If it had been the first-generation Warchief Blackhand, that bloodthirsty maniac would have charged Duke like a rabid wolf, consequences be damned, then turned to see if he could take a bite out of Arthas for dessert.
Truth be told, the first wave of orcs who guzzled demon blood were probably the kind of knuckleheads who'd drink mysterious green liquid and say "Hold my ale and watch this!"
Time has a way of filing down even the sharpest battle-axe. Orgrim was no longer the fire-breathing hothead who thought he could steamroll the world with nothing but raw Horde fury and a dream.
More than a decade had crawled by like a wounded boar, and he'd tasted both the sweetest victory mead and the bitterest defeat. He'd been Warchief and prisoner, witnessed the glittering towers of civilization and then spent nearly ten years living like a feral beast in the wilderness. Orgrim had seen more ups and downs than a dwarven mine cart on a mountain track.
As the demon's blood gradually loosened its stranglehold on their souls, the orcs remained fierce as winter wolves but no longer rabidly violent. Orgrim understood that, in many ways, the orcs had been played like fiddles by forces beyond their comprehension.
However, this revelation didn't magically erase their blood-soaked rampage across Azeroth like some priest's blessing washing away sin.
Just as he'd done when battling the Alliance with everything he had, Orgrim hadn't hesitated to unleash death knights and trolls into the Horde's ranks like releasing hounds of war.
Facing the greater nightmare of the Scourge, he'd guided Thrall toward the bitter pill of temporary alliance with their sworn enemies.
The only stroke of fortune that made Orgrim's weathered heart skip a beat was that he'd struck this uneasy bargain with Edmund Duke—the very man who'd been his most despised nemesis in the old days.
Your greatest enemy is often the one you understand better than your own sword-arm.
Without exaggeration, if the Alliance had swapped in some fresh-faced commander, Orgrim would have grabbed Thrall by the shoulders and dragged the Horde away faster than you could say "Lok'tar Ogar," even if it meant gnawing off his own limb to escape a trap.
Orgrim couldn't tell if this Duke was still the same calculating mastermind from years past. If Duke remained the sharp-minded tactician with ice water in his veins, the Horde might actually survive this nightmare without being butchered like pigs at slaughter.
Of course, judging by that signature move of kicking the Horde into the fire first and then yanking them back out... no matter how much it made his teeth grind, this was definitely the genuine article and not some shapeshifter wearing Duke's face like a mask.
Meanwhile, Arthas felt his undead heart surge with shock and rage when he first laid eyes on Duke.
This accursed human had shattered his schemes time and again—or rather, the sacred missions bestowed upon him by the Lich King. Half a million undead obliterated! Even for the vast Scourge, that loss stung like a blade between the ribs.
When Duke materialized on the battlefield, Arthas didn't immediately pounce like a starving ghoul. Instead, he stood with regal composure, letting Frostmourne's bone-chilling radiance paint everyone's faces with its terrifying glow.
This was Arthas's pride on full display—the arrogance of a former prince and current king, even if his kingdom consisted entirely of rotting corpses and shambling nightmares.
"Well, well, Duke! What a delightful surprise! I was certain you'd shuffled off this mortal coil by now." Arthas's voice dripped with contempt thick as molten tar.
Duke struck back without mercy: "Funny, I thought the same about you. So why are you still flapping your gums like you've got breath in your lungs?"
Arthas's expression froze solid as winter stone.
"Bahahaha! Ho ho ho!" Whether Grom Hellscream had the humor of a tavern drunk or simply relished watching Duke tear into his even more irritating new opponent, the orc chieftain actually burst into thunderous laughter right there on the chaotic battlefield: "Don't mind me, humans—please, go on!"
This time, Arthas's face turned blacker than the Plaguelands: "You fools understand nothing! Only death offers true eternity!"
Duke sneered like he was addressing a particularly dim-witted recruit: "You're the one living in a fantasy, Death Boy. Didn't your precious Lich King Ner'zhul turn any random mongrel from the gutter into a death knight just like you? Only the mightiest living can become the most fearsome dead. Without life constantly creating new souls to corrupt, your so-called kingdom of death is worth less than dragon dung."
Even though they'd been bitter enemies before, Thrall felt a surge of satisfaction hearing Duke demolish Arthas, who'd just been bellowing "In the name of the Lich King Ner'zhul, I grant you eternal servitude!"
Initially, the Horde had been mystified by these walking corpses, but hearing the name Lich King Ner'zhul made Orgrim and his warriors' blood boil with righteous fury.
After all, Ner'zhul had been their third Warchief. Now he'd crawled to the Burning Legion to become some pathetic Lich King and constantly desecrated the honored dead?
The orcs had abandoned demonic corruption and returned to their ancestral shamanic ways—revering their ancestors and the elemental spirits.
This blasphemous practice of denying the dead their rest violated every sacred tradition the orcs held dear.
Duke's cutting remark about "any street mongrel becoming a death knight" sliced deep into Arthas's pride, and even young Thrall, though he kept his thoughts private, couldn't help but feel a grudging respect for Duke's verbal swordplay.
When the hideous expression twisting Arthas's features reached its absolute peak, he actually threw back his head and cackled with manic glee: "Ha! Hahaha! Marvelous, truly marvelous!"
"Come again?" Duke cocked his head like a confused hunting hound.
"What a fascinating soul! I never imagined that after my transformation into a Death Knight, I'd witness such an entertaining spectacle." Arthas's lips curved into a predatory smile. "I doubt anyone could have predicted that Duke—the legendary hero who sent millions of orcs to their graves and led the Alliance to crushing victory at the Dark Portal with unmatched tactical brilliance—actually harbors such a crude, gutter-dwelling soul. Ha! Even these orcs standing beside you possess more nobility than you ever will."
Arthas gestured dismissively toward Orgrim and Thrall.
His words were complete horse manure, naturally. If Orgrim truly lacked honor, Lothar's legendary blade Quel'Zalamm wouldn't have shattered at that crucial moment during their duel.
Most people would probably fly into a rage after being accused of having a filthy soul, especially in an age that prized the noble ideals of knightly virtue above gold.
Unfortunately for Arthas, Duke was a time traveler who gave exactly zero damns about medieval sensibilities!
He planted his hands on his hips and fired back with relish: "Hah! No matter how much I love gold, glory, power, and beautiful women, no matter how supposedly vulgar my soul might be, at least I'm using my brains and brawn to protect humanity and this world we call home. That makes me infinitely more noble than you—a kinslaying, kingdom-destroying piece of shit. Arthas, quit your pathetic posturing and just fall apart already so you can crawl to whatever hell is waiting for you!"
"Hmph!" The fallen prince snorted with all the disdain of royalty examining peasant muck: "When Frostmourne pierces your flesh and your soul kneels before my power, I'll take great pleasure in making you my lieutenant. Your tactical genius could help His Majesty the Lich King rule this world with proper efficiency."
Duke slapped his forehead dramatically: This boy is beyond all hope of redemption!
"Fine then. For Calia's sake, after I put you down, I'll burn your corpse and let you rest in peace instead of shambling around like an embarrassment."
"Sister Calia still draws breath!?" Arthas's composure cracked like thin ice.
"Absolutely! After you murdered your own father like the worthless patricidal wretch you are, Calia had no choice but to step up and declare herself Queen of Lordaeron!" Duke took a measured step forward, and somehow, his presence became absolutely crushing.
Why engage in this war of words with Arthas?
Simple strategy! Only when Arthas's mind plunged to its absolute darkest depths could he truly unleash Frostmourne's full devastating potential.
Conversely, if Arthas harbored even the tiniest crack of doubt or regret in his blackened heart, his power would diminish significantly.
First, let the Horde grind down the Scourge's numbers, then bring in the Alliance forces for the main assault, and finally—Calia was Duke's true ace in the hole, his secret weapon to shatter whatever remained of Arthas's corrupted soul.