Fear slammed into Duke's mind like a rampaging, joyfully sadistic burglar kicking down the door to his heart and tossing his sanity out like yesterday's trash. It was a tidal wave of panic, but also a mugging, a full-on mental assault that turned his thoughts into a chaotic, trembling mess.
Duke's breath hitched, quick and shallow, his pupils dilated like a deer caught in the headlights of a freight train. The system AI was screaming urgent warnings in his head, a digital fire alarm blaring — but Duke? He was deaf to it, lost in the eye of a psychological hurricane.
Nightmarish visions surged — pale, grinning skeleton soldiers wielding rusty scimitars like they just raided a horror movie buffet, swiping and slashing with all the charm of a rusty cheese grater on raw skin.
Or worse, the terrifying memory of standing by a peaceful stream only to be yanked underwater by the tentacle of some gargantuan black octopus from the abyss, claws pulling, teeth gnashing, water icy enough to freeze his soul — struggling hopelessly while the cephalopod chuckled like it just got the best snack ever.
Duke fought with all his might to shake off the mental assault, but the nightmare had a stranglehold on every sense. Sight, sound, smell, taste, touch — all hijacked by a terror that felt so real, he could practically smell the damp river muck and feel the octopus's slimy grip squeezing tighter.
His mind was a broken radio, static and pain flooding in, energy draining like a leaky bucket. A stabbing ache blossomed in his skull, pulsing down his neck and spreading through his drenched, shaking body. Somehow, from nowhere, Duke was soaked to the bone as if he'd taken a dunk in the river and was dragged out just to be mocked.
Watching Duke's awkward, desperate flailing was pure comedy gold for the orcs. They'd just been trounced, but here came the wizard doing an impromptu wet dance of panic. Orcs, after all, have a complicated love-hate relationship with magic users. They despise weaklings with spells, but shamans? And those fancy warlocks? They get a grudging respect—like acknowledging a cat burglar who can also punch your lights out.
They expected a massacre, a quick chop-chop feast. Surely, the wizard would throw himself under an orc's axe like a scared rabbit. But no — that was too easy. The show had a plot twist brewing.
The phantom wizard hands kept attacking, raining down javelins like angry, magical wasps. But their brilliance hit a snag. The orc warlock, not just some spell-slinger but a true shaman-warrior hybrid, whipped out a massive axe and clanged those deadly javelins like he was swatting flies at a barbecue.
If Duke was still in his right mind, he'd realize these orc warlocks weren't just dark magic users—they were battle-hardened shamans who knew how to fight dirty and cast spells. They were the Swiss Army knives of the orc tribes.
Warlock Balsa, the orc in question, was as baffled as anyone by Duke's stubborn control of those wizard hands, which seemed to have a mind of their own. Purple-blue arcs of arcane energy shot from those disembodied hands, peppering Balsa with missiles—but, surprise! His enchanted black robe shrugged off the attacks like a wet dog shakes off water, the magic fizzing into nothingness.
"Magic 101, rookie!" sneered the shadowy warlock, his dark energy practically humming with demonic disdain. High-level mysteries dominate the low-level stuff, and Duke's arcane missiles were nothing but feeble sparks against the void.
Inside Duke's head, the system AI screamed, "Host! WAKE UP! I CAN'T HANDLE THIS DRAMA!"
But Duke? Lost in mental limbo, pride and fury bubbling just beneath the surface.
Balsa bellowed in guttural Orcish, "Weak human! I don't care how you're fighting back—this ends now!" He raised his hand for a spell of sacrifice, flames licking outward in all directions, infecting the air, the ground, even the orcs themselves, turning them into raving berserkers thirsting for blood.
The demonic power pulsed through Duke too — a fiery slap in the face of arrogance. He felt a spark ignite inside, a cocky little flame roaring to life, telling him, You're not just some scared mortal. You're about to show these orcs what real terror looks like.
Duke's brain, ignoring all system warnings, was flooded with a prompt he barely noticed:
"Stimulated by unknown demonic energy, you have triggered a negative soul state — Pride, one of the seven deadly sins. Your words and actions will be wildly out of control. You and your foes affected by Pride will shun defense. You will choose the most powerful attack every time. Morale won't faze you. You're cursed with Reckless Courage. Running? Fear? Not in your vocabulary."
"Ha!" Duke's body shuddered violently, flames licking his skin as he pulled his hood back to reveal the shock of wild white hair and a beard that screamed grandfather wizard gone rogue. His lips curled into a cocky smirk that said, Yeah, I'm the problem.
He barked out in a bizarre tongue — neither Orcish nor Common — but somehow, magically, everyone understood. It was a sort of soul-language that blasted through the tension like a thunderclap.
"Listen up, you green-skinned freeloaders! Name's Hashirama! The Thousand-Handed Death!"
"Azeroth's my playground, and you monsters don't get to spoil the fun."
"I've killed Kil'jaeden—yeah, that Kil'jaeden—more times than Gul'dan's had bad hair days. Gul'dan? A joke!"
"If you know what's good for you, back the hell up or I'll teach you what regret really tastes like."
The orcs froze. Shock painted across their faces. They didn't know Kil'jaeden, but Gul'dan? Everyone feared that name like a shadow in the night.
This scrappy human was daring to say Gul'dan was nothing? The roar of angry orcs surged like a tidal wave.
But Duke? Arrogance overflowing like a goblet at a feast, chin raised, eyes blazing with contempt.
Gul'dan's power wasn't just demon fire—it was fueled by Kil'jaeden himself, a secret hidden even from many in the Shadow Council. But Balsa wasn't just any warlock—he was in on the conspiracy. He casually grabbed a nearby chieftain by the collar and snarled, "Leave this arrogant meat to me. Tell your boys to hold back."
The chieftain, the figurehead for now, wisely nodded. Everyone knew real power rested with Gul'dan's Shadow Council. The order was given: silence fell like a grave.
"Weak human! I, Balsa Garon, will show you the true meaning of destructive power!" The orc warlock bellowed, veins pulsing with dark magic.
Duke raised a single finger, beckoning, cool as ice: "Come on then."
Sweat beaded. Exhaustion weighed heavy. The chill bit deep.
Duke pressed his hand to his face—half laughing, half crying—as the deadly dance of destruction was about to begin.