At this critical juncture, Duke's clear voice sliced through the oppressive atmosphere like a very sharp, very sarcastic knife, cutting Sargeras off mid-tyrant-monologue:
"Fallen Titan, destroyer of worlds, lord of the Burning Legion, great demon king... are you getting senile in your old age and forgotten your epic face-plant on Azeroth ten thousand years ago? Or was it because Aegwynn, the former guardian, accidentally dropped you on your head at birth, leaving you a bit... special? Honestly, I'm just trying to figure out where you get off calling yourself 'invincible,' because frankly, your track record is about as consistent as a politician's promises."
About twenty-five thousand years ago, Sargeras, apparently bored stiff with his celestial duties, decided to betray the Pantheon Council – basically, the cosmic architects who built everything. He then kicked off his little 'Burning Crusade' with a bang. After recruiting two heavy hitters, Kil'jaeden and Archimonde, from the Eredar (who were probably just looking for a good benefits package and a chance to burn things), Sargeras enjoyed a smooth ride for the next fifteen millennia, winning every single battle like a very successful, very evil conqueror with an unbeatable cheat code.
However, in the grand invasion of planet Azeroth ten thousand years ago, they got their cosmic butts handed to them by the local races and some experimental creations left behind by the Titans. It was, to put it mildly, a universal embarrassment. While Sargeras could try to spin it by saying his power couldn't directly manifest on Azeroth, or that the 'Dragon Soul' – a magical artifact forged by the combined might of the entire dragonflight – blew up his portal, a loss is a loss. And this one was a very public, very humiliating one.
That colossal screw-up on Azeroth became the biggest, most stubborn stain on his reputation since he first went rogue from the Pantheon and started his own villainous club. It hasn't washed off to this day; it's basically a cosmic permanent marker. And let's not even get started on how, just to sneak into Azeroth this time, he had to fake his own death at the hands of Aegwynn, the 'little' guardian, only to then creepily corrupt and devour the soul of her son, Medivh. For the CEO of the Burning Legion, this is undoubtedly a very degrading move. It was like the head honcho of a massive, evil corporation having to sneak into his own building disguised as a janitor.
You can practically hear the cosmic snickers. Even if he pulls off a win this time using such underhanded tactics, when he inevitably faces his old rivals, the Titans, again, they'll roast him alive with ridicule. They'd probably make t-shirts and commemorative mugs. No, the myth of the Burning Legion's invincibility was shattered ten thousand years ago, and Sargeras will never regain the glory he once had. That failure is the biggest thorn in Sargeras's heart, a cosmic splinter that just wouldn't go away, no matter how much he picked at it.
Well, at this moment, Duke decided to bring up something completely off-topic, not just rubbing salt into the wound, but practically tearing open Sargeras's scars, twisting them open with hooks, making them look brand new, then sprinkling a generous helping of mustard and chili on them, and finally whispering in Sargeras's ear to remember this pain very carefully. All that was missing was a full-blown dance troupe performing a highly energetic routine to celebrate the '10,000th Anniversary of Sargeras's Epic Fail.' The series of high-sounding honorifics Duke had used before this epic roast? Purely for the comedic timing of the slap in the face that followed! And not only did the slapping sound come from his face, Sargeras's face actually looked like it was swelling, probably turning a delightful shade of cosmic purple.
Sargeras spun around, his eyes blazing with a fury that could incinerate planets, fixing his gaze on the young mage, Edmund Duke – an ant among ants whom he had originally dismissed as utterly beneath his notice. "Insolent insect! Did I give you permission to speak?!" he roared, his voice shaking the very foundations of reality. Mixed with the terrible, sky-high anger of Sargeras, the boundless pressure that seemed capable of burning an entire planet to ashes transferred from Lothar and suddenly slammed down on Duke like a mountain, presumably with a very loud squish sound.
Hearing that Duke had jumped in to back him up, Lothar felt a brief, amused flicker of happiness, but then his eyes widened in horror. His left hand, still clutching his shield, instinctively shot out towards Duke, as if trying to catch a very small, very suicidal, very talkative bird. He realized, with a sickening lurch, what Duke was about to face – that kind of endless, soul-crushing fear was definitely not something an underage boy could endure. It was the kind of fear that made grown men wet themselves and cry for their mamas.
Having seen the full spectrum of life's ups and downs, endured the gut-wrenching death of his beloved wife, and faced the demise of countless comrades, Lothar's first half of his life could be described as a walking, talking soap opera of epic proportions. Even though Lothar believed his mind had long since become as hard as steel, he wouldn't dare to guess what would happen if Sargeras's pressure continued. What if, by some cruel twist of fate, Duke suddenly had to bear the full brunt of it? Lothar couldn't even imagine it. He probably envisioned Duke turning into a very small, very flat, very scared puddle on the workshop floor.
In Lothar's humble opinion, Duke, the young wizard, had done a perfect job. He had successfully used his sharp wit and powerful magic to bring him and his people right to Medivh's doorstep. No other wizard in the world could have pulled off such a feat. Just based on that, Lothar felt that Duke was already a little hero, a very brave, very annoying little hero. However, Medivh, now a puppet controlled by Sargeras, was too terrifying, too powerful. Lothar couldn't even bear to imagine the scene that would shatter Duke's youthful heart.
But his outstretched left hand was destined to grasp at thin air, to stop nothing. In that moment, Lothar, Garona, and even Sargeras himself were stunned, their jaws practically on the floor. Duke was completely unaffected by the violent, soul-crushing pressure that should have flattened the mind of any mortal in the world. He just stood there, looking utterly bored, as if he were waiting for a bus. No matter how powerful Sargeras's momentum, Duke looked like he was strolling leisurely through a park, perhaps contemplating what he'd have for dinner. He even had the audacity to wink at Sargeras and impudently wiggle his right pinky finger: "You know, your momentum could actually be stronger. My little body can totally take more. Come on, big guy, give me your best shot!"
What in the blazes was this?! What in the name of all that is unholy just happened?! Medivh, possessed by Sargeras, wore a look of utter confusion. He genuinely couldn't fathom why even the most determined of the three, the humble human named Anduin Lothar, had almost buckled under the demon king's might, yet Duke remained completely unphased. He was basically immune to cosmic intimidation, like a brick wall against a feather.
This wasn't some kind of zen-like mental immunity; this was a mysterious self-confidence rooted in a long history of kicking Sargeras's metaphorical butt. Yes! Duke probably felt he had an absolute psychological advantage over Sargeras. He'd basically been farming this guy for years, turning him into digital loot. Sargeras was practically going crazy, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and resentment, probably wondering if he'd accidentally invaded a comedy club instead of a planet. Duke's overly young face remained perpetually plastered with a smug, irritating grin.
This wasn't just the first time Sargeras had been struck by such profound fear that he considered asking his system AI to help him compartmentalize his spiritual sea. It also meant that any external information now had to pass through a relatively independent mental space, filtered and analyzed, delaying its entry into his mind by a mere ten-thousandth of a second. More importantly, Duke's confidence was truly based on his undefeated record. He had the receipts, the trophies, the whole shebang.
Duke muttered to himself, just loud enough for Sargeras to hear, "Alas – should I tell you that I fought with both my main and secondary characters every single week for equipment, and that I've killed your two subordinates, Kil'jaeden and Archimonde, at least a hundred times each? I even got their loot, and it was mostly junk!"
Maybe it was a joke, or maybe it was a spiritual victory, or maybe Duke just firmly believed that "as long as he brought Lothar and Garona to Medivh, history would snap back onto its proper rails," and he was simply enjoying the ride. Whatever the reason, Duke had no control over whether other people were afraid or not, but he himself was utterly fearless, so he just smiled and continued to annoy Sargeras, like a particularly persistent, very brave gnat.
Oh, man, it felt so good to show off in front of a super boss! It was a power trip of epic proportions.
"I've changed my mind, you insolent ant! You will be the first to die! And it won't be pretty!" Sargeras let out a deafening roar, his voice shaking the very foundations of the workshop.
At that precise moment, Lothar made his move. The Sword of the King burst into dazzling golden light, merging with the flowing energy as he charged, turning him into a golden, very angry missile hurtling towards Medivh. Medivh, controlled by Sargeras, swiftly turned his staff, pointing it at Lothar, a pulsating purple beam of energy already forming at its tip.
And at this very instant, Duke witnessed a strange, impossible sight. The passage of time seemed to have stopped dead in its tracks, or at the very least, slowed down to an agonizing crawl. Every speck of dust, every ray of light, and even everything else in the world around him was moving in a strange, dreamlike, slow-motion trajectory, like a very dramatic, very slow movie playing out before his eyes.
Garona, the legendary female Orc assassin, who had always been a master of stealth, concealing her aura and presence with the precision of a ghost... had finally taken action! And it was probably going to be very, very messy.