The Stormwind warriors fought like cornered lions, teeth bared and swords swinging, but the battlefield was slowly slipping through their fingers — all because Duke's magical support was… well, somewhere between "invisible" and "where-the-heck-is-he?"
Three whole groups of mages, and Duke might as well have been playing hide-and-seek for all the help he was giving. His colleagues exchanged bewildered looks that screamed "Are you seriously watching TikTok right now?!" Meanwhile, the mages observing from the sidelines sighed in exasperated disappointment so loud it could've shattered glass.
Duke's magical aura, that blazing beacon of hope? Poof! Gone in the blink of an eye, like someone unplugged his power cord.
Old man Norton muttered under his breath, clearly talking to himself, "Sure as the tides—no matter how much raw talent you shove into a kid, experience isn't something you can buy in a magic shop."
But wait — what's this? A mischievous smirk cracked across Duke's lips like a secret weapon loading up.
"I suddenly feel so bad… for them!"
Yes! Nothing tastes sweeter than crushing your opponent's joy right when they're ready to pop the victory champagne, only to shove them off their fluffy cloud of hope and plunge them into the abyss of despair. It's the kind of evil satisfaction that doesn't get old — not the first time, not the hundredth time, and definitely not the thousandth. Duke was practically doing a victory dance in his mind.
Out in the crowd, spectators probably dropped their glasses, jaws hitting the floor as Duke's Ice Arrow found its mark at exactly the right spot on the battlefield.
The Horde, foolish and arrogant, had underestimated the Stormwind mages. They marched forward, thinking the magic side was just a bunch of flashy amateurs — but oh, how wrong they were.
Warchief Blackhand swung his massive battle axe like a wrecking ball, cleaving down Stormwind warriors in brutal sweeps. Each strike was a massacre, forcing his shaman healers to dangerously close proximity to the front lines just to keep him standing.
And that, dear friends, was exactly the mistake they made.
They thought they'd calculated the range of Duke's wizard group. Ha! They were thinking "standard mage range," but Duke? Duke played in a whole different league.
With a sly grin, Duke activated his secret weapon: Ice Trail — a dazzling super magic specialty — and a custom-tuned system buff called Spell Extension, a cheeky upgrade akin to the legendary Arctic Extension talent from the game. The kicker? A special war enhancement array that multiplied even the tiniest spark of power into a blizzard of destruction.
Suddenly, both armies froze. The warriors locked eyes, sensing the storm coming.
And then it happened.
A cluster of snow-white light, like a meteor on fire, sliced through the sky, hurtling over the battlefield and crashing down right into the tribe's priest group.
The chief priest's chest exploded in a terrifying spectacle — a blood-and-ice wound sealed instantly, no chance for a healing spell. The priest was gone.
Follow-up icy meteors rained down on the shamans, shattering their ranks with the sound of a thousand glass shards. The prairie was blanketed in frost, blood mixing with ice in a chillingly beautiful scene worthy of a painting — if that painting screamed DEATH.
The reorganized shaman group? Obliterated.
No time to blink — the last shamans were wiped out in a second salvo just five seconds later.
The tribe's healing force was wiped clean off the board. Their warriors now bled unchecked, while the Stormwind soldiers, though fewer, stood nearly immortal. Broken limbs and deep wounds closed up as priests channeled healing magic like miracles on demand.
The tide of the battle — once tipping heavily toward the Horde— snapped back in an instant.
Even the dullest mages watching the battle couldn't miss it: this wasn't some desperate flailing to regain ground. No, this was a calculated trap, a wicked game of bait and devastating counterattack.
A collective gasp echoed through the observation hall.
"Monster! Absolutely a monster!"
Duke wasn't just a prodigy; he was a war genius, a strategic mastermind hidden behind that unassuming, slightly mischievous grin.
The difference between Stormwind's mages and those of Dalaran? Stormwind's wizards served war, and war alone. For centuries, their royal school had painstakingly researched how to synchronize magic with sword and shield.
Duke just opened a whole new window — smashing old, rigid ideas to smithereens. The observation room was so silent, you could hear a pin drop.
Meanwhile, the test had ended. Warchief Blackhand, now stripped of priestly healing, was a cornered beast—and the Stormwind army's victory was absolute.
Duke blinked. "Huh? That's it? No ninth round? I was just getting warmed up!"
Nick, the administrator, appeared again, chuckling dryly. "Little guy, don't play coy. You already know this isn't some friendly dorm trial. But hey, don't worry — there's an extra reward coming your way."
"Hey-hey!" Duke was ready for whatever was next.
Suddenly, the scene changed.
Duke found himself in a grand hall that looked suspiciously like a cafeteria—only instead of sandwiches and soup, it was filled with young apprentices clustered in groups, picking at cakes and whispering excitedly.
And there were Daniel and Anya.
"Duke! Over here!" Daniel's enthusiastic shout turned every pair of eyes on Duke — and not in a friendly way. Malicious stares poured down on him like a thunderstorm.
"Did I… do something wrong?" Daniel whispered, his keen instincts alerting him immediately.
"No, you're not wrong," Duke said, stepping forward and lightly patting Daniel's shoulder, trying to calm the storm.
Just then, a stern voice sliced through the room. "Wrong, Edmund Duke! Master Norton must have made a mistake. You can't be a master-level apprentice."
Duke's eyes sharpened as he sized up the speaker — a well-dressed blond boy, about fourteen or fifteen, oozing that 'wealthy family' vibe. Hair slicked back like he just stepped out of a fashion magazine.
Just a pretty boy.
"Didn't your mother teach you manners? How to say your name before interrupting a stranger?" Duke's sharp retort flushed the boy's face with a mix of red and blue — embarrassment and rage battling it out.
But well-bred manners won out, and the boy regained composure. "I am Fili Randel of the Randel family, Stromgarde. We've inherited magical power for thousands of years. I am only a adept-level apprentice, and frankly, I doubt your qualifications as a master."
Before Duke could respond, a voice rang out: "No doubt here in the sixth round, Edmund Duke utterly crushed you."
Boom. One stone, a thousand ripples.
Everyone assumed it was a simulation, some staged duel with virtual avatars. But no this was a real wizard duel, based on actual apprentices!
No one dared question the visitor's word. Even if he looked young, the royal emblem emblazoned on his robes screamed authority he was Stormwind's court wizard!
The grand wizard himself stepped forward.
"Greetings, Edmund Duke. I am Medivh. Interested in becoming my apprentice?"
Duke, without missing a beat, shot back, "I refuse!"