In the blink of an eye, the thief's left hand shot up—and BOOM!—a swirling cloak of living shadow erupted around him, dark as a demon's secret and twice as smug.
Duke's brain slammed into overdrive. He'd never seen this in person, but he didn't need to. That was definitely the thief's magic skill: Shadow Cloak! A god-tier defensive spell with a disgusting 90% chance to nullify one incoming magical attack. In game terms, that meant the next spell would be eaten like cheap candy.
"What the ACTUAL hell!?"
Just five seconds ago, that thief was writhing on the ground, shrieking like a piglet at a butcher's ball. Now he was channeling edgelord magic like he moonlighted as a raid boss?
So the screaming... the agony... the fetal-position flop-fest... ALL AN ACT?!
Duke wanted to vomit in six different colors. Other people say life is like a stage, but right now, Duke was convinced that life had hired a sadistic playwright and cast him in a tragicomedy.
He could see it coming. Again. Death. And not the quick, dramatic kind. No, this one was going to be humiliating. Again. For the second time today.
He even made up his mind: If his body exploded into meaty confetti, if someone made a shrine out of his kneecaps, if demons danced around his corpse chanting Kumbaya—he was NOT resurrecting. Not this time.
Then he noticed the system prompt. Soul Power: 98. Humanity: 88%.
Hold up. Wait a moment...
"Wait, WHAT?!" he screamed inwardly.
The system AI, ever the bearer of bad news, materialized with the emotional sensitivity of a brick: "Due to your violent, painful, and deeply spiteful death earlier, you've suffered an additional 10% loss in humanity."
"THAT'S NOT HOW MATH OR FAIRNESS WORKS!" Duke screamed.
"Correction: That's exactly how resentment-based soul metrics function. You want to reclaim some of that lost humanity? Kill the bastard who caused it. You'll get back 50%."
Revenge doesn't leave you empty.
Revenge refills your humanity meter.
Thank you, game logic.
So it came down to this: Sit here and accept death, or somehow kill the overpowered cosplaying shadow clown in front of him.
But he wasn't crying! It was the wind! Probably. Also the impending doom.
Duke's hand jerked out like he was swatting the world's most annoying mosquito. The fireball he'd been preparing—no, the one that was supposed to obediently roast the thief—suddenly flicked like a trick candle, jumped to the thief's nose, and exploded in a blinding KABOOM of pure light.
It was basically a magical flashbang shoved into someone's sinus cavity.
Shadow Cloak? Cancelled
The thief's entire body exploded like someone cranked the Michael Bay dial to eleven. Shards of shadow-woven cloth, fragments of bones, bits of spleen—ALL of it scattered in a radius of pure, chaotic glory. The surrounding trees were shredded like bad contracts.
It was raining wood chips. And meat chunks. And probably regrets.
A speck of light, microscopic but meaningful, zipped from the thief's obliterated corpse straight into Duke's chest.
Duke, meanwhile, was on the ground, blinking like a stunned goldfish.
His eyes were toast. The flash had been so intense, he might as well have looked into the sun and insulted its mother.
The system chimed in, all cheerful and oblivious: "Congratulations! You have killed a thief of unknown level. Gained 8,800 Soul XP."
A soft voice, feminine and annoyingly familiar, cut through the chaos. "Here. A wet handkerchief. It'll help your eyes."
Duke accepted it on reflex. The cold cloth felt like mana from heaven. For a second, he allowed himself a moment of peace.
Wait just a damn second.
Duke peeled away the cloth and forced his abused eyes to open. Through the pain and the disorientation, he caught a glimpse of two magnificent, perfectly symmetrical Hyjal peaks wrapped in green inner armor.
What the hell was SHE doing here?!
Didn't she have better things to do? Like leading armies or smiting trolls?
Alleria—the hero of heroes, the elven legend, the walking advertisement for perfection—was standing right in front of him.
Alleria was not impressed.
"Seriously? You take one look at me and then flop over like a fainting goat? What kind of reaction is that?! How do you even know I'm Alleria Windrunner?!"
Duke groaned. "My mana... it's scrambled... let me reboot..."
"Ugh!" Alleria crossed her arms, channeling a very specific kind of furious big-sister energy. "You humans are so weird."
Truth was, Alleria had nearly thought Duke was a goner. The magical backlash he was suffering was the sort that made even experienced mages explode like overripe tomatoes. And yet... somehow, Duke was calmly guiding the chaotic elements in his body back into alignment, like a shepherd.
No apprentice should be able to do that. Especially not one who hadn't even attended Magic Kindergarten.
Finally, Duke managed to look up. "Wait... You didn't leave after Brando, did you? You've been stalking me?!"
Alleria grinned. Golden hair shimmering in the dark like a celestial nightlight. "Since you fled from the boar. Missed a bit at the river. Picked you back up at Northshire."
"So... you watched everything?"
"Every. Single. Embarrassing. Moment."
Duke groaned again. "You just exposed Brando's scam, dumped me into the meat grinder, and THEN watched me get ambushed?! Do you even have a conscience?!"
Alleria's smirk could curdle milk. "Oh please. You're the super-apprentice who conned a forest king and throws around level-80 Mirror Image spells like party tricks. I figured you could handle one low-born noble. Besides... if it went south, I'd just kidnap you and take you to Lordaeron. No biggie."
So casual. So maddening.
Duke blinked. "Wait. You thought that was Mirror Image?"
...Well, that explained everything.
At least now he didn't have to explain why he died, got resurrected, and somehow didn't trigger a cosmic lawsuit.
Although, if she ever found out the truth, Duke would need a spell for permanent invisibility, and maybe a lawyer.