Duke... had never harbored any delusions about being a virtuous soul, let alone some bleeding-heart saint with a halo and harp.
There existed absolutely no possibility of reconciliation between him and Arthas, who was already deader than last week's fish and twice as rotten.
Since he'd already offended the fool beyond all hope of redemption, well...
Why not grind that boot heel down a few more times for good measure?
If this were the original timeline, Duke might still worry about parading around a battalion of Jainas and accidentally shattering the delicate heart of innocent bystander Kael'thas. After all, the historical Kael'thas had allegedly harbored some rather romantic notions about Jaina during their time together in Dalaran—probably composing terrible poetry and sighing dramatically at moonrise.
No such concerns plagued him now, thank the Light.
Jaina had been practically sold off to Karazhan by her own father before she'd even come of age, becoming Duke's devoted companion in that twisted tower until the whole bloody place got blown into the cosmic void like yesterday's garbage. Jaina had spent most of this past year in Stormwind City, rebuilding the Stormwind Royal Academy of Magic under the prestigious banner of "Duke's official fiancée," with absolutely zero opportunity to cross paths with the pretty elf prince.
According to the ever-reliable Illusia's intelligence network, Arthas had actually planned a state visit to Stormwind—probably hoping to rekindle old flames—but Jaina promptly announced she would be returning to Duke's territory in East Elwynn Forest for "urgent repairs and renovations." Whether this was a tactical retreat to avoid awkwardness or she genuinely couldn't care less about Arthas anymore, the message was crystal clear: abandon hope, all ye who court here.
Ha! The irony was delicious!
The former sweethearts, who theoretically could have been living high on the hog together—flying like eagles in the sky while rolling in clover on the ground—had been ruthlessly separated by Boss Daelin's iron-fisted interference. Add in Jaina's official status as "the betrothed of Edmund Duke," and not a soul could raise even the slightest objection without risking political suicide.
The poor fool had ended up more alone than a goblin at an honor convention.
Rumor had it he'd remained a bachelor right up until his spectacular fall from grace?
This... the idiot had an entire palace full of willing maids at his beck and call, yet chose to live like some celibate monk instead of enjoying life's pleasures. Duke absolutely refused to shoulder the blame for such magnificent stupidity.
Regardless, when Duke's spectacular Rainbow Jaina Squadron materialized in all their illusory glory, the orcs stood slack-jawed in bewilderment, while on the Alliance side, all three commanding officers displayed expressions subtle enough to cut with a blade.
Kael'thas adopted the fine art of strategic blindness, pretending not to witness this magical catastrophe.
Mograine and Abbendis exchanged meaningful eye-rolls before their expressions shifted to genuine concern. Even a blind cave troll could sense the unspoken but blazingly obvious feelings their queen harbored for Duke—feelings hot enough to melt armor.
The monumental problem was that Lady Jaina Proudmoore remained Duke's official 'fiancée' in the eyes of the world!
To put it with brutal honesty, Duke had now transformed his rumored 'betrothed' and his two entirely legitimate lovers into magical puppets for his personal entertainment. The two supreme commanders of the Scarlet Crusade found themselves utterly, hopelessly powerless to intervene.
Naturally, the one who reacted most violently was Arthas himself.
If Duke had summoned forth the mature, worldly version of Jaina, it might not have proven quite so devastatingly effective against Arthas's crumbling psyche. However, Duke hadn't laid eyes on Jaina for a full decade, and both he and his system AI could only simulate the youthful version burned into memory.
Well, technically the highest age the system could accurately simulate was sixteen, but who exactly was Duke dealing with here?
An honest, reliable young gentleman of impeccable character?
Or Duke the magnificent bastard who specialized in face-slapping and ego-crushing with artistic precision?
To inflict maximum psychological damage, naturally he'd deploy whichever weapon proved most devastatingly effective.
Therefore, what that poor deluded fool witnessed was the pure, breathtakingly beautiful young Jaina Proudmoore—the innocent vision who had been buried deep within his corrupted heart for countless years, the angelic face that haunted his dreams every midnight like the sweetest torture!
"Fireball—"
"Pyroblast!"
"Frostbolt!"
The crystal-clear battle cries of a girl whose voice still carried traces of youthful innocence might have seemed ordinary to most ears, but to Arthas, they became demonic symphonies that clawed at his very soul with razored talons.
This wasn't magical hypnosis—it was infinitely more effective than any mere spell.
A psychological assault more devastating than the most powerful Mind Blast ever conceived.
Precisely because this had absolutely nothing to do with arcane magic and represented pure, undiluted psychological warfare, Arthas found himself completely defenseless against its terrible power.
As the ancient wisdom declares: the Tao cultivates the heart of the righteous, saints nurture the will of the holy, and demons feast upon the thoughts of the damned.
The purest, most fanatical faith generates the most blindingly powerful holy light imaginable.
Conversely...
Only the most complete and absolute fall from grace can forge the most perfect vessel for the Lich King's unholy essence.
For the imprisoned Ner'zhul, Arthas—this Death Knight who had tumbled from noble, pure-hearted Paladin to corrupt champion of darkness—represented his ideal tool for ultimate reincarnation and revenge.
Both Ner'zhul and the insidious Kel'Thuzad had been constantly, relentlessly tempting Arthas's soul toward the blackest depths of damnation. Originally, their corruption had proceeded with magnificent success.
As long as Arthas transformed into the ultimate death knight—one devoid of feelings, blind to family bonds, knowing only the sweet ecstasy of endless slaughter—Ner'zhul could execute his masterpiece of cosmic conspiracy.
Now, however, Arthas's mental state had been utterly, spectacularly shattered by Duke's psychological warfare.
The Lich King's fundamental essence embodied death, plague, and eternal frost—and the thing he despised most in all existence was stubborn human nature. At this critical moment, Arthas burned with hatred and rage hotter than dragon's breath. If his destiny lay in becoming a high-ranking demon of the Burning Legion, such emotions would prove beneficial. But for his development into the Lich King's perfect avatar, he was stumbling down precisely the wrong path.
Looking at Arthas in this moment of crisis, the amount of dark power his form could contain was actually decreasing rather than growing stronger, with alarming signs that his abilities were spiraling into complete chaos.
"DUKE—" Arthas's arms suddenly swelled to inhuman proportions, and with a berserk sweep that could have leveled a small army, he directly batted aside Orgrim who dared block his path. He suddenly planted his feet and charged forward three explosive steps, each mighty stride covering a full five meters of battlefield.
In the eyes of stunned witnesses, this amounted to witnessing an unholy triple-jump of devastating proportions.
"Come here and DIE—" Another thunderous roar split the air as a Death Grip spell directly yanked Duke toward certain doom.
"Oh no!"
Someone screamed in genuine terror!
Someone frowned with deep concern!
Some people also... settled back to enjoy the show with barely concealed amusement!
But Duke—master of illusion and deception—how could he possibly be caught in person so ridiculously easily?
"Tsk! You never learn your bloody lesson, do you?" Duke, who stood casually thirty meters away from the carnage, delivered his taunt with magnificent contempt.
Naturally, it was another spectacular Living Bomb trap!
"BOOM!" The thunderous explosion could have awakened the dead in three kingdoms, and Arthas was blown skyward like a rag doll.
This time, however, it wasn't some pathetic low-level magical prank like their previous encounter.
Duke had been saving this masterpiece for precisely the right moment. He had carefully combined the concentrated Pyroblast power that 108 Archmage-level spellcasters could barely contain, compressing all that terrifying elemental fire energy into a deceptively fist-sized package, then stuffed the whole devastating surprise into his flaming humanoid Living Bomb creation.
After being yanked over by Arthas's dark magic, all those brutally compressed fire elements suddenly achieved glorious freedom, erupting with destructive power comparable to the heaviest siege artillery bombardment ever witnessed on any battlefield.
Orgrim and his fellow orcs stood slack-jawed in absolute amazement.
Recalling their experiences during the Burning Steppes campaign thirteen years prior, even those colossal cannons with their meter-wide barrels couldn't compare to the raw devastation they witnessed today.
The violent explosion generated such a powerful shockwave that it sent all five melee heroes tumbling like leaves in a hurricane.
And this was merely the aftermath of the blast!
Arthas, who had taken the full brunt of this magical catastrophe, was launched directly skyward like a comet. His gorgeous ice-blue armor, previously condensed from pure dark power, cracked and exploded into glittering fragments that rained down like deadly confetti.
"There's our opening!"
Every warrior present recognized that Arthas had finally, fatally, revealed a devastating weakness!
And it was potentially his last mistake!
Without waiting for Arthas's wildly spinning body to plummet earthward again, Rexxar cast aside his battle-axe, clasped both massive hands together, and formed the perfect stepping stone for aerial teamwork.
Grom didn't hesitate for even a heartbeat—he planted his boot directly in Rexxar's palm and fixed his burning gaze on the target above.
"HRAAAAGH—"
A green figure suddenly burst through the chaotic smoke and debris, rocketing straight toward the heavens like vengeance given form. Upon reaching the perfect strike position, he executed a magnificently savage front flip. Grom Hellscream gripped Gorehowl with both hands, channeling every ounce of accumulated Rage burning in his warrior's soul. With a primal roar that could have cracked mountains, he unleashed a crimson arc of devastation that seemed to slice reality itself in half.