Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 621: Duke’s Tragic Foresight

Being a time traveler was like watching a train wreck in slow motion—you could see the disaster barreling down the tracks, but you were helpless to do a damn thing about it.

Arthas was the poster child for this cosmic joke. Ten years back, this noble prince was still the golden boy—a drop-dead gorgeous do-gooder who worshipped the Holy Light and had everything handed to him on a silver platter.

Who could've predicted he'd turn out to be such a backstabbing son of a bitch?

The guy went from being a shining Paladin to a Death Knight faster than Jekyll turning into Hyde, then had the balls to put a sword through his own father's heart.

Before Arthas officially went off the deep end, Duke couldn't exactly waltz up to everyone and announce, "Hey everybody! Heads up—Arthas is gonna turn traitor! Terenas, you might wanna put your only son six feet under and find yourself a young hottie to pump out another heir real quick!"

Duke had busted his ass making preparations to keep Arthas from jumping ship from the good guys to team evil. Unfortunately, Karazhan got blown to kingdom come, and Duke—who thought he had all the time in the world—got royally screwed out of finishing his master plan.

But at least he'd planted some seeds for a rainy day.

Those "Molotov cocktail" incendiary bombs that were hotter than a hot charcoal and had been legally and openly stashed in every major shopping district of Lordaeron like they were going out of style.

If Duke could've had his way, he would've stationed 100,000 paladins throughout Lordaeron just waiting to kick Arthas's ass the moment he showed his true colors.

Too bad there weren't 100,000 paladins in the entire world, and Duke couldn't exactly smuggle military-grade weapons into Lordaeron without raising more red flags than a Communist parade. Sure, there were weapon shops on every corner selling swords to gladiators, but every single one of those establishments had some high-and-mighty Lordaeron noble pulling the strings behind the scenes.

The fact that Duke's Chamber of Commerce could peddle booze and fancy trinkets in Lordaeron was already pushing the envelope, considering he was walking on thin ice with Terenas.

Who would've thought that bottles of gut-rot liquor sitting on shelves day after day, watched by countless customers coming and going, could become weapons of mass destruction against the Scourge with nothing more than some cloth strips, a match, and a good throwing arm?

The people of Lordaeron were blown away.

Eventually, some of the city guards who still had brass ones said "screw this" to their swords and started charging zombies with nothing but shields and homemade fire bombs.

This bought the citizens precious time to get the hell out of Dodge.

Down in the southern part of the city, another miracle unfolded that would've made P.T. Barnum weep with joy.

A dozen massive cylindrical towers got blown sky-high by dwarven explosives that had been secretly planted ages ago. These weren't your garden-variety brick towers either—though they looked rough around the edges, these were obviously enormous pig iron pipes that weighed more than a freight train, and they came crashing down right through the southern city wall like God's own sledgehammer.

Southern Lordaeron hugged the shores of Lake Lordamere, and its walls were about as sturdy as wet cardboard since the military port and commercial docks sat outside the city limits. The coastal gun towers were supposed to handle defense, so the southern walls were built like they were made of tissue paper and good intentions.

When over a dozen massive pipes—each big enough for two people to walk through side by side—came tumbling down, they created the perfect escape route. Citizens could haul ass straight out of the city through those improvised tunnels.

Right then, under the command of Makaro—the head honcho of the Edmund Chamber of Commerce—soldiers who were supposed to be "caravan guards" but were actually elite warriors worth their weight in gold came charging back to clear an escape route for Lordaeron's citizens.

Makaro was shouting orders like a drill sergeant: "Dump all the merchandise into the lake! Tie anything that floats to the back of the boats with rope and let people grab on for dear life!"

Lake Lordamere was one hell of a massive body of water with more shipping lanes than you could shake a stick at, sitting pretty in the most strategic spot imaginable. Lordaeron City sat to the north, the rebuilt Silverpine Forest stretched to the west, the magical city of Dalaran sparkled to the south, and if you headed southeast past Dalaran, you'd hit the fertile Hillsbrad Foothills.

Ever since the Dark Portal got rebuilt two years back, after thirteen years of non-stop development, the Lordaeron docks had grown bigger than a small city. Goods from every corner of northern Lordaeron flowed through there like water, got shipped south by boat, then made their way to the southern continent through Southshore. The cargo throughput hit a mind-blowing 10,000 tons per day.

This wasn't some modern shipping operation from Duke's old world—10,000 tons was absolutely staggering for that era, enough to make any merchant's eyes light up like Christmas morning.

All those ships crowding the harbor became the last lifeline for Lordaeron's desperate citizens.

Under Makaro's iron-fisted command, boats would shove off the moment they were packed to the gills, no questions asked and no waiting around.

Eventually, there were even boats setting sail with long trains of floating debris tied behind them—chunks of wood, boxes, anything that could keep people from drowning—stretching out like some kind of desperate flotilla.

Unfortunately, once Arthas finally pulled his head out of his ass and figured out what was happening, the citizens' great escape started going to hell in a handbasket.

First, enormous spider monstrosities began showing up in the southern district like something straight out of a nightmare. These were crypt fiends—twisted abominations that were half human, half spider, and all kinds of wrong. These sadistic bastards used to be minor lords in Azjol-Nerub, that ancient spider kingdom buried deep in the Northrend wasteland.

When they started spitting baby spiders at the warriors hurling incendiary bombs, the defensive line protecting the fleeing citizens began falling apart faster than a house of cards in a hurricane.

Fist-sized black spiders rained down from the sky like hellish confetti. In the chaos and darkness, this kind of long-range attack was impossible to defend against. Once one of these little demons got its hooks into a human warrior, the poor bastard had about as much chance as a snowball in hell.

Those razor-sharp mandibles could chew through light armor like it was made of cheese, and the poisonous barbs would raise welts the size of golf balls the moment they broke skin. The venom in those stingers and bite wounds would invade the human nervous system faster than bad news, dropping even the strongest soldier like a sack of potatoes.

Without the fire-bomb throwers holding the line, the undead army that had been stuck in a traffic jam surged forward again like a dam had burst.

Makaro wanted to hold his ground a little longer, but when he spotted the liches starting to show up on the shoreline, he threw in the towel with a heavy sigh: "We've done everything humanly possible. Time skeedadle!"

With no choice but to listen to the heart-wrenching screams and desperate pleas from the citizens still trapped on shore, the merchant fleet began slowly pulling away from the dock.

There was no other option. If they didn't leave right then and there, nobody was getting out alive.

The sailors and survivors on the ships couldn't even bear to look back at the dock that had instantly transformed into a slaughterhouse. There, a human tragedy was unfolding that would haunt their dreams forever...

When word reached Arthas that over 50,000 people had managed to slip through his fingers and escape from Lordaeron, he was madder than a wet hen: "Send out the order—deploy the Gargoyle squadrons to hunt down every last one of those rats!"

Obviously, this was just another tragedy waiting to happen.

Fast-forward to the present, and the area surrounding Lordaeron City had turned into a complete shitshow.

Because Arthas had brought back an army of liches, and thanks to the sabotage from Cult of the Damned cultists who'd been playing the long game among Lordaeron's high-ranking nobles, it looked to outsiders like Lordaeron had simply gone radio silent for three days.

From a player's bird's-eye view, the original Lordaeron forces scattered across the kingdom could've easily avoided getting wiped off the map.

But players sitting in their armchairs with perfect hindsight couldn't begin to understand the impossible situation facing Lordaeron's soldiers. This was an era where social hierarchy was carved in stone and the king's word was law. Moving troops without direct orders was a one-way ticket to the executioner's block.

This was also an age when communication moved at the speed of a lame horse. Even after more than a decade of progress, magical messaging still cost an arm and a leg. After all, you needed at least one archmage on standby to make it work reliably. Plus, with all the elemental interference crackling through the atmosphere, unless it was a life-or-death emergency or you had a magical messenger with serious chops, all military orders had to go through conventional channels.

Duke could picture the nightmare scenario facing Lordaeron's army clear as day. He gave Ilucia's shoulder a reassuring pat and said with a weary grin, "Let's ride. Looks like I'm gonna have to play the hero again."