Marching straight south out of Stormwind City, Duke's entourage plowed through the familiar stretches of green before veering westward past Mirror Lake and the fortified walls of Westspring. With the city shrinking behind him, the land took on a harsher tone. Baked under the sun's merciless glare, the road ahead twisted into the dusty border of the Western Wilds.
Inside the rickety carriage that shook like a half-drunk ogre on stilts, Duke lounged with one elbow on the windowsill, staring at the arid scenery with an expression somewhere between awe and disgust. The skies were cloudless, the sunlight unrelenting, and the air was thick with the scent of scorched weeds. A dry breeze licked the land like an indifferent flame, stirring up dirt devils that danced across the endless yellow horizon.
The ground outside was a painter's nightmare—every shade of yellow and brown imaginable. Yellow dirt. Yellow fields. Yellow rocks pretending to be interesting. It was so monochrome, Duke half-expected an old-timey cowboy to tip his hat at him and challenge him to a duel.
"If it weren't for the freakishly plump rice grains in the fields, I'd swear we were in a cursed wasteland," Duke muttered.
Fertile land, cursed vibes.
Blame the underground rivers, perhaps. They kept the soil rich even as the surface screamed of drought. Unfortunately, the West wasn't just dry and dusty. It was home to all the worst parts of nature that had skipped charm school. And at the top of the "Oh Hell No" list? Vultures.
Not just any vultures. These were Westfall corpse-chompers, sky-born nightmares with wingspans wide enough to shade a hay bale. Duke watched one of them now—a sleek black shadow slicing the sky with all the subtlety of a guillotine.
In less than a blink, the bird plummeted.
Its target? A poor, fresh-faced mercenary barely old enough to grow chest hair.
The young man was armored up, head tucked beneath an iron helmet salvaged from some retired Stormwind soldier. Unfortunately, helmets do nothing when your spine is about to get real intimate with the bird-shaped missile from hell.
The vulture's speed made the rest of the convoy freeze in place, like terrified statues carved by panic. Six or seven other guards, including their leader, Uncle Makaro, were too stunned to even fumble for their weapons.
"Alright, alright... guess it's showtime."
A slender hand slipped lazily out the carriage window.
[Calm and Composed] → [Pyroblast].
Out shot a fireball the size of a water tank, trailing flame like a furious comet.
The mercenaries gasped in unison.
"Oh yeah! That's it!" someone shouted.
"Wait, no! It's going to miss!" another yelped.
Indeed, the corpse-chopper flared its wings, banking left like it had just seen tax collectors coming. The fireball looked like it might fly harmlessly past—but then Duke snapped his fingers again.
The fireball exploded mid-air, not in a pretty little puff, but in a focused directional blast aimed right at the bird.
With a squawk that turned into a gurgling scream, the vulture transformed into a flailing ball of roast chicken and fell like a meteor.
The young mercenary hit the dirt, unscathed but nearly unconscious from shock.
"LONG LIVE SIR EDMUND!"
"WOOHOO!" screamed another.
Makaro practically backflipped off his horse in gratitude, dragging the stunned young man forward.
"Thank you, my lord! That was my boy! My only son! Philip—his first mission! His mother was going to kill me if anything happened. No, seriously, I'd be dead!"
Philip blinked rapidly, then bowed so hard his helmet bounced off his head.
Duke waved a hand dismissively. "Glad he still has a head to bow with. Let's keep moving."
He leaned back in his seat, not wanting too much attention. This wasn't about glory. It was just... training. Survival. A minor detour on the road to greater things.
But fate had other plans.
Makaro approached again, bowing respectfully.
"Sir Edmund, I have... something. A spell note. Found it in a ruined watchtower. We can't read the inscriptions, but maybe it's of use to you?"
Duke perked up. Magic goodies? Don't mind if I do.
He took the tattered notebook, opened it, and immediately, the system in his head chirped to life:
"Congratulations, host! You have acquired the Level 0 spell [Hand of the Wizard], and the Level 2 spells [Dwarven Quenching Prison] and [Dwarven Scorching Furnace]!"
Duke's eyebrows shot up.
"Oh... now this is going to be fun."
The sun blazed above. The carriage creaked onward. And Duke, grinning like a madman, flipped through his new spellbook with the casual glee of a kid handed fireworks on festival day.
Westfall had no idea what was coming.