"NO——" Thrall and Rexxar screamed in perfect, agonized unison.
"AHHHHH!" Grom's roar shattered the air as he brought Gorehowl down with bone-crushing force.
But the mighty axe carved through empty air. A purple blur moved with supernatural speed, snatching both Arthas and Frostmourne with his mangled, dangling arm.
The same damned Dreadlord that Antonidas had banished—no, another one entirely, wrapped in different hues of malevolence.
"DAMN IT ALL!" Duke's hands erupted with power as dozens of Mage's Hands materialized, instant magic cascading down in a torrential assault.
Kael'thas joined the barrage, hurling a carriage-sized fireball that screamed through the air straight at the Dreadlord's skull.
Everyone caught a glimpse of that mocking, sardonic smile.
Eighteen Death Knights astride skeletal warhorses and eighteen Liches erupted from the shadows beside the Dreadlord. These elite undead surged forward, forming an impenetrable wall of bone and shadow.
Duke and Kael'thas flashed forward through dimensional magic, desperate to bypass this wall of abominations.
But they discovered two more Dreadlords waiting in their path.
"Hehehehe!" The goat horns adorning their foreheads—one crimson, one azure—trembled with malicious glee as they laughed in perfect, chilling harmony.
Duke's teeth ground together: "RETREAT!"
They had no choice. The Scourge's full arsenal remained unknown, and Duke refused to gamble with lives on the table.
While the Scourge held no direct allegiance to these Burning Legion Dreadlords, Duke wouldn't dare roll those dice.
Continuing the chase would mean abandoning Kael'thas to face two Dreadlords alone while Duke pursued the fleeing enemy.
Even if they caught up, victory wasn't guaranteed.
Even if they won, they might lose Kael'thas in the process.
With Quel'Thalas still standing, that would create a catastrophic diplomatic incident.
The cost was prohibitive.
Duke commanded the retreat, and Kael'thas exhaled in barely concealed relief.
Facing opponents of such unknown power, even the prince felt uncertain. He'd expected Duke to pursue relentlessly, but this rational restraint was unprecedented.
When Duke and Kael'thas returned to the main battlefield, more than half of the Dreadlord's thirty-six summoned fodder lay annihilated. These mid-tier Death Knights and Liches couldn't match the assembled heroes. Without hesitation, Duke and Kael'thas joined the others in obliterating the remainder.
Then came the farewell—a terrible, heart-wrenching goodbye.
Orgrim... would not survive this wound.
Mograine attempted to channel Holy Light into his temporary ally, but the divine energy dissipated uselessly. Wounds inflicted by Frostmourne, a demonic artifact of unimaginable power, could never heal so easily.
The only mercy was that the combined strength of both paladins had prevented Orgrim's soul from being devoured by Frostmourne. When the attack struck, Arthas hadn't had time to channel sufficient dark power into the blade.
The distant sounds of battle were fading. Clearly, the joint forces of Alliance and Horde were crushing the leaderless undead across all fronts.
On multiple battlefields, after the undead fell, both armies found themselves in awkward standoffs. Fortunately, Horde centurions and thousand-commanders, along with Alliance lieutenants, kept their soldiers rigidly disciplined.
Normally, at this distance—close enough to see each other's fangs and eyes—both sides would have already erupted into glorious combat. But today was different...
Suddenly, a trumpet blared from the main battlefield.
The lieutenants immediately understood: "All troops, listen up—retreat thirty meters!"
Alliance soldiers formed perfect formations and withdrew step by measured step, creating a clear dividing line before the chaotic tribal battle formation.
There, Orgrim lay dying.
Grom and Rexxar stood behind their chiefs, weapons clenched in white-knuckled grips. Despite their disadvantageous position, they would fight without hesitation if Orgrim spoke the word, or if the Alliance made any suspicious movement.
Thrall cradled Orgrim's body, helpless to stop the frost-tainted blood gushing from the chest wound.
Orgrim's eyes found Duke standing two meters away, then swept across the separated battle lines of Alliance and Horde. He spoke weakly in the common tongue: "Terrible irony. I've fought you for so many years, imagining countless times that either I would kill you, or you would kill me. But I never thought we'd join forces at the end of our lives, only for me to be killed by that monster... cough cough!"
Duke replied calmly: "You played a role in creating the Death Knights."
Duke referenced the year after the Dark Portal opened. To compensate for the Horde's warrior shortage, Orgrim had agreed to Gul'dan's plan—stuffing human knight corpses with Horde warlock souls to forge Death Knights.
Orgrim admitted frankly: "HAHAHA! Exactly right! Come to think of it, this is also my sin. Haha! The man who created Death Knights, killed by a Death Knight—HAHAHA! Ironic! How magnificently ironic!"
Duke remained silent, allowing Orgrim his laughter.
After a while, Orgrim seemed to be wounded anew and spat blood. Then he asked: "Do we still want to fight now?"
Duke shook his head: "Perhaps we'll fight again in the future. But not now. We have a more terrifying common enemy—the Scourge."
Though they hated admitting it, all three tribal leaders, including Thrall, could only nod. This horrifying army of the dead was the enemy of all living beings.
Duke spoke again: "You want to reach Kalimdor, correct?"
Thrall hesitated, but Orgrim nodded: "That's right!"
"Head to the South Coast. I'll allocate ships to you. The quality won't be exceptional, but they should carry you across the sea. During your journey, the Alliance won't attack you. But for Gilneas or Scourge forces that haven't joined the Alliance, you'll handle them yourself." With that, Duke turned and walked away without looking back.
Orgrim laughed, his voice carrying desolation and unfulfilled dreams: "Goodbye, my worthy opponent!"
Duke waved without turning: "Goodbye, Orgrim!"
Watching Duke lead his army away so casually, until the Alliance forces withdrew in perfect order to the sound of horns, Thrall still couldn't believe his eyes.
Orgrim pointed toward Duke's departing figure: "Did you see that? Thrall, that's the bearing of a legendary Alliance hero! He has unwavering principles, far-sighted vision, and can distinguish between primary and secondary concerns. You still have much to learn. But I believe in you. Your future achievements will definitely rival Edmund Duke's."
"Yes!" Gritting his teeth, Thrall nodded vigorously.
Orgrim lifted the massive Doomhammer with tremendous effort and handed it to Thrall: "This hammer has accompanied me through a lifetime of battles. Now it's yours. From today forward, you are the fourth Warchief of the Horde."
At that moment, Thrall's eyes filled with tears as he nodded heavily once more.