2.5 meters tall, looking like they'd just stepped off the cover of a "How to Intimidate Your Neighbors" handbook.
The contrast was like putting toddlers next to NBA players. Lothar's men barely reached their chests, like kids standing next to their dads at a lumberyard.
The orcs gripped weapons so heavy-looking, Lothar half expected them to yell, "Do you even lift, bro?" His soldiers swallowed hard, nervously eyeing the monstrous axes and hammers that could probably crush a cartwheel into dust.
But what made Lothar's blood run cold weren't just the size or the weapons.
It was the decorations.
Orc tooth ornaments.
Massive fang necklaces and bone trophies dangled from necks and arms — fangs so huge they could've been used as baseball bats. Garona's words echoed in his mind: Only the bravest, most bloodthirsty tribal warriors earned the right to break off those deadly trophies, each one a gruesome trophy ripped from some legendary beast or rival.
And here, before him, were scores of warriors decked out in fang bling bigger than a human hand.
"How is this even possible?" Garona whispered, her voice trembling like a leaf caught in a thunderstorm. "Blackhand… and his personal guards!?"
Lothar's eyes narrowed. "Blackhand? You mean the Warchief Blackhand, the strongest orc to ever bellow 'I am your doom'?"
Garona blinked, surprised, "Wait — you're Lothar?"
Her appearance hadn't changed much — except for the sleek steel armor Lothar had gifted her before the journey, reserved only for Stormwind's elite. But now she'd transformed from foot soldier to cavalry piece — basically a living chess horse with a hell of a temper.
Everyone around Lothar had become chess pieces too. Same faces, slightly different gear, but every weapon still felt like home.
Two people stood out the most:
First, Lothar himself. He'd been decked out in the golden armor of the "Lion" — King Lion's armor — a roaring lion's face as a helmet, a cape edged in shining gold trailing behind, and in his hand, the legendary King's Sword. The full regal package, looking more like he was about to host a royal parade than a brutal battle.
He felt absurd. Like a peasant wearing the king's crown at a village fair. If he was the only one dressed like this, he might have choked on embarrassment.
But there was one silver lining.
Duke.
Duke looked like the textbook wizard stereotype — a clean white feather collar scarf spilling into a grand cape, robes crisp enough to make any librarian jealous. And oh yes, he clutched Medivh's legendary artifact, the Staff of Atiesh, glowing with ancient power and just the right amount of "Don't mess with me" aura.
Basically, Anduin got Llane's part, and Duke got to play Medivh. The cosmic joke was not lost on anyone.
Duke gave a dramatic sigh, eyes flicking over his wizardly garb. "Alas, Sir Lothar, don't let this illusion bother you. It's just some fancy magic wardrobe malfunction. Everyone here is loyal—to you, to Stormwind, and to Azeroth itself. No one's going to judge you for looking like a walking lion statue. Let's focus on who's next on the chopping block."
And then, the moment Garona's soul froze.
Because there, striding out like a walking curse, was Gul'dan.
Not tall like the orc monsters behind him, but twisted and horrible in his own right. Hunched, swathed in ragged black robes, spiked bone protrusions jutting from his back like some nightmarish porcupine. Skulls—probably Draenei—hung from his bony spines, and his mouth was a horrifying patchwork of rotten teeth. His eyes glowed with malevolent green fire.
"Gul'dan…" Garona breathed, voice trembling so hard it sounded like a scared child on a haunted carousel.
Gul'dan. Here.
Lothar's brow furrowed. This wasn't just a meeting of orc badasses — it was a convergence of Azeroth's nastiest villains, and their chess pieces too.
But something was off.
No one was fighting. The orcs looked almost… stalled.
"Wait," Duke suddenly said, voice full of sarcasm and disbelief, "This is a death game where your soul is the prize. And those aren't the real Blackhand or Gul'dan. They're just… scary illusions. But unlike most crappy games, apparently you can ask for reinforcements."
Lothar blinked. "Reinforcements? Where do we get those?"
He wasn't alone. Duke's system AI blinked a message on his retina:
"Current enemy strength ratio: 11 to 89. Suggest topping up souls for extra reinforcements."
What the hell?! Was this Azeroth's version of a pay-to-win nightmare? Lothar could almost hear the game's evil devs laughing somewhere, "Pay up or get crushed, sucker!"
Duke, not one to waste time whining, slapped himself across the face — partly to stay awake, partly to remind himself he was in a battle, not a cash grab.
His system AI flashed options for "charging souls" — literally pulling from a stockpile of souls he'd "acquired" in past fights.
His face scrunched up into a perfect storm of moodiness.
"Well, technically we can get reinforcements. But heads up: they look pretty… unorthodox. Maybe a little unsightly. Like the kind of guys you'd meet at a dark alley bar."
Lothar's voice boomed, magnanimous and kingly: "For victory, for Azeroth, for everything that's right in the world… bring them on! Without you, we wouldn't even be here. Use every trick in your bag, Duke."
Just as Duke was about to hit "summon," a giant red warning flashed in his vision, screaming louder than a banshee in heat:
WARNING! WARNING!The chess pieces you summon are monsters you killed before. They're powerful and inhuman. 99.99% chance they'll turn traitor and join the enemy side!
Duke groaned. This was like lighting a bomb and hoping it wouldn't explode in his face.
"Is there any workaround?" he asked the AI, voice dripping with sarcasm and existential dread.
"Sure," the AI replied cheerfully, "Just inject them with moral integrity and humanity. Then they'll obey you like puppies. Easy, right?"
Duke nearly facepalmed.
But then he felt it—the weight of all those expectant eyes. Lothar. Garona. The elite troops. Thousands of souls counting on them.
He clenched his jaw, squared his shoulders, and said the words every hero says right before they throw themselves into chaos:
"For the sake of faith… recharge!"