When most people get bitten by a mosquito, their first instinct is to squash the damn thing without a second thought.
Is killing a mosquito a big deal?
And in Brando's twisted little noble mind, killing a civilian named Duke was about as significant as swatting a bug on a summer night—utterly trivial.
So when Brando—entitled, powdered, and pampered—gawked at Duke and bellowed, "Why are you still alive!?" it wasn't just arrogance. It was the kind of haughty disbelief only the spoilt offspring of generational privilege could muster. And Duke? He felt it deep in his gut again—the vertigo of a time traveler.
Back in his original world, people like Brando would've been dragged across every media outlet, tried by law, and digitally flayed on social media until even their grandmother unfollowed them. But here? In this medieval wonderland called Azeroth, the word of a noble was law, and the king's decree flowed from their tongues like vomit from a sick dog.
Duke suddenly understood why the once-mighty Stormwind was smashed to bits in the First War, its capital reduced to smoldering rubble. If clueless clowns like Brando were the best this kingdom could produce, then orcs didn't defeat humans—humans defeated themselves.
Thoradin's legacy had rotted. Where once stood titans of will and fire, now squatted bloated parasites like Brando, more concerned with powdering their cheeks than defending their people.
Duke grimaced. He wasn't even sure where in the timeline he'd landed. This was before the Dark Portal opened, before the full chaos of the Horde invasion. The only thing he vaguely remembered was Lothar, the last of the Arathi bloodline, locked in bureaucratic warfare with nobles who thought diplomacy was a fencing style.
Even Lothar couldn't silence the blithering aristocrats. What could Duke—a fresh-faced, barely-initiated spell-flinger—possibly do?
But Duke was from the modern world. A place where titles meant little and commoners had voices. Where aristocracy was a joke in period dramas, not a force to be feared.
So when Brando snarled at him in the dining hall, Duke didn't cower. He laughed.
"Oh? Seems Sir Brando here is awfully upset that I'm breathing. Did my continued existence ruin your breakfast, milord?"
Brando's eye twitched. "Where's Gasco?! What did you do to Gasco?!"
Duke tilted his head. "Gasco who? I don't recall exterminating any cockroaches last night. You sure he wasn't stepped on by mistake?"
The insult was lost on Brando, who advanced with fists clenched and mouth foaming. "You killed him! You mongrel! Gasco was my servant! You've insulted the Brando name! You've insulted the Stormwind! You've—"
The slap rang out like a thunderclap.
A thick cloud of white powder puffed into the air from Brando's cheek like a magician's stage trick gone wrong. His whole head spun like a top, and his delicately arranged hair came undone like a cheap wig at a wind tunnel.
The noble collapsed to the ground with a whimper.
Duke calmly pointed at a dead fly on the table beside him. "Oh dear... Were you trying to kiss my palm while I swatted that fly? How terribly clumsy."
Duke had snapped. Yesterday, he might've walked away. But today? With adrenaline from near-death and rage at centuries of corrupt nobility? His moral compass had gone on vacation.
Sure, he hit the guy. But technically? He just slapped a mosquito.
Brando's entourage erupted. "Protect the young lord!"
The servants charged forward, ready to gang-beat Duke into a magical pulp.
Calm and Composed activated!
Just as Duke was about to conjure up a hearty Pyroblast to BBQ some lackeys, Daniel and Anya—his fellow apprentices from earlier—leapt in front of him, arms spread.
"Touch him, and you'll answer to the Royal Arcane Academy!" Daniel roared.
"And Lord Norton himself!" Anya added, eyes blazing.
The servants froze mid-charge, looking like someone had just replaced their spines with custard.
Everyone knew messing with wizards—especially under the nose of a high court mage—was a one-way ticket to being turned into a very confused sheep.
Duke blinked. These two... were protecting him?
He didn't realize it yet, but the slap he delivered to Brando's powdered mug echoed far beyond that hall. It was a thunderclap of defiance heard by every commoner, guard, and quiet rebel who had suffered under the boots of nobility.
For once, someone stood up. And others followed.
Brando, still groaning on the floor, shrieked like a banshee, "Kill him! Kill Edmund Duke! He spat on the Brando family, on the Kingdom of Stormwind, on Emperor Thoradin's sacred legacy! BURN HIM! The Brando family will bear all consequences!"
"You want to kill me? Fine. But I'll make sure you go first."
He raised his hand, and the chant flowed like fire.
A roaring orb of flame erupted from his hand, the size of a water tank and twice as deadly.
Daniel and Anya scrambled aside just in time.
Brando's powdered face turned chalk white—then yellow—then the unmistakable brown of mortal terror. A warm trickle betrayed him as his trousers darkened.