"You should be able to hear what I say, human. I'm sorry, I also admire your wisdom, but if you don't die, the orcs will not be able to become the masters of this world." Fast and clear orcish language, spoken with a chilling precision, came from directly behind Duke. Every word, sharp as a dagger, reached Duke's ears, a grim reminder of who had just delivered the fatal blow.
"Burning Blade... Clan..." Duke's heart was completely split in half by the sharp blade that was both a sword and a knife, a single, devastating thrust. He coughed up blood, a gurgling sound, and crimson plasma spurted out from the gaps between his teeth, a gruesome fountain.
"You really know our tribe very well." It was like a sigh, a note of grim satisfaction, but also like he had made up his mind. The blade twisted, a sickening grind of steel on bone, and a cold light burst out from Duke's chest, a flash of pure malice, splitting Duke in half, a clean, brutal cut.
King Aiden of Alterac was stunned on the spot, his jaw hanging open like a broken gate.
He may be very strategic and thoughtful, a master of cunning, but he has never been a courageous and decisive king. This weakness was also despised by all the other kings, a stain on his regal reputation. Suddenly seeing the Alliance's shining star, the very man he was about to shake hands with, being brutally killed, King Aiden utterly collapsed. He crumpled to the ground in fear, a pathetic heap, tears and snot flowing wildly, a snot-nosed mess.
The other three kings present were also dumbfounded, their faces ashen. Terenas was so scared that his body was stiff, frozen in place like a statue, while Genn and Thoras, seasoned warriors, drew their swords like lightning, their blades hissing from their scabbards.
"Puchi——" Dozens of sickening sounds suddenly rang out, a chorus of wet, tearing flesh, as if it was the same note, a grim symphony of death.
The venue was filled with dignitaries from various countries, the cream of the Alliance's leadership. Although many generals had already left the mountain, rushing to the front lines, dignitaries never lacked guards. Unfortunately, these chilling sounds came from the chests or throats of the guards, their last gasps.
More than ten guards, loyal to the last, were killed by the orcs who suddenly appeared, materializing from thin air like ghosts. Among all the guards, only Windsor and Gavinrad, blessed by the Holy Light, activated Holy Protection, shimmering with golden energy, to withstand this fatal blow, a desperate, last-second defense.
Even though there were more than a thousand guards and attendants outside the headquarters, at this moment, in such a large headquarters, there were only six living people left, including the four kings, Windsor, and Gavinrad. The rest were corpses.
The kings, their pupils contracted to pinpricks, finally saw their enemies. They were tall, ferocious-looking, with protruding fangs that gleamed in the dim light. They carried large flags with domineering, blood-soaked words on their backs and held three-foot burning blades in their hands, their edges flickering with malevolent fire.
They were all blademasters of the Burning Blade Clan. They had crossed the entire battlefield in a way that outsiders could not imagine, a feat of impossible stealth and speed, came to the Alliance headquarters overlooking the sea, and planned a decapitation tactic, a surgical strike at the heart of the Alliance.
Careless!
I was really careless! Duke's disembodied consciousness screamed in frustration.
The impending great victory had paralyzed everyone, lulled them into a false sense of security. The soldiers were eager to join the pursuit and taste the first great victory of the Human Alliance over the Orc Tribe, to revel in their triumph.
No one expected that the other party would be so insidious, so utterly ruthless.
This was worse than the last time Llane was attacked. If more than half of the kings of the Alliance fell here, if their heads rolled, the country without a king would inevitably fall into chaos, plunging into civil war, and the Alliance would inevitably collapse, no matter how great a victory Lothar achieved on the front line. It would all be for naught.
To the Horde, these Blademasters of the Burning Blade Clan were just one step away from becoming heroes, from etching their names into legend.
It's really just a little bit off. A hair's breadth from glory.
The only thing they didn't expect was that Duke would be resurrected!
The air around them dropped to freezing point in an instant, and a tornado-like blizzard, a swirling vortex of ice and fury, appeared in the blink of an eye. The blademasters had already noticed something was wrong, a prickle of unease, but the snowflakes before them were so big, so dense, that they couldn't even see their hands in front of them. It was a whiteout.
I have to say that the leading blademaster is definitely a top-notch master. He was no slouch.
He didn't even hesitate for a moment and directly pulled out Blade Storm, his signature move, a desperate, last-ditch effort.
The Blademasters of the Burning Blade Clan would definitely know how to deal with this move, how to counter it, but humans were another matter. In such a narrow space, there was no room to dodge, no escape route, and there were not just one Blade Storm but dozens of them, a symphony of whirling steel. All the Blademasters unleashed their ultimate moves at the same time as if they were in sync, a deadly, coordinated dance.
Even though these blademasters were not as powerful as the leading blademaster, their combined sword storm was not to be underestimated. Looking at the sword light that filled their vision, a blinding, lethal spectacle, every king was terrified, even though they knew that a wizard was protecting them.
"Get out!" The loud shout was like thunder from the sky, making everyone's eardrums buzz, a deafening roar.
The next moment, dozens of huge ice prisms burst out from the ground of the command post, erupting upwards, and the kings suddenly felt like they were in a snowy forest, surrounded by shimmering ice.
They immediately came to their senses and had a single, burning question in their minds: Where are those damn orc blademasters?
The stone ceiling was pierced by a mass of icicles, shattering into a thousand pieces.
The blademasters... were also knocked away, sent sprawling.
"Spin! Aren't you good at spinning? I'll let you spin as much as you want!" On the ground, Duke, now fully resurrected, appeared in the dissipating frozen white mist, pointing at the sky and cursing, a triumphant, furious snarl.
Yes, using one's own high-speed rotation to create countless sharp sword qi in all directions is indeed very awesome. But don't forget that the blademaster's blade storm comes from rotation, and rotation requires a fulcrum to stand on. What Duke did was to knock all these fulcrums into the air, sending them spinning helplessly.
The blademasters were so depressed that they vomited blood, their stomachs churning with frustration.
Didn't we agree to have dinner with the king's head tonight? Didn't we make a plan?
What happened to our agreement to use our ultimate skills together to kill everything in sight?
The legendary ultimate move that would surely cause bloodshed once it was used, now all turned into a one-man show for fools, a pathetic, uncontrolled dance.
It's not that they didn't want to stop, but this terrifying move that instantly exploded with all their energy and spirit couldn't be stopped at will. They also wanted to move away from the icicles under their feet and fall down, and then chop Duke. But the icicles under their feet kept getting thicker and longer, and they didn't let them fall, trapping them in their aerial prison.
The result was that in front of thousands of Alliance soldiers, the roof of the Alliance headquarters was blown off, and then a dozen small sword-blade tornadoes spun non-stop in the air more than ten meters high, a bizarre, comical spectacle.
I don't know whether this scene is scary or funny. It was a bit of both.
This situation directly alarmed many soldiers who were chasing on the front line, their attention drawn by the chaos at headquarters.
"Not good!" Every general's face turned pale, a sudden chill running down their spines.
"Stop! All troops return!" Turalyon shouted nervously, his voice cracking.
"Wait!" Lothar stopped Turalyon from being rash, grabbing his arm. "What can we do if we go back now? Duke should be fine! If he were here... if he were here..."
Almost at the same time, every magician in charge of communication with the general received Duke's notification, a sudden, urgent message.
"All the important personnel are safe! The headquarters was attacked! Krasus! Kel'Thuzad is back! Get your butts over here!"
Duke was very calm and sober, his mind clear amidst the chaos. If he called the cavalry back now, it would definitely be too late to make a difference. But the two wizards were another matter.
A series of flashes of light lit up from the hills on both sides, shimmering bursts of arcane energy. Without enough time to lock the coordinates of the space teleportation, the two famous wizards of later generations took the fastest and most violent way, using continuous flashes to hurry on their way, blinking across the landscape.
Low- and mid-level mages had to rest and adjust their magic circuits after using Flash, their bodies aching, but there were no such restrictions on the Shining Moon Mage. The distance of his flash was 20 yards, but these two guys could flash 200 yards, covering vast distances in an instant, and they didn't need to rest. They were simply distraught, pushed to their limits, yet still going.
Originally Duke planned to hold on until the two of them came back, but suddenly Duke found an opportunity.