Stormwind Wizard God

By the time the Scourge commander discovered the approaching doom, the enemy was already breathing down their necks—less than two kilometers from the undead legions besieging Dalaran. The writing was on the wall, and it was written in blood.

The earth didn't just roar—it screamed.

The bone-rattling vibrations sent pebbles dancing like corn in a hot skillet, bouncing several centimeters high. You'd have to be deafer than a post not to feel that apocalyptic rumbling in your very bones.

Sure, the Scourge had their fair share of colossal monstrosities—crypt fiends the size of small fortresses and abominations that could arm-wrestle a mountain giant—but this rhythmic thundering was different. This was the sound of destiny marching in perfect formation.

"By the Lich King's frozen beard! These aren't our troops!" Darkmaster Gandlin, who'd been commanding from the rear like a spider in its web, suddenly had an epiphany that hit him like a runaway kodo beast.

At that moment, not a single lich had the foggiest idea what calamity was about to unfold.

The fog lifted as if the Light itself had blown it away with divine breath, revealing an army clad in crimson armor that gleamed like fresh blood. Like a colossal red dragon flexing its wings and showing its fangs, this force emerged to give the Scourge the surprise of their unlife.

"FOR THE LIGHT!" The battle cry erupted from five hundred Silver Hand paladins leading the charge, their voices booming like thunder across the Plaguelands.

"FOR THE LIVING AND THE FALLEN!" roared the knights of Lordaeron in response, their blessed weapons gleaming with holy radiance as they thundered forward like the wrath of the heavens themselves.

The deafening war cries could've woken the dead—ironic, considering they were already awake and decidedly unfriendly. Even the defenders on Dalaran's walls, five kilometers away and fighting for their lives, could hear every blessed word crystal clear.

The people of Dalaran nearly jumped out of their skins when this army materialized behind the Scourge like something out of a fever dream.

"Reinforcements?!" someone shouted, voice cracking with disbelief.

"Light preserve us, it's a miracle!"

"The cavalry of Lordaeron rides again!"

"FOR THE ALLIANCE!" The cry spread like wildfire through the defending ranks.

Without reinforcements, they all knew they'd be pushing up daisies faster than you could say "necrotic plague." That was warfare 101—even a grunt fresh from boot camp knew that much.

With magical communications severed tighter than a miser's purse strings, and not even the griffon riders able to break through the Scourge's stranglehold on the skies, the sight of that endless sea of undead had been sapping morale faster than a mana burn spell. If it weren't for the hundreds of mage towers behind them, constantly sweeping the battlefield clean with arcane fury that would make Medivh himself nod in approval, the Dalaran infantry would've broken ranks and run screaming for the hills ages ago.

Now, without so much as a by-your-leave, the people of Dalaran found themselves staring at the Scarlet Crusade—one of the most feared fighting forces on the entire continent—and their spirits soared higher than a dwarven engineer's experimental flying machine.

From atop the tallest mage tower, Antonidas—who'd been juggling mana calculations like a master performer keeping a dozen plates spinning—watched the unfolding spectacle with eyes wider than dinner plates and a grin that could've split his beard in half.

The next scene made the old archmage happier than a gnome in a workshop full of unstable explosives.

The gargoyles that had been circling overhead like vultures at a battlefield buffet, occasionally swooping down to collect heads like some macabre trophy hunt, suddenly wheeled around at Darkmaster Gandling frantic commands to intercept the charging cavalry.

Low-level undead moved about as fast as molasses in winter, and expecting brain-dead ghouls, shambling zombies, and rickety skeleton warriors to execute a tactical about-face was like expecting a murloc to recite poetry. It just wasn't happening.

Using the gargoyles for a counter-charge while the crypt fiends provided long-range artillery support was the best strategy Gandling could cobble together faster than a goblin could say "ka-boom."

Watching those gargoyles screaming down from the heavens like bats out of the Twisting Nether, even a battle-hardened veteran like Mograine felt his blood run cold and his scalp prickle like he'd stuck his finger in a lightning rod.

Knights and cavalry had about as much anti-air capability as a fish had wings.

Even paladins, for all their divine mojo, had the ranged attack power of a wet noodle. Sure, they could tank damage, dish out punishment like an angry ogre, and heal wounds faster than you could say "Holy Light," but ask them to hit something more than arm's length away and you might as well ask them to fly to the moon.

Lordaeron had never been short on brave souls willing to charge headfirst into a forest of spears—they bred warriors tougher than dragon scales—but Mograine wasn't about to feed his good men to the enemy's air force like throwing meat to hungry wargs.

If they advanced slowly, the archers and mages could provide cover thicker than thieves, but they'd lose the element of surprise faster than a rogue loses his purse in Stormwind's back alleys.

It wasn't like Mograine hadn't considered bringing the mage corps along for a mounted charge.

Unfortunately, most spellcasters had about as much ability to cast while galloping as a tauren had to tap dance. Your average mage needed to plant their feet, commune with the elements like they were having a heart-to-heart with an old friend, establish that mystical connection to the arcane, and then slowly chant their incantations with the patience of a saint...

By the time they got their act together, the battle would be over and they'd all be fertilizing the Plaguelands.

Thank the Light, Duke was fighting on their side.

He was the only soul in the entire Alliance who possessed those two legendary magical specialties that were rarer than honest politicians: High-Speed Mobile Casting and Super Multi-casting.

It was common knowledge throughout the magical community that when it came to Multicasting, even the two Grand Magi Antonidas and Anasterian couldn't hold a candle to Duke's raw talent. The man was a walking magical artillery battery.

The only question was whether Duke's skills had gotten rustier than an orc's battle-axe after ten years of relative peace.

"Duke! The fate of us all rests in your hands!" Mograine turned to Duke, who was charging alongside him, his eyes blazing with naked desperation and hope.

"Consider it done!"

Just three words, but they carried the weight of destiny and the promise of victory. Sometimes the shortest speeches packed the biggest punch.

For reasons Mograine couldn't quite put his finger on, Duke's aura of barely contained lethality made him feel more confident than all the gentle smiles and reassuring words in the world ever could. There was something about a mage ready to unleash hell that inspired more trust than a dozen priests offering benedictions.

The wind began to howl without warning.

This wasn't just any breeze—this was a gale force wind blowing from east to west, completely backwards from the seasonal patterns, as if the very elements were rebelling against the natural order.

At first, Mograine thought the Light itself was lending them aid, but two heartbeats later he realized with shock that Duke was the eye of this supernatural storm.

And where there was wind, fire followed like a faithful hound.

Duke's Lordaeron warhorse initially shied away from the flames dancing beneath its hooves like the horse had suddenly found itself galloping through the Molten Core, but the mysterious golden radiance flowing from Duke's hands soothed the beast faster than a lullaby calms a crying child. Within moments, the horse entered a state of battle-trance and began galloping with the fury of the Wild Hunt itself.

Sweet Light above, the speed!

Duke shot forward faster than a crossbow bolt, faster than anything with four legs had any right to move!

Was that the legendary Burning Haste spell?

How in the name of Uther's hammer could it be that fast?!

Mograine knew about as much magic as a kobold knew about fine dining, but he'd heard whispers of such metamagic techniques in tavern tales. What he couldn't know was that Duke carried the power of wind and thunder in his very soul, gifts from his baptism at the Storm Altar that had fundamentally changed his magical nature.

Under the double acceleration, Duke became less a man on horseback and more a crimson comet streaking across the battlefield.

In that pivotal moment, Duke—hands empty, reins forgotten, blazing with magical energy like a living weapon—charged straight into the heart of the Scourge army with the fury of a meteor striking the earth.

Dead ahead, hundreds of zombies with faces that would make a nightmare weep rushed forward, their rotting maws gaping wide enough to swallow hope itself.

From both flanks came poison-spitting spiders launched by crypt fiends, their horrific mandibles gleaming with venom as they sailed through the air like living projectiles of death.

From above, gargoyles dove with wings folded, moving like stone thunderbolts that could shred a knight and his mount into confetti with casual ease.

A three-dimensional death trap, perfectly coordinated to crush any mortal foolish enough to challenge the might of the Scourge.

Even the most steel-nerved paladin felt his heart skip a beat witnessing this unholy convergence of destruction. ƒгeewёbnovel.com

The next moment, they could hardly believe what their eyes were telling them.

Fire!

More savage than a dragon's breath.

More intense than the flames that would consume the world at its ending.

More devastating than anything mortal magic had ever conjured.

Suddenly, as if the very fabric of reality had torn open to unleash its fury, one thousand and twenty-four spectral mages materialized from the void itself, each one raising a fireball the size of a siege engine's payload.

Duke lifted his gaze to the heavens, his face a mask of serene determination as familiar yet strange emerald text cascaded across his vision like rain made of pure knowledge.

Yes, through the transplanted magical circuits flowing through his body like liquid lightning, Duke had completely rebuilt his arcane foundation from the ground up.

It was like clearing a clogged river—you could use a small boat to dig out the debris piece by piece, or you could unleash a massive flood to scour everything clean in one catastrophic purge. The second method was more violent, more dangerous, but infinitely faster.

Duke had temporarily fallen in magical rank before, lacking the raw power to solve his mystical circulation problems. But with Ilucia's foreign magical essence—nearly matching his own in potency—flowing through him, every obstacle had been swept away like leaves before a hurricane.

"Ilucia, your gift and your love—I have received them both, and now let all witness what we can accomplish together!"