Among the countless professions that litter the war-torn lands of Azeroth—from pie bakers to professional dragon botherers—the warrior's rage stands as the most gloriously unhinged form of energy known to mortalkind.
From a scholarly perspective (assuming scholars survive long enough to observe), Rage functions like accumulating a mystical cocktail of liquid fury mixed with the concentrated essence of "I'M GOING TO MURDER EVERYTHING!" The more Rage a warrior stockpiles, the more their attack speed transforms from "leisurely Sunday stroll" to "caffeinated hummingbird on fire," while their strength and agility skyrocket beyond all reasonable expectations of physics and common sense.
The most spectacular manifestation of this phenomenon allows warriors to perform jaw-droppingly impossible feats that make circus acrobats weep with envy. For instance, a single jump can launch a warrior clean across a small village—preferably landing on something squishy and enemy-shaped. Even more ridiculously, they can somehow charge through mid-air like they're running on invisible staircases built from pure stubbornness, allowing them to tackle airborne foes lurking twenty meters above ground. Of course, gravity always wins in the end, and these non-flying warriors inevitably plummet earthward like armored meteors, usually with spectacular results.
When a warrior unleashes every drop of accumulated rage in one cataclysmic moment, their destructive capabilities reach levels that make volcanic eruptions seem like gentle summer breezes by comparison.
If an ordinary warrior's rage capacity maxes out at a respectable 100 points, then Grom Hellscream—having ascended to the hero realm through sheer bloody-minded determination—boasts a rage limit of 10,000 points of concentrated "KILL EVERYTHING" energy. And in terms of quality, his rage burns hotter than a dragon's breakfast breath compared to ordinary warrior fury.
Before Duke strutted onto this battlefield like he owned the place, Arthas had always regarded Grom as his most pants-wettingly terrifying opponent. While Orgrim certainly packed a devastating punch, the old warchief maintained a balanced approach to combat—a "thinking warrior's warrior," if you will. Grom, on the other hand, represented pure, undiluted destruction with the subtlety of a avalanche wearing steel boots.
Now, witnessing Grom Hellscream hurling himself into a suicidal ultimate attack with the grace of a berserk rhinoceros, Arthas frantically summoned what pitiful scraps of dark power he could muster, desperately attempting to position Frostmourne between himself and the incoming green death machine.
Right at this supremely dramatic moment!
The Seven-Colored Jaina—looking absolutely fabulous in her rainbow ensemble—suddenly abandoned her staff like yesterday's laundry. Clutching an armful of intricately decorated ceremonial staves, she launched herself at the mid-air, support-lacking Arthas with the determination of an angry governess, proceeding to smack him square in his pale, undead face with a royal court cane.
To uninformed observers, this might appear to be nothing more than a mildly irritating stick-bonking from a petite sorceress. How could such a seemingly insignificant whack possibly derail the movements of a legendary Death Knight?
Only the supremely knowledgeable high elf prince, Kael'thas, understood the psychological warfare at play here.
The court cane represents the ultimate symbol of royal discipline—a stick of such ceremonial importance that only the most serious childhood transgressions warrant its deployment. When royal brats require correction, ordinary switches simply won't suffice; only the sacred court cane can deliver proper princely punishment.
This particular implement embodied both the crushing weight of royal authority and the traumatic shadows of Arthas's childhood—because the future Death Knight had received several memorable thrashings with this very type of disciplinary device during his more rebellious youth.
Duke wore a expression of pure, sadistic glee. To seasoned time travelers, this tactic resembled the ancient "killing stick" methodology—any troublemaker must endure one hundred ceremonial beatings to crush their rebellious spirit into submission.
And deploying this killing stick while disguised as the adorable Jaina? Oh, the visual poetry was absolutely chef's kiss magnificent.
Picture it: one delicate, loli-faced Jaina after another, wielding disciplinary sticks with expressions of murderous determination painted across their cherubic features.
Predictably, Arthas found himself caught completely off-guard by this psychological assault.
Despite the attack's relatively modest physical damage, his movements froze like a scolded child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Only when Grom's full-powered axe strike came screaming toward him with the force of a collapsing mountain did Arthas seem to snap back to reality, belatedly attempting to raise Frostmourne in defense.
The sickly white radiance mixed with writhing black energy wasn't particularly blinding, but it radiated such concentrated evil and otherworldly wrongness that it seemed to showcase the very essence of death's tyranny. Disgusting tendrils of dark magic writhed through the air like angry, incorporeal snakes.
Grom's full-strength chop arrived slightly slower than Duke had calculated—a minor disappointment in an otherwise flawless plan.
Duke couldn't suppress a slight frown of annoyance.
Unfortunately, this represented the inherent limitation of axes as weapons.
As the heaviest of heavy weapons, axes naturally delivered the most bone-crushing, armor-shattering devastation imaginable. Tragically, their speed couldn't compete with arrows' lightning-quick delivery, nor could they match the nimble grace of one-handed swords dancing through combat.
No matter.
Duke always maintained backup plans for his backup plans.
With a casual finger-snap, the long-prepared Mograine hurled a Hammer of Wrath as previously arranged. The golden projectile detonated directly on Arthas's right wrist—the one desperately clutching Frostmourne. This wasn't intended as genuine damage; it served purely to blind the Death Knight with holy radiance.
The illusory hammer, blazing with concentrated holy light, represented the ultimate distraction for undead creatures—like flashing a spotlight directly into a vampire's face during a midnight snack.
"Woo!" Arthas groaned pathetically, his defensive movements slowing to the speed of cold molasses.
"WAAAAAAAGHHHHHHH!"
Accompanied by Lord Hellscream's earth-shaking battle roar that could wake the dead (ironically appropriate), Gorehowl—the legendary axe destined to one-shot the Abyss Lord Mannoroth in future timeline shenanigans—revealed its world-ending destructive potential to a live audience for the very first time.
The sound it made was simultaneously:
A shrill, soul-piercingly mournful wail! Extremely violent and disgustingly bloody! The momentum of gods reshaping creation itself!
When Gorehowl's scarlet light finally intersected with Arthas's massive black-and-white armored form, the resulting explosion erupted across the battlefield with enough force to register on seismic equipment three kingdoms away.
The Death Knight's inner armor—which had previously shrugged off continuous bombardment from ten siege engines operating non-stop for twenty-four straight hours—finally surrendered under this absolutely mind-blowing impact, exploding like an overstuffed sausage!
"AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"
Grom gripped his axe handle with white-knuckled determination, his muscles swelling to ridiculous proportions as he drove the strongest Death Knight in the Lich King's entire roster into the ground like a tent stake, his axe descending with all the subtlety of a meteor impact.
Arthas released a bone-chilling scream that could curdle milk at fifty paces before crashing earthward with a impact that registered 8.5 on the Richter scale.
The collision resembled being struck by the world's largest artillery shell. Sand, rocks, and various battlefield debris immediately began flying in all directions with machine-gun intensity. Everyone within a reasonable blast radius instinctively adopted defensive positions to avoid being perforated by the supersonic shrapnel storm.
Everyone except one individual...
With a thunderous stomp that cracked the solid ground beneath his feet, a towering figure charged forward with desperate urgency. His momentum surpassed raging tsunamis, while his earth-shaking steps hit the ground with more authority than a stampeding herd of angry kodos.
Almost instantly, Thrall—watching from the rear lines—found himself utterly conquered by Orgrim's display of raw courage and absolutely legendary badassery.
Thrall possessed neither the experience nor the raw power to participate in a battle of this astronomical caliber, but he strained his eyes to their limits, determined to witness exactly how this mythical former warchief conducted warfare.
Arthas's combat effectiveness had dropped significantly, but remained dangerously high—the aura of death continued clinging to him like a particularly persistent bad smell.
Determined to seize this golden opportunity to permanently delete Arthas from existence, Orgrim sprinted forward with every ounce of speed his legs could generate, absolutely refusing to waste this chance to introduce the Death Knight to the business end of Doomhammer.
While Orgrim didn't fully comprehend why his third warchief, Ner'zhul, had joined the Burning Legion's frequent flyer program to become the Lich King, he understood with crystal clarity that failing to eliminate Arthas would eventually doom the Horde. Such a nightmarish Scourge would inevitably bring catastrophic disaster to everyone sharing the same planet!
There could be no retreat, no mercy, no second chances!
Only by permanently removing Arthas from the equation could the Horde hope to survive the coming storm.
Meanwhile, Arthas maintained perfect mental clarity—unless undead souls suffered direct damage or psychological shock, they never experienced inconvenient biological phenomena like dizziness from physical trauma.
Despite his current embarrassing predicament, Arthas retained full control over his body. However, Orgrim's frontal charge sent chills racing down his spine like ice water. Under the warrior's Intercept skill, the 100-meter gap vanished instantly. In the span of a single eyeblink, Doomhammer's scorching power blazed before his vision like a small sun.
Arthas felt no fear.
As long as his precious runic blade's hilt remained firmly grasped in his hand, he maintained absolute confidence in his ability to reverse this unfortunate situation. Facing the searing heat rushing toward him, only one response seemed appropriate—shouting the true name of his legendary weapon.
"Frostmourne..."
Before Arthas could unleash Frostmourne's supreme magical devastation, he suddenly discovered Duke materializing instantaneously beside him, wielding a hyper-concentrated magic orb that blazed with five distinct colors, cleanly severing his right arm in a single, perfectly executed strike!
The limb went flying through the air like a pale, armored boomerang, still clutching Frostmourne in a death grip that would have been impressive if it weren't so utterly ridiculous.