Dan, one of the elite soldiers in Lothar's retinue, instinctively raised his shield and twisted his head just in time to witness something utterly surreal.
Hovering just above his left shoulder—so close he could almost feel the heatless hum of arcane energy—was a ghostly white hand. Not flesh and blood, but a shimmering construct of pure mana. This was no hallucination; this was a spell called Wizard's Hand, and it moved with such uncanny dexterity that Dan's jaw went slack. Every instinct screamed danger, but his attention was swallowed whole by the ethereal hand, as if the world had been scrubbed away and only this glimmering limb remained.
From its glowing palm, a barrage of bluish-violet spheres burst forth, oval and seething with power. Like arcane hummingbirds, they darted and weaved, colliding mid-air with the oncoming inferno of demonic flame. The resulting detonation vaporized the firestorm in a puff of collapsing embers. The air, moments ago thick with smoke and death, seemed to clear like a window wiped clean.
But that was just the appetizer.
If the imps' opening volley was a light drizzle of death, Duke's counterattack was a torrential monsoon of annihilation. A deluge of Arcane Missiles erupted from his outstretched hands in a literal wall of glowing death, saturating the battlefield like a magical minigun set to maximum overkill.
These little demons weren't built for brawling. If Dan and his unit could just get close, they could slice through them like angry chefs at a chopping board. The problem? That hellish distance between them and the target—a corridor paved with flame, chaos, and certain death.
Dan ran some quick mental numbers. To hold the tide and keep the flood of demons from overwhelming them, he figured they'd need a suicide squad of thirty, minimum. He gulped.
But then came Duke. The maniac. The miracle.
With arcane fury blazing from his fingertips, Duke turned the tide by himself. Missiles screamed through the air, hitting imps in vital places with brutal precision. Throats exploded, skulls shattered, hearts vaporized. The stench of burning demon hair filled the air as they were tossed like rag dolls across the battlefield. It wasn't a fight; it was a harvest.
"Everyone! Focus on the portal! Don't let the bastards flood in!" Duke bellowed.
Thanks to him, they finally had breathing room.
Like knights playing demonic whack-a-mole, the warriors dashed to the portals, hacking down every imp that dared leap through. It should've looked ridiculous—burly soldiers in full plate leaping and slicing like children on too much sugar—but nobody was laughing. Not with their lives on the line.
Then Duke flinched. His gaze snapped toward the center of the room.
The room, bathed in demonic runes and blood-red circles, twisted around her. One moment she was dancing through enemies like a storm of knives, and the next—bam! Reality buckled. She was teleported smack into the trap.
Chains erupted from the circle beneath her, thick as tree trunks and pulsing with vile energy. They wrapped her up like a grotesque Christmas present.
Garona snarled. Her muscles bulged like inflated siege cables. Her thighs alone looked like they could kick a horse in half. But the chains didn't even creak.
Lothar tried to intervene.
"No! I'll handle this!" Duke shouted, halting him.
Duke didn't explain. Lothar trusted him anyway. Raising his ancestral blade, gleaming with a golden hue, Lothar charged Tristan.
Tristan, ever the sadistic showman, wasn't just some robed sorcerer. With a wickedly curved scimitar and talons that could shred steel, he met Lothar head-on. Sparks flew. Steel screamed. Claws slashed. And Lothar staggered.
But Duke wasn't watching. He had bigger worries.
Namely: not turning Garona into shredded bacon.
In the real world, there's no "friendly fire: off" setting. Arcane Missiles don't politely avoid allies. One misfire and Garona was toast—muscly, green toast.
Garona looked up at the incoming barrage. For the first time, fear darkened her eyes.
Years of orc tradition—reverence for shamans, awe of the unknown—bubbled up in her. Was this it? Betrayed by a wizard?
But Duke knew better. Garona was a key piece in the game of Azeroth. Killing her now would be like throwing your queen off the board.
Missiles rained down. Not on her, but on the chains.
He wasn't even sure it would work. These weren't your average cursed links. They were Tristan's pride and joy.
Maybe Lothar's blade distracted the satyr. Maybe the spell had a flaw. Maybe Duke just got lucky.
Whatever the reason, the chains shattered. First with high-pitched cracks, then with an explosive snap, like fireworks wrapped in steel. They burst apart around Garona, freeing her in a storm of sparks.
She blinked, roared, and nodded at Duke—a moment of warrior gratitude—before springing back into the fray.
Tristan, the demon, reeled.
It was like someone flipped a switch.
Lothar slashed from the front, his blade arcs wide and blinding. Each of Tristan's counters was met with a shield strike, perfectly timed to deflect or absorb. Meanwhile, Garona ghosted behind him, stabbing deep. Her twin daggers danced, drawing blood and screams alike.
Tristan howled. Demon blood sprayed. His movements slowed. He tried to backpedal—and caught a sweeping kick to the knees from Garona. He nearly toppled.
Then came a new threat.
A larger imp burst from a portal, eyes glowing red, mouth wide with malice.
Duke squinted. Recognition dawned.
Tristan's pet, bodyguard, and part-time blood-splash artist.
The moment the oversized imp emerged, it was met with a magical sucker-punch—a colossal phantom palm smacked him sideways like a boot squashing a roach. Kirrick squealed and vanished into the shadows.