"Old Jackson! I won't repeat myself again: ten boats. Offshore-capable, fish-hauling, wave-surfing, storm-braving boats. As big as your half-broken yard can handle. When. Can. I. Get. Them?"
Duke's words hit old Jackson like a lightning bolt to his rum-soused brain.
The crusty old shipwright blinked twice. Was this fresh-faced wizardling actually asking to commission an entire fleet? The same kid who looked like he still read spellbooks with a nightlight?
But gold has a way of clearing doubts.
Jackson scratched the bald patch hidden beneath a layer of salt-and-pepper hair grease. "I'll be honest, lad. I've only got five keels lying around, barely enough timber, and my workers would rather wrestle crabs than work double shifts. But five new 30-tonners? I can swing that. Quality builds. Give me a month. Price is 50 gold a pop."
A 30-ton boat was, frankly, laughable. In Duke's mind—fresh with pre-modern engineering knowledge—that was one step up from a floating bathtub. Fifteen meters long, barely enough room to swing a sword, let alone a crate of salted cod.
"Deal." Duke dropped a pouch with the ring of treasure. "Here's 100 gold as deposit."
Jackson blinked again. Then blinked harder.
"M-Master Wizard, you only needed to drop 10 percent..."
"Use the rest to hire some help. Sailors, preferably with all their limbs attached."
Old Jackson rubbed his stubbly chin. "I can round up a few young lads hangin' 'round the docks. They're good swimmers, mostly sober. But they're not trained sailors. I won't let you lead them into sea-squid hell without warning."
Duke gave a serene smile. The kind of smile that suggested divine patience. The kind of smile that said, "I'm trying really hard not to set someone on fire."
"No worries. Just a bit of fishing and moving legitimate cargo. But let me be clear—if any of your boys decides to sneak anything questionable aboard..."
A fireball the size of a water tank bloomed in Duke's palm, then launched toward the sea.
A geyser of steam and salt erupted next to the pier, leaving every seagull in a half-mile radius shrieking for its mother.
Windsor nearly had a heart attack on the spot. That morning, Duke had clearly been holding back. If that fireball had hit him...
Old Jackson and his crew went paler than ghostfish. Knees buckled. One guy may have peed a little.
Duke patted Jackson's shoulder gently. "Apologies. Just a demonstration. I'm serious about this project."
Then he turned and left, dragging a wide-eyed Windsor behind him.
Back at the Magic Academy's reception hall, Duke didn't even sit before barking, "Paper. Pen. Table. Now."
Old wizard Norton, who was peacefully enjoying a cup of tea and ancient retirement, sighed. Then gave him a pen.
Duke fixed an A2-sized sheet to the table, dipped the quill, and activated the system.
Ding! System has detected relevant technical files: Descriptive Geometry, AutoCAD..."
Ten minutes later, Windsor stared at a blueprint that looked more complex than anything he'd ever seen, including the internal mechanics of a crossbow.
"Take this drawing," Duke said, sliding across a bag stuffed with gold notes. "500 gold. Go to Kul Tiras. Kidnap—uh, escort the best shipbuilder you can find back to Stormwind. If I'm not here, park them in the house Lothar gave me."
Windsor gaped at the blueprint, the money, and Duke.
"500 gold?! That's a noble's ransom! You trust me with this much?"
"No. I'm trusting the future of humanity. And also your undying loyalty. And maybe your sense of guilt if you mess up."
Windsor gave a formal bow. "Reginald Windsor will not fail you."
Duke nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now I have magic to level grind. And business to scheme."
He returned briefly to his "villa"—a modest garden home that, by modern standards, was a millionaire's dream, but in Stormwind, was about as fancy as a banker's shed.
He didn't bother to decorate. The place was destined to be razed by war anyway.
But the news of Duke's investment spread faster than an orc on fire.
In the wine-drenched halls of the Brando estate, Fam Brando laughed so hard he nearly drowned in his own spit.
"He's building ships?! Ha! What's he gonna sell? Stormwind air in a bottle? Mud pies? Fish eyeballs? We get taxed to death just to let Kul Tiras dump unsellable Lordaeron garbage on us!"
Still, the Brando family wasn't dumb. When Lady Losa came sniffing around about their beef with Duke, the patriarch laid down the law:
"No contact with Duke. No sabotage. Not even a mean letter. One wrong move and Losa will have our heads mounted as wine racks."
So Brando was reduced to muttering curses behind closed doors. He wasn't alone.
In the Magic Academy, robes fluttered with disapproval.
"A mage doing commerce? What next? A priest opening a brothel?"
Even the neutral wizards scoffed. "He could be unraveling the mysteries of mana flow... instead he's doodling sailboats and managing payroll."
But Duke didn't care.
Five days later, a carriage rumbled southwest, its wheels rattling over cracked roads and whispering forests.
Duke stepped out into the golden grasslands and grinned like a man possessed.
"Westfall! Here I come!"