Five elements!?
When Thrall first laid eyes on this legendary orc nemesis, he figured Duke was just another wise old codger spouting ancient knowledge.
But when Thrall witnessed Duke actually juggling five goddamn elements simultaneously without exploding into magical chunks, his jaw practically unhinged itself. The shaman's eyes bulged so wide they threatened to pop clean out of his skull.
Thrall had heard whispered tales of high-level human mages wielding Frostfire Arrows—ice and fire dancing together without mutual annihilation—but nobody, and he meant NOBODY, had ever mastered all five elements without turning into a spectacular crater.
Arcane, fire, frost, earth, and storm!
Five apocalyptic forces swirled together in perfect, terrifying harmony, bound to Duke's flesh as if chained by invisible shackles. The writhing sphere of raw destruction never dared stray more than a palm's width from its master. Duke had to get dirty, lunging forward and ramming that chromatic death-orb straight into Arthas' armored limb at point-blank range.
What happened next occurred faster than a blink—the moment that innocent-looking ball of light kissed Arthas's arm armor, it transformed into a blade of pure "NOPE" and carved through enchanted steel, corrupted muscle, and shadow-hardened bone as if they were made of warm butter.
The spectators only witnessed the aftermath: Arthas' frost armor—tougher than dragon scales and twice as stubborn—getting obliterated by Grom's chest shot, followed by his arm defenses crumbling before Duke's kaleidoscopic sphere of doom.
It wasn't that Arthas was some weakling tin can. Hell no. True omni-elemental defense was about as real as a peaceful afternoon in the Barrens. Every warrior had a weakness, just waiting for the right magical lockpick to exploit it.
Duke's creation—which he'd smugly dubbed the Five-Colored Great Sword—was precisely that lockpick.
What caught Duke completely off-guard was that Arthas' weakest resistance wasn't fire, but rather...
None of that mattered anymore, because Orgrim had arrived to finish the job!
The former Warchief would absolutely cream himself with joy while turning both Duke and Arthas into unrecognizable meat paste. Of course, that assumed the Duke who'd just amputated a Death Knight was the genuine article and not another phantom.
Just as the Doomhammer prepared to introduce gravity to Arthas' skull, Duke vanished.
Orgrim's battle-hardened instincts kicked in—the moment this particular Duke materialized with his prismatic orb of destruction, every other Duke-shaped illusion had poofed out of existence. The sole remaining Duke was now cowering behind Abendis, who stood ready with shield and blade.
Damn! Classic Edmund Duke behavior right there!
Always too clever for his own bloody good!
With his arm hanging by sinew and spite, Arthas had officially run out of "screw you" options.
Orgrim didn't hesitate. He brought down his legendary hammer with the fury of a thousand thunderstorms.
"BOOM—" The entire battlefield convulsed as if the planet itself had been gut-punched. When Doomhammer connected with the Death Knight's chest, the ground around them erupted skyward from the sheer impact, while everything within a hundred-meter radius got baptized in cleansing fire.
Orgrim's full-throttle assault transcended mortal comprehension.
Thrall, temporarily blinded by the apocalyptic light show, stumbled and face-planted involuntarily. Through the chaos rattling his bones, his shaman instincts confirmed what his eyes couldn't: Orgrim had annihilated his target.
After what felt like an eternity but was probably six seconds, Thrall cracked his eyes open to survey the absolute carnage.
The Doomhammer's full wrath had instantly incinerated the earth itself. Where the Elf Prince had previously just roasted corpses, now the very landscape had been vaporized.
Grass, saplings, scattered rocks, even the distant grove—all obliterated in a heartbeat. Massive concentric circles of destruction radiated outward from ground zero.
The sand had reached its melting point and now reeked with eye-watering stench. Puddles of glassy, molten slag dotted the hellscape.
As the chaotic flames died down, everyone's gaze snapped back to the epicenter. Orgrim stood triumphant, Doomhammer gripped in his left hand, while his right fist clutched the Death Knight's throat, hoisting the broken wretch high above his head.
Arthas looked like absolute hell. A gaping, charred crater decorated his chest—you could literally see the scenery through the hole where his heart used to live. Only his partially intact armor and stubborn ribs kept his corpse from collapsing into component parts.
The once-noble prince of Lordaeron was about to pay for his sins in his very first official battle as a fallen wretch.
His eyes closed, head drooping in defeat. His severed right arm swayed pathetically in the breeze.
It should be over...
Witnessing this scene, nearly everyone exhaled in collective relief.
"HAHAHA! Can't handle the heat, you festering Death Knight maggot!" Grom cackled maniacally as he strutted over, the legendary Gorehowl singing through the air.
"Lop off his head and toss the carcass to the human paladins. Humans excel at purifying undead filth—better than us orcs!" Orgrim commanded, then turned his attention to Duke.
Duke flashed a satisfied grin and nodded approvingly.
Originally, the orcs were salivating at the chance to decapitate Arthas, the king-killing son of a bitch. Since Duke raised no objections, Mograine and his paladins had to swallow their pride. At least they'd get to purify this bastard's corrupted, stinking soul.
The thought of listening to the agonized wailing of this fallen paladin's spirit would be immensely satisfying.
Grom's grin stretched wide as he raised Gorehowl overhead. His razor-sharp tusks gleamed with predatory menace.
"I would be absolutely delighted to—"
Grom's victory speech died mid-sentence when he noticed something spectacularly wrong.
Orgrim had fallen asleep.
Asleep? On this screaming battlefield?
Asleep before delivering the killing blow to his nemesis?
WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL!?
"Sleep?" Duke's blood turned to ice as realization struck him. He immediately roared at maximum volume: "BEWARE THE DREADLORD——"
The Dreadlord—these diabolically intelligent monstrosities radiating pure demonic malice were nightmare fuel incarnate, masters of darkness and psychological warfare. These savage, evil creatures served as the Burning Legion's most devastating generals.
Any Dreadlord possessed power equivalent to an archmage at peak strength.
As if summoned by Duke's warning, every soul present was suddenly assaulted by a miasma of pure evil.
Thick, purple-black fog descended upon them, hissing and spitting as it contacted the scorched earth. The corrosive mist would have dissolved the orc heroes without paladin protection.
Though not immediately lethal, the noxious cloud blinded and choked everyone present.
Mist of Decay!?
In that frozen moment when time crawled to a standstill, an impossible, horrifying transformation occurred.
Arthas' severed arm levitated into the void of its own accord, then plunged through former Warchief Orgrim's chest from behind.
The blade punched clean through without resistance. No amount of orcish conditioning could withstand a god-tier magical weapon's edge. At that precise moment, Orgrim's heart was undoubtedly shredded into ribbons.