At this point, Brando's cronies swaggered forward with the confidence of a tavern bouncer who'd just won a bar fight. Brando himself, hands on his hips like a diva at a noble costume ball, tilted his chin upward and gave Duke a glare so sharp it could slice bread. Who had dared let this walking thrift shop insult his holy noble self?
"Son," Lieutenant Wilhelm hissed, beads of stress sweat forming, "if there's no other way out, I suggest... you kneel and kowtow."
Kneel? Kowtow!? What is this? A Chinese novel?
Duke's brain short-circuited. Was this a fantasy world or a live-action satire?
Absolutely not.
Duke's face twisted with fury. As a time-traveling product of modern-day education and democratic stubbornness, David Edmund Duke didn't kneel to anyone. Maybe one day he'd kneel to propose, or when his mom smacked him with a slipper. But this smug noble reject from a shampoo commercial? Hell naw.
He was done playing along. He wasn't just mad now—he was fired-up, anime-protagonist-in-the-rain levels of livid.
"Wow! Nobles are so amazing! If you say the sun is black, we all just believe it, huh!?" Duke shouted, sarcasm practically catching fire. "If you're so damn magical, how about this—make your fireball the size of an arrow! It was Alleria Windrunner, the high elf general, who killed that boar, not you, you pointy-shoed fraud!"
The crowd gasped in unison like someone had just pulled off the best soap opera twist of the year.
Even Brando's scalp twitched.
Alleria? The long-eared legends themselves? That's an international incident in the making. Humans and high elves were allies—fragile ones at that. If this got back to the high elves, even Brando's expensive perfume couldn't cover the stink.
Then a raspy old voice cut through the tension like a butter knife through overcooked turkey.
"Boy," an old wizard wheezed from behind a rickety table, waving like he was auctioning off miracles. "Wanna take the wizard test? Pass, and you'll be equal to Brando in status."
Duke turned. A crystal ball, suspiciously glowy and suspiciously suspicious, sat on the table like it was daring him to be cool.
His heart skipped. Wizard? In the game, he mained wizard. Well, and sometimes warlock when he felt like being edgy. Was this real? Could he do it? Could he go full Ultraman pose and fire off a "Pew Pew Pew"?
Brando, of course, exploded like a toddler denied his favorite toy.
"You worm! You think qualifying as a magic apprentice will protect you?! You're insulting ME, Fam Brando, and my entire bloodline!"
Wilhelm looked like he wanted to vanish. "Duke, don't do it. Apprentice wizards are rarer than a sober dwarf on a festival night. You'll need royal backing to even think about surviving Brando's wrath."
Duke gave him a grin of pure, uncut defiance, then strutted toward the old wizard.
A servant barked, "Hey! You can't just ignore lord Brando like he's background scenery!"
"Let him go," Brando sneered. "Do you think just anyone can become a wizard? These commoners can't even spell 'magic'—what's he gonna do, accidentally light his shoes on fire? Hahaha!"
The crowd's mood split like a cracked shield. Some hoped Duke would succeed and slap some sense into noble arrogance. Others, jaded and broken by life, just expected him to flop like a fish.
Duke ignored them all, fury burning inside him like he'd eaten a whole bag of spicy chips. He slammed his hand on the crystal ball.
"What do I do?" he asked.
The wizard shrugged. "Just... think. Feel the formula. It's basic. Try to summon a spark. That's all."
Duke didn't have time to question reality. Behind him loomed Brando's stink-eye squad. In front of him, a gamble.
Then—SYSTEM ALERT.
"Unknown spell model detected... Integrating host knowledge... Importing thermodynamics... Fluid dynamics... Calculating entropy values... Optimizing magical parameters... Pulling raw fire essence from the Elemental Plane..."
What!?
Glowing red runes burst from the orb like someone just cracked open a piñata full of forbidden math. They swirled around Duke, forming spirals, glowing hotter and brighter.
Then—WHOOSH—a fireball the size of a freakin' water tank burst forth, shrieking through the air like a meteor with a personal vendetta.
BOOM!
The explosion rocked the square like someone had just slapped the entire city.
"HOLY LIGHT ABOVE—"
"WHAT THE HELL!?"
"LEEROY JEEEEENKINS!?"
Screams. Shouts. Guards scrambling. People running for cover. Total, glorious chaos.
Stormwind's security was on it. Guards at posts stayed. Patrol teams locked in. Resting soldiers leapt out of their beds like cats hearing a vacuum cleaner.
Another captain roared in with an armed squad like, "Alright, who just exploded the newbie camp!?"
Duke just stood there, covered in sparks and swirling smoke, looking like a freshly baked demigod. Brando's jaw was on the floor. Civilians? Eyes wide. Hearts racing. Mouths silent.
The ragged commoner just turned into the stuff of legend.
The boy who threw a fireball the size of a cart.
And it wasn't over yet.
Because now... everyone was watching.