Azeroth right now was far from the blinged-out, magical-techno utopia it would become in the distant future, where enchanted swords and glittering staffs could be found in pawn shops next to rusty shovels. Here and now? Magic gear was rare. Painfully rare. Duke had all the gold a man could want—but not a single sparkly toy to show for it.
You'd think being rich and well-connected would score you a flashy robe or a shiny wand. Nope. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. It turns out that in this painfully realistic version of Azeroth, top-tier magical loot didn't care how deep your pockets were. It cared only about one thing: whether you looted it off a smoldering corpse yourself.
So here was Duke, the second-richest man in Stormwind (a title he awarded himself), who didn't even have a beginner's staff to wave around dramatically. His current fashion ensemble consisted of the standard-issue Royal Wizard Corps robes—about as magical as a potato sack, and only slightly more glamorous.
And now, standing over the ashes of the demon Tristan, Duke eyed two items nestled in the hollow of a cursed book like they were the Holy Grail and Excalibur rolled into one.
He reached out cautiously. No soul-binding, no cursed explosions? Just in case, he braced himself and touched both items.
Ding! The system popped up like an overenthusiastic game show host.
"[Girdle of the Evil Star]: A wizard's belt of mysterious origin, humming with bizarre energy. Increases arcane circuit output. Currently limited by class: High-tier Archmage. You, being a scrub, get a 20% bonus. Congrats!"
"[Accessory - Capacitor]: This magical item connects to a volatile elemental lightning realm. When three powerful arcane pulses are detected, it opens a temporary rift and zaps your target with divine lightning vengeance. Think of it as a rage-fueled electric kiss from the Elemental Plane."
"HISS—" Duke inhaled sharply, sounding like someone had stepped on his mana toes.
Shock? Nope. Surprise? Not quite. It was joy. Pure, unfiltered, Christmas-came-early joy.
Mid-to-high-tier gear! At his low level! Duke was practically vibrating. If Karazhan had more goodies , he was ready to set up camp and call this place home.
Especially the Capacitor! Duke knew—knew—this was god-tier loot for him. His unique multi-casting system turned him into a crit-factory. Where other mages tossed a few spells and prayed for a lucky strike, Duke machine-gunned arcane missiles like a possessed spellbot. That meant one thing: zap zap baby!
If Lothar had been a hot elf maiden like Alleria, Duke would've leapt into a victory hug. Maybe even gone for a celebratory kiss. But alas... bearded, battle-worn Lothar was no one's idea of cuddle material. Even Duke had standards.
Still grinning like he'd won the lottery, Duke didn't hide his joy. Lothar raised an eyebrow and said with a knowing smirk, "Found something juicy, eh? Doesn't look demonic. Probably some old mage's lost toys. I'd say they're better off in your hands."
"Yeah," Duke replied, too giddy to be modest. He attached the Capacitor with a satisfying click and fastened the starry belt like he was gearing up for a magical fashion show.
His mana circuits flared to life. It was like someone had poured rocket fuel into his veins. The already-turbulent rivers of his arcane flow surged, roaring with new intensity. Twenty percent more juice? That was downright terrifying.
Duke's mind screamed, YES! KARAZHAN, I TAKE BACK EVERYTHING I SAID! YOU'RE A GOLDMINE!
Garona wandered over. "Anything in there for me?"
Duke winced. "Er... sorry. Not really. Tristan wasn't exactly agile or rogue-friendly. You'd probably hate everything in here."
Garona shrugged. "Fair enough." Then, like a true orc, she casually wiped her bloodstained dagger on Tristan's fur with zero regard for decency. "So what now?"
Duke stroked his chin thoughtfully. Starting with Tristan was lucky—it meant they'd skipped a bunch of front-door nonsense. But navigating the rest of Karazhan's maze of madness? That would take strategy.
He glanced at Lothar.
"Don't look at me," Lothar chuckled. "Last time I came here was with Llane, and we stuck to the opera house and parlor games. Never got this deep. And recently, I just dropped in via griffin and walked through a portal Medivh made. The man had style."
Duke's eyes lit up. Ahhh... so THAT'S why the game had an opera house. Llane and the noble crowd used to come here for magical dinner theater.
That explained a lot. But unfortunately, none of that would help them now.
"Let's head out and climb higher," Duke decided. "That's usually the rule in towers, right? Up means important stuff."
"Sounds good," Lothar nodded. Garona and the others followed suit.
Then, a pulse of evil, like someone had opened a hell window.
An oppressive, malevolent will brushed the edges of the room, as if trying to rip through the walls.
"Tristan? What are you doing? My eyes tell me there's... chaos down there."
The voice chilled the air like a blizzard of dread. It wasn't Medivh's, not really. It was deeper, darker, heavier, Sargeras, puppeting his favorite meat suit.
Every hair on Duke's body stood at attention. Every muscle in the room tensed.
Lothar and the rest instinctively raised their weapons. Ready to fight. Ready to die.
Then, cool as ice, Duke pinched his throat and spoke in Tristan's guttural tone:
"Apologies, Master. Kirrick was just disciplining some unruly vermin. All is under control."
Lothar stared. Garona blinked. Even the rogue in the back gaped.
Did Duke just... impersonate a dead demon lord... and fool the avatar of Sargeras?!
Duke stood there, cool and composed on the outside, but internally screaming: PLEASE WORK PLEASE WORK PLEASE WORK.
The room remained deathly silent. For now.
Karazhan... just got a whole lot more dangerous. And fun.