Seeing the argument finally sputter out like a dwarf's broken steam valve, Duke seized the moment and pressed on, his voice firm. "Second, early warning systems. We need eyes on the horizon. Every town that can afford it should erect beacon towers on their highest points. Those that can't? Signal guns."
"Flare guns?" Anduin raised an eyebrow, squinting as if Duke had just suggested trebuchets that shoot cheese.
Duke nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, inspired by the dwarves' boomsticks. Basically a compact cannon that launches a colorful flare straight into the sky. We pre-pack it with gunpowder and dye—it shoots up, explodes in color, and everyone nearby gets the message. Think fireworks, but more anxiety-inducing."
He pointed to an imaginary sky. "Red means 'monsters incoming.' Blue means numbers—like two blues, medium group; four blues, oh crap, it's an army. We can make up a whole rainbow of terror."
The three leaders exchanged glances, their expressions flipping from doubt to dawning realization like synchronized dancers in a play titled Oh Wait, That's Brilliant.
"That's... actually genius," Llane admitted. "We rely on messengers on horseback. Magic messages are for emergencies. Griffins? Too rare and expensive to babysit villages. But flares? Instant."
"I like it," Bolvar grunted. "We'll standardize the codes and distribute signal guns immediately."
"Now for the third point—military training. I don't know how rigorous your soldiers are, but I'm assuming they're not ready to square up with monsters that can bend steel and break backs like twigs. I want to help." Duke grinned wickedly.
Anduin leaned forward, sensing something suspiciously unorthodox. "How?"
"Sparring partners. Specifically, the male Nagas under my command. They're tall, powerful, slightly terrifying—and perfect for battle simulations."
Bolvar blinked. "You're offering your... fish-snake men as combat dummies?"
"More like aquatic punching bags that punch back. They're strong and slightly grumpy, which is perfect. I'd rather our men get bruised in practice than mangled on the field."
The room went quiet. Then Anduin slowly nodded. "You might be onto something. If they can take on Nagas, trolls won't seem half as scary. Maybe this little fire drill will turn into a kingdom-wide fitness plan."
Llane stroked his chin. "Any more ideas, Duke?"
"None I can give without turning this into a lecture series."
After grilling Duke for every last detail of his "hallucinations," the trio finally dismissed him. The heavy door shut behind Duke with a solemn thud.
Inside, Llane turned to the others. "Thoughts?"
Bolvar shrugged. "If Duke's a spy, he's the dumbest one I've ever seen. Nothing he suggested could harm the kingdom. And if he's a genius... well, we just got lucky."
Anduin tapped his armored fingers on the table. "He's hiding something. He knows more. But can we blame him? If a random teenager told you your childhood best friend turned into a world-ending maniac, would you believe him?"
Llane sighed. "The heart says no. But the war drums in my gut say maybe."
The emergency cabinet was summoned. Duke's proposals were passed unanimously. Everyone agreed: when doom looms, even the weird kid with fish friends might be your best hope.
Three days later, the Stormwind Barracks exploded with energy. The air crackled not with magic, but with anticipation—and sweat.
On the raised platform, Lothar stood clad in full battle regalia. A desiccated werewolf corpse swung like a grotesque banner next to him.
His booming voice echoed: "A new threat looms! Monsters are growing stronger, nastier, and hungrier. You, yes you, fresh meat in tin cans, must train harder, faster, and smarter."
The rookies pounded swords to shields in unison, shouting back: "HOO! HOO! HOO!"
Lothar continued, "To ensure you don't end up as monster hors d'oeuvres, we've brought in elite instructors—Sir Duke's personal Naga bodyguards."
Duke snapped his fingers. From behind the curtain slithered ten massive male Nagas, each glistening with muscle and menace, twirling wooden hammers the size of oxen.
"Are we supposed to kill them?!"
"Will they eat us if we lose?!"
Lothar smirked. "No. If you lose, your officer will just kick your ass. Which is arguably worse."
Laughter erupted. Even the Naga blinked awkwardly.
Combat began. Officers paired their strongest men against the Nagas. It was chaos, muscle, and bruised egos. Lothar, arms crossed, leaned toward Duke.
"I thought Nagas used tridents?"
Duke, lost in thought, was replaying scenes of orcs in another life—savage, unstoppable, smashing human soldiers like dolls.
He muttered, "You're thinking of trolls as the enemy. That's cute."
Lothar stiffened. Had Duke just seen through his plan to claim Stranglethorn Vale from the trolls?
A scream sliced through the air.
A soldier collapsed, cradling a twisted arm.
The Naga instructor looked horrified. "I only used half of my strength!"
"You broke his arm with half your strength!?" a recruit yelled.
"Stop! Everyone stop!" Lothar leapt from the platform, sprinting over.
Duke followed casually, like a professor inspecting a botched science project.
The Naga looked at Duke with pleading eyes. Duke just patted the giant's arm. "You're doing great. Maybe next time, use 25%."
The Naga nodded sadly, like a dragon trying not to sneeze fire in a hayloft.
Meanwhile, a rookie screamed, "YOU WANT TO KILL US?!"
Duke smiled. "If we wanted to kill you, you wouldn't be screaming. You'd be soup."
The soldiers groaned. The training had just begun. And so had the kingdom's countdown to doomsday.