The very foundations of Karazhan Mage Tower were less a stable structure and more a cosmic blender, a chaotic intersection of time and space where reality itself had apparently thrown up. It was a full-blown interdimensional traffic jam, a place where a unicorn could appear next to a sentient toaster, and no one would bat an eye. Medivh, bless his eccentric heart, originally built his personal magical fortress here with two grand ideas: first, for "research" (which, let's be honest, probably involved a lot of things going boom), and second, to trap his enemies. The irony, of course, was that he was now doing a bang-up job of trapping himself. Duke, frankly, had no earthly idea what fresh hell awaited them around the next corner. He was basically just flying by the seat of his pants, hoping for the best and preparing for the worst.
Traversing Karazhan was like wandering through a fever dream. Magical creatures and disgruntled ghosts lurked around every bend, while massive stones floated in defiance of all known physics, as if gravity had simply clocked out for the day. And the void outside the tower? It looked suspiciously like a giant, drooling maw, ready to swallow anything that dared to peek out. This was Karazhan on a good day, mind you, even when Medivh was still (mostly) lucid. The place itself was a monument to architectural insanity, clearly designed by a madman with a penchant for the bizarre and a complete disregard for building codes.
Duke still scratched his head wondering how a scrawny, greenhorn like Khadgar had managed to drag Lothar to Medivh at this particular point in history. Pure dumb luck, probably, or perhaps a cosmic joke. Now, Duke was the one calling the shots, and by some minor miracle – a genuine, honest-to-goodness miracle – things hadn't completely gone sideways yet. Which, in Karazhan, was practically a cause for celebration.
"Oh, I wonder how Reggie's doing. Don't you dare kick the bucket, Reginald..." Finally, when Duke had a spare moment to breathe, he scrolled through the system prompt's list of followers and spotted Windsor's name. A wave of relief washed over him, quickly followed by a grim chuckle. The future Marshal Windsor, it turned out, was currently up to his eyeballs in hot water, probably wishing he'd stayed home and polished his armor.
After paying the rather steep price of twenty casualties (mostly from tripping over their own two feet in the dark, because who needs demons when you have clumsy soldiers?), Windsor and his elite squad had finally managed to dispatch the particularly unpleasant gate guardian: the demonized hunter Atumen and his perpetually grumpy, ill-tempered demon horse, 'Midnight.' In a bold, some might say foolhardy, move to push deeper into the tower and really get under the skin of Sargeras (who was currently pulling Medivh's strings like a very powerful, very evil puppet master), Windsor had decisively chosen to press on. Apparently, he was a glutton for punishment.
Windsor had braced himself for a knock-down, drag-out brawl, probably involving more pointy demons and very sharp bits of scenery. What he didn't expect was the sudden, jarring shift in the cosmic script.
"Ohhh! Huzzah for Stormwind City! His Majesty the King has finally sent our glorious, shiny heroes to rescue us!"
When the first of these characters emerged, Windsor initially wondered if it was some elaborate devilish trick, perhaps a particularly convincing illusion designed to lure them into a trap. But it quickly became clear that Windsor was indeed being "overwhelmed" – not by a horde of slavering demons, but by a suffocating tidal wave of sheer, unadulterated nobility. These impeccably dressed aristocrats, practically dripping with inherited wealth and condescension, were all from backgrounds so prominent they practically had their own theme music.
There was Baron Lavroud Luger (who probably owned a very small, very dusty vineyard), Count Crispin Ferrens (who likely owned a slightly larger, slightly less dusty vineyard), Lady Dorothy Millsdip (who undoubtedly owned a very expensive, very yappy dog), Countess Catriona Warnindi (who, one could assume, owned several very expensive, very yappy dogs)... and so on, a veritable parade of self-importance, each one more insufferable than the last.
"Blast it all, those ghastly greenskins are absolutely everywhere," one whined, dabbing at a non-existent tear with a silk handkerchief. "We simply didn't have the time to evacuate to Stormwind City, darling, so we simply had to seek refuge with the Guardian Medivh here in Karazhan," another sniffed, as if this was the greatest hardship of their lives. "Mr. Moroes, Medivh's butler, was kind enough to take us in," a third chimed in, "but recently, a most disturbing series of unknown events has occurred! So many demons have poured out! It's utterly terrifying! We've been forced to subsist on stale bread and our own tears in the dining room on the third floor!"
These nobles, with their perfectly coiffed hair and outrageously expensive silks, proceeded to regale Windsor and his men with tales of their truly awful, utterly inconvenient experiences, as if they were discussing a slight inconvenience at the local tailor. Windsor, meanwhile, was turning a shade of crimson usually reserved for embarrassed tomatoes. He'd come here to crack some demon skulls, but instead, he'd stumbled into a tea party of entitled uncles and aunts. One, two, three... aside from the seemingly least obnoxious Baron Druger, the place was crawling with counts and countesses. Anywhere else, encountering this many high-ranking socialites would have a warrior bowing and scraping until their knees gave out.
Now, though, they couldn't just leave them to the tender mercies of Karazhan's demonic occupants. If they did nothing to help so many nobles, and word got out, they'd be hung out to dry back in Stormwind City faster than you could say "treason." It was a lose-lose situation, with the added bonus of public humiliation.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Windsor began, trying to inject a modicum of sympathy into his voice, "I'm afraid I have a rather unfortunate piece of news. The guardian you rely on and depend on for protection, Mr. Medivh, may have... well, he may have been possessed by the demons of the Burning Legion. We are, in fact, on our way to defeat him, and possibly, you know, exorcise him." Before Windsor could even finish his carefully worded explanation, the nobles erupted into a cacophony of outrage.
"Oh, no—!"
"Impossible! He's such a charming host!"
"Good heavens, this is simply horrible! Who will serve us tea now?!"
"Soldier!" shrieked the Earl of the East of Elwynn Forest, her voice piercing enough to shatter glass. "As an Earl, I order you to protect us and leave immediately! Right now! Before my manicure is utterly ruined!"
Despite Windsor's repeated attempts to emphasize his duties and the dire situation, the nobles screamed like banshees, employing every threat and inducement in their gilded arsenal to force Windsor to bend to their will. They were, in essence, a very loud, very demanding, very well-dressed mob. The only silver lining was that these nobles were sans servants or attendants; otherwise, they'd probably be demanding foot massages and chilled grape juice while fleeing for their lives.
As a last resort, Windsor was forced to peel off a full third of his troops to escort these pampered lords and ladies back out of Karazhan, a task undoubtedly met with a chorus of grumbling from the soldiers. Then, feeling only slightly less annoyed, Windsor regrouped his remaining forces and proceeded to a banquet hall on the second floor. There, he encountered a human being. No, strike that. He encountered a demonized human being. The sheer, overwhelming stench of evil emanating from the creature was palpable even from fifty feet away, like a particularly foul cologne that had gone horribly, horribly wrong.
"Greetings, human who is not on the visitor list," the creature said, its voice disturbingly smooth. "I am Moroes, the steward of Karazhan. Unfortunately, Master Medivh has given strict orders that all outsiders not on the visitor list are to be... eliminated. So, if you wouldn't mind terribly, would you kindly cease to exist?"
As the gentle-looking old man in red instantly shed his bright red and yellow uniform, his entire body rippling and transforming into a towering, hideous satyr demon, a sudden, unsettling question popped into Windsor's mind: If Moroes was already a demon, why in the blazes had he let that gaggle of nobles waltz out of here just moments ago?
Oh, crud!
Windsor felt a jolt of alarm, a shocking realization that sent a paralyzing chill through his hands and feet. But he and his men didn't have the luxury of standing around pondering the mysteries of demonic hospitality. From the shadowy corners of the enormous corridors, from behind the opulent pillars, and from every nook and cranny of the various rooms, a tide of satyrs surged forth.
These transformed humans, now grotesque demons, brandished an assortment of weapons or simply lunged with razor-sharp claws, launching a furious assault on Windsor and his already beleaguered men.
Meanwhile, high above, near the very pinnacle of Karazhan's Mage Tower...
After a brief, much-needed respite, Duke, Lothar, and Garona, along with their remaining forces, resumed their relentless advance.
Having gloriously (and humorously) conquered the insane chess level, a hidden door had creaked open behind a bizarre, silent statue. Beyond it lay what appeared to be a perfectly normal, albeit rather long, staircase. But as Duke and his party began their ascent, they suddenly realized that Karazhan, being Karazhan, had decided to play another one of its twisted spatial games.
This staircase, far from leading to Medivh's anticipated bedroom (which was probably filled with dusty spellbooks and very expensive pajamas), led directly to the roof.
And honestly, the moment Duke's eyes landed on that roof, a truly terrible premonition settled in his gut.
Then he saw the colossal figure, its skin a chilling blue-green, and Duke's internal monologue screamed, "Oh. My. God."
It was a demon of truly titanic proportions.
He was dressed like a barbarian strongman, sporting only a pair of shoulder pads, some hand armor, a belt that barely contained his impressive girth, and leg armor. The vast majority of his skin was on full display, showcasing an utterly ridiculous amount of explosive muscle – his six-pack abs looked like they'd been chiseled by a master sculptor, and his thigh muscles practically had their own vertical lines.
And, of course, the unmistakable, thick tail of an Eredar demon, swaying lazily behind him like a lethal pendulum.
Over ten millennia ago, the ultimate bad guy, Sargeras, had rolled up to Argus to recruit the entire Eredar race into his little Burning Crusade. Archimonde and Kil'jaeden, two of the three big shots among the Eredar leadership, had signed on the dotted line. These Eredar are, to put it simply, what humans commonly refer to as "demons."
Demons generally come in two flavors: red or blue. Within the Burning Legion, the two Eredar demon honchos don't play nice together and operate completely independently. Kil'jaeden is the poster boy for the red-skinned variety, which meant this particular monstrosity was clearly from Archimonde's posse.
Prince Malchezaar!