The gnolls at the front collapsed like sacks of wet flour—not with heroic resistance, but with the comic timing of drunks slipping on banana peels. There was no grand explosion, no visible weapon; they simply dropped. Their beady eyes blinked stupidly, brains too feeble to comprehend the creeping doom encircling them.
See, from the outside, the storm looked like a quaint flurry—a winter wonderland, perhaps good for snowball fights and hot cocoa. But that illusion was a cruel joke. The deeper one wandered into the swirling snow, the more reality shattered. First, you met ice spikes the size of thumbs. Cute. Then goose eggs. Unnerving. Then bricks—actual frozen masonry screaming from the heavens like divine wrath. Some even roared through the air like angry banshees, ripping through wind and gnoll flesh alike.
Shards smashed into the ground with such force that the resulting blast of ice powder created an artificial fog of war. That biting cold didn't just chill spines, it numbed nerves, slowed blood, and turned howls into muffled gurgles. And by the time the gnolls realized these weren't cute little hailstones but industrial-grade stalactites, they were already halfway to becoming frozen kebabs.
A few of the brighter gnolls, relatively speaking, meaning they had at least two working brain cells, raised tattered shields made from boiled leather and wishful thinking. They tried to charge through the icy meat grinder, but fate turned them into porcupines skewered by sky-born lances.
Inside the circle of storm-forged death, Makaro and his mercs stood stiff as statues, clutching their shields and swords like they were toddlers holding onto blankies during a thunderstorm. But soon, terror gave way to disbelief.
The jackals charged. Fell. Charged again. Fell harder. It was like watching a conga line of doomed idiots throw themselves onto an invisible sawblade.
Instead of monsters, it felt like they were watching prize pigs trotting gleefully into the butcher's blade.
And then there was the storm itself. So selective. So spiteful. Its wrath tailored like a tuxedo. The closer the gnolls pressed, the denser the barrage became. Just when it seemed the blizzard had spent its fury, as if the mage at its heart was running on empty, the magic pulsed anew—a second wind, a surge of arcane caffeine, and the storm redoubled its assault.
Even under the furious roars of their boss, the legendary Hogg, the gnolls kept trying. And dying. Until the storm looked less like a defensive spell and more like a glacial meat grinder operated by a particularly cruel chef.
Eventually, the mercs began murmuring about loot. How many claws could you collect from this massacre? Would Stormwind pay per toe?
Makaro's son, high on adrenaline and teenage stupidity, extended his sword just beyond the safe zone, curious.
"No—!" Makaro lunged, yanking the boy back by the scruff.
Too late.
Well, almost too late.
Because just beyond the sword's tip came a wind-cutting shriek. Then, the axe.
A monstrous axe—six meters long, fashioned from a flagpole and hunks of rock—came down like the wrath of a forgotten god. Ice and gravel erupted. The boy's hair fluttered as the axe passed close enough to shave his thoughts.
If Makaro hadn't pulled him back, there wouldn't be a body to bury. Just a mist of blood and regrets.
Gasps erupted. Everyone stared at the newcomer—the beast, the myth, the four-meter-tall slab of fur, fury, and death: Hogger.
With standard swords jammed into his body like forgotten toothpicks, he strode through the ice storm, unhindered. The storm pierced him, yes. But he was past pain, past fear. Driven by bloodlust, madness, or maybe just spite.
And then, the carriage door opened.
A hush fell.
Out stepped Duke.
No one had seen him fight. No one had needed to. Until now.
His robe, blue and white, marked with wizard sigils shone even in the fireless night. The moment his boots touched the ground, the blizzard changed. No longer falling gently, it curved, howled, screamed, diagonal death spiraling outward like a magical hurricane launched from a mage-god.
The gnolls howled.
And yet, Duke's face was grim.
"Makaro," he said, voice low but commanding, "while I deal with Hogg, take your men and break through. If you survive, tell Lord Norton that I... failed his trust."
Makaro barked a bitter laugh. "Abandon the mage who saved my son's life? I'd sooner drown myself in a piss bucket."
Every mercenary nodded. Steeled eyes. Steady hands. They were in this till the end.
Duke nodded once. "Then live well."
And then, the standoff.
Duke's obsidian eyes locked with Hogg's blood-red glare. No need for words. This was primal. King versus king. The one who stood after this clash would see his enemies broken.
"Hu! Hu! Hu!" Hogger's chest heaved. His axe, a boulder with a handle, rose.
Duke stepped forward.
The gnolls charged again. As usual.
They only had two strategies: die in a line, or die in a clump.
Duke ignored them. All focus was on the beast.
If this had been Duke on his first day out of Stormwind, he'd have been toast.
But Hogg made a fatal error: he let the small fry go first.
Duke's system chirped to life:
"Congratulations! The host has slain multiple gnolls using the compound spell Ice Storm (composed of Dwarven's Cold Prison + Lv.1 Blizzard). You have gained 110 Soul Power. You may use this to expand your magic circuit."
Power surged. Circuits pulsed. Duke felt it. Strength. Control. Purpose.
Hogg had brought an axe to a magic duel.
And now, the real fight began.