A massive orb of swirling, violent purple-blue energy hovered menacingly less than two meters above Tristan's thick, horned skull—a magical executioner just waiting for the signal.
Duke wasn't just tossing spells around like confetti at a goblin wedding. No, his attack pattern was a devilish game of chicken. The moment Tristan lunged at Lothar, the instant that shield came up in defense, the floating arcane bomb would come crashing down like judgment day with a forehead-seeking vengeance. Duke had been stacking Arcane Shock like a madman in a spell lab, racking up five to seven layers with surgical precision, usually by annihilating any low-tier demons foolish enough to stumble into his kill zone.
So when Tristan, ever the optimist, summoned that same imp Kirrick again—and watched him explode into a fine mist under Duke's Arcane Hand like a demon-shaped water balloon—he finally got the message.
Garona didn't wait. With a predator's gleam in her eye, she unleashed a dagger combo so flamboyantly brutal it would've earned her a standing ovation in an assassin's guild talent show. One of the blades slashed right into Tristan's eye, and the demon howled in pain.
Lothar, ever the opportunist, took the golden ticket and jammed his glowing, divine-powered sword straight into Tristan's blackened heart.
"Fall back!" Duke shouted.
Like dancers in a perfectly choreographed waltz, Lothar and Garona leapt backward. Just in time.
Tristan's death spasms caused his claw to grotesquely enlarge and swipe through nothing but air.
Then Lothar noticed it—dozens of floating Wizard's Hands orbiting above like silent judges, each one cradling a fireball the size of a toddler's skull.
Almost immediately, the fiery rain came.
Red-hot spheres screamed through the air and bombarded Tristan's flailing form. The impact sounded like a hundred war drums playing their final encore. The flames didn't just burn—they converged into a blazing inferno pillar, a literal finger of death that licked the ceiling with its fury.
A swirling, focused fire tornado began to spin in the middle of the chamber, whipping the room into a scorching hurricane of magic and rage. Tristan, now more barbecue than demon, let out one final shriek that would make banshees cover their ears.
Then—silence. The kind of silence that hits hard after an explosion. The kind that makes your ears ring.
Tristan was dead. Burned from the inside out, his ashes mixed with the demonic stench that now lingered like a cursed perfume.
As he evaporated into wisps of foul energy, the demon portals shimmered and winked out of existence like someone unplugged them. The room fell still, except for the collective gasping of lungs finally allowed to rest.
Lothar scanned the room. Miraculously, none of his men were down. Not a single soldier had fallen.
Expecting sacrifice is one thing. Not needing it? That's a blessing.
He nodded at Duke and Garona, giving them a silent thumbs-up. Their contributions hadn't just mattered; they'd tilted the whole damn battlefield.
Aside from those two, everyone else—including that poor priest—had been glorified crowd control.
Duke, meanwhile, pinched his nose and muttered, "Okay folks, air yourselves out. I'm going to collect the spoils."
"Spoils?" Lothar echoed, one brow arching up.
Sure, looting was normal. But after a demonic beatdown, what exactly counted as treasure? Sulfur-scented loincloths?
But Duke, eyes gleaming with the same madness found in overcaffeinated treasure hunters, was already barking orders to his system AI.
"Scan for loot with high-intensity spell resonance!"
"Scanning... Ten paces west. Bookshelf. Third shelf, fifth book from the left. Red cover. Open it."
Garona squinted at Duke, who now looked like a rich man discovering a vault he forgot he owned. Lothar watched in awe as the supposedly second-richest man in Stormwind got a wild, feverish glint in his eyes—the kind usually reserved for lunatics or people who just sniffed fresh gold.
"I am not Blackhand... I am not Blackhand..." Duke muttered in a tone that suggested he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else. Then he floated left like an especially dramatic specter.
"Blackhand?" Garona whispered, puzzled. "Why's he talking about the Warchief?"
She didn't know. That Blackhand wasn't this Blackhand.
Duke desperately wanted a shower. A spiritual one. Maybe even holy water.
He'd seen enough cursed loot to write a whole book. And as a former team leader of Molten Core raids, as the guy who got a Warlock his full set in one week and tanked Ragnaros with a half-asleep Druid, Duke knew the curse of "Blackhand" all too well.
Everything he touched turned red. And not the good kind.
"Uh, Lothar? Mind giving me a hand?" Duke asked sweetly.
Lothar, still riding the high of demon-slaying glory, grinned. "Of course."
Duke pointed at a massive, sinister magic tome. "There's something inside. If I touch it, I might get... tainted. Better if you pry it open. Maybe with that divine butter knife of yours."
Strange request, but this was Duke. Lothar felt no deceit, just a deep spiritual cringe radiating from his friend.
He stepped forward, jabbed the blade under the book—and flick!
The tome, easily ten kilograms, flew off the shelf and landed with a heavy thud. Strangely, none of the pages flapped open. They were glued together as if sealed by dark magic—or cheap goblin adhesive.
Cautious now, Lothar shielded half his body and stabbed the book with precision.
"Tsk!" Duke twitched.
Yep. That was some Grade-A evil.
But Lothar's divine blade cut through the residual demonic essence like it was butter at a holy feast. The book creaked open, revealing a secret hollow compartment.
A cloth belt and a bizarre, glowing ornament lay in wait—radiating pure magical potential.
Duke's smile was immediate, wide, and borderline unhinged.