Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 641: Accept

Just as Duke's words hung in the air like smoke from a dragon's nostril, a voice bright as polished mithril cut through the tension.

"If that's the lay of the land, then sign me up for this magnificent suicide mission."

Duke's jaw nearly hit the cobblestones.

"Your Highness Kael'thas? What in the seven hells are you doing here?"

The newcomer was none other than the golden-haired high elf prince Kael'thas Sunstrider, looking like he'd stepped straight out of a recruitment poster for heroic martyrdom.

Had he not appeared, Duke would have completely forgotten that Prince Kael'thas - whose military reputation had taken a nosedive faster than a lead zeppelin after his spectacular failure to defend Quel'Thalas - had been shipped off to Dalaran by his father and the Silvermoon Council for "continued education."

Yes, education - also known as exile wrapped in prettier silk!

Sometimes Duke couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that his own brilliance had somehow cursed poor Kael'thas to perpetual second-fiddle status.

But honestly, who could shoulder the blame for that particular military disaster?

If Kael'thas had suddenly channeled the spirit of a legendary war god and crushed the Horde beneath his boots, there would have been no opportunity for Duke's subsequent legendary victory where he'd defeated thousands with nothing but tactical genius and a battle standard.

Seeing Kael'thas's earnest expression, Duke felt an unexpected pang of sympathy - if fate ever presented the chance, he'd move heaven and earth to help this unlucky prince find his footing.

"Arthas wielding Frostmourne has likely ascended to demigod status, though he hasn't unleashed his full potential yet..."

Duke's warning only made Kael'thas's smile grow warmer than summer sunshine: "If the great Edmund Duke isn't trembling in his boots, what right do I have to cower like a frightened rabbit?"

"Your Highness, you really don't need to—"

For once in his long career, Duke actually witnessed something called "genuine courage" blazing in Kael'thas's eyes like holy fire.

"We each get one life to spend in this world. I don't see myself as fundamentally different from any other soul here. As a sworn member of the Kirin Tor, there's honor in laying down my life to defend the city I've pledged to serve."

No, Kael'thas, you beautiful fool, we're absolutely different - I've got resurrection magic and you've got... well, you've got excellent hair.

"For fifteen years now, you've stood as this world's shield against darkness time and time again. Fifteen long years have passed, and what have I accomplished? Nothing but hollow victories and bitter defeats. I've come to understand that my own cowardice has been a cage, trapping my potential..."

No, Kael'thas, if you discovered that death merely leads to respawn points and experience penalties, you'd probably laugh at the Grim Reaper's face too.

"Today feels like the day I finally take that crucial step forward."

Fine, take your heroic step - just don't come crying to me when you're nursing a Frostmourne-shaped hole through your torso.

Duke had completely run out of patience with Kael'thas and his philosophical soliloquy session.

At that precise moment, a complex symphony of horn calls drifted across the battlefield from the distant melee.

"Ha! Now that's the spirit I expected from those green-skinned warriors!" Duke burst into appreciative laughter.

"What exactly did our orcish friends communicate?" Antonidas inquired with scholarly curiosity.

Duke's lips twisted into a wry grin as he translated: "Roughly speaking - 'Fine, we'll play nice for this dance, but once the music stops, we're back to trying to split each other's skulls.'"

"Hmph!" Several Alliance commanders snorted with expressions that clearly read 'typical orcish pride and stubbornness.'

Duke kept his mouth diplomatically shut. After all, he was the architect of the trap that had snared the orcs so perfectly. While the Alliance and Horde were natural enemies, as reluctant allies go, the orcs had stretched their patience to the absolute breaking point.

Duke felt genuine concern gnawing at his gut. He'd been dealt this terrible hand immediately upon his return to the political stage. If he still commanded Nethergarde's elite forces, would he need to rely on orcish muscle? He could have crushed the orcs first, then steamrolled Arthas's Scourge like wheat before the harvester.

The most aggravating issue was the absence of his most capable paladins. What did fate expect Duke to accomplish with half his tools missing?

"We should wait before committing our forces," Antonidas suggested with calculated coldness.

Duke studied the ancient wizard and sighed internally: As expected, old Antonidas has grown elderly, set in his ways, and ruthlessly practical.

Delaying their intervention would certainly weaken the orcish forces, but it also represented a strategy of watching both enemies bleed each other white in so-called "mutually assured destruction."

However, such thinking was dangerously shortsighted.

At this critical juncture, before the arrival of Archimonde, supreme commander of the Burning Legion, Arthas represented the single greatest threat as the most powerful death knight in existence. While mutual losses would benefit the Alliance to some degree, it would make future cooperation with the Horde nearly impossible - they'd never trust the Alliance again after being used as expendable meat shields.

Duke remained uncertain whether he could prevent Archimonde's inevitable arrival. If that plan failed, it would catastrophically impact the subsequent Battle of Mount Hyjal - the first time in history that Alliance, Horde, and night elf forces would unite against a common foe.

Therefore, after hearing Antonidas's calculated proposal, Duke shook his head with firm conviction: "Absolutely not! Compared to the Horde, which has lost the stomach for serious warfare against us, Arthas poses the existential threat. If we allow the Horde to escape this trap, at worst we'll face one additional campaign, and the Alliance maintains an 80% probability of victory. But if we permit the Scourge to break free and multiply, there won't be a single beating heart left on the continent within three months."

Duke's apocalyptic vision carried some theatrical exaggeration.

But the Scourge's terrifying ability to snowball from victory to victory, killing the living and converting them into undead reinforcements, was undeniably horrific.

Antonidas fell into contemplative silence.

"WOOOOO-OOOOO-OOOOO!" The Alliance's advance horn thundered across the battlefield like the voice of an angry god.

This assault bore no resemblance to the reckless cavalry charges of barbarian nations. Instead, it showcased the disciplined perfection of Lordaeron's military doctrine: heavy infantry wielding tower shields formed an impenetrable wall in the vanguard, pikemen bristling in the third rank like a steel porcupine, javelin throwers and archers occupying the protected center, with cavalry wings spread wide like the talons of a massive bird of prey.

The rear echelon consisted of Dalaran's mage corps surrounded by their devoted guardians.

Infantry and cavalry advanced at a controlled trot, maintaining formation discipline that would make drill sergeants weep with pride, creating an inexorable tide of steel and determination that rolled straight toward the rear of Arthas's Scourge like fate itself.

"Steel your hearts! Banish doubt! The Light illuminates our righteous path!"

"Those shambling horrors are no longer our beloved dead - they're abominations that mock the very concept of life!"

"Crush their skulls, sever their grasping claws, and don't stop swinging until their heads resemble smashed pumpkins at harvest festival!"

"If these plague-ridden monsters manage to bite you, their corruption may transform you into one of their mindless ranks! Any wounded soldier must immediately retreat and seek priestly healing!"

"If no priests or paladins stand within reach, the moment your limbs begin losing all sensation, you must amputate them before the creeping numbness reaches your vital organs - otherwise you'll join the ranks of the damned walking dead!"

"Every man carries blessed water - it may save your miserable hide when death comes knocking!"

Alliance sergeants bellowed constant reminders, drilling vital survival knowledge into their troops' heads. These hard-won lessons had originally been purchased with rivers of blood by the Argent Dawn and Scarlet Crusade during decades of nightmarish warfare against undead hordes, but Duke had leaked this intelligence years ahead of schedule.

Nobody questioned where Duke had acquired such detailed tactical knowledge.

The veterans who'd survived the Second War and witnessed Duke's miracles believed in him with religious fervor.

That faith burned just as brightly today.

This approach differed vastly from the orcish philosophy of glorious carnage. When orcs slaughtered 10,000 enemies while losing 3,000 of their own, those 3,000 casualties inevitably rose as zombies to terrorize their former comrades.

The Alliance's systematic destruction of Scourge forces was devastatingly thorough.

Most zombies and ghouls that shambled forward first encountered walls of mage-conjured flame, followed by concentrated volleys of arrows and javelins before they could close to melee range. When the few surviving undead finally reached Alliance lines, pikemen in the third and fourth ranks would pierce their skulls with surgical precision, ending their unholy existence permanently.

Should any zombies slip through this killing field, shield-bearers would pin them in place while multiple spears transformed the creatures into pincushions, after which sword-wielding soldiers would methodically dismember the remains into harmless components.