"Save the world? You?!" The room exploded like a shaken potion bottle.
"The world's safe because Lord Medivh's got it covered! You don't have to lift a finger, kid!" a pompous mage barked, chest puffed out like a rooster on parade.
"How dare a mere apprentice,barely out of diapers,dream of outshining the great Guardian!?" spat another, eyes blazing with scandalized disbelief.
"Edmund Duke! You're not just insulting the Grand Wizard! You're insulting this entire hallowed magic palace! Do you know where you are, boy?!" roared a third, veins pulsing in his neck as if about to explode.
The apprentices had no real say in this storm, but the big dogs,the elite Stormwind court mages who owed their robes and shiny hats to Medivh's favor, were frothing like dragons with indigestion. The apprentices, who'd just been green with envy over Duke, slunk back to the shadows, eyes glittering with malicious glee, hungry to witness a real fireworks show: Duke getting roasted alive.
At first, the words were formal accusations. A few seconds later? The mages turned on the verbal venom full blast,necks flushed crimson, mouths agape wide enough to swallow a goblin whole—as they unleashed an unholy torrent of insults so cutting and scathing they'd make a banshee blush.
Medivh, ever the dignified gent despite the storm, furrowed his brow in what might have been mild disapproval.
Duke? Duke was stunned.
Turns out, trolls aren't just in the forest. They flourish in every world.
And these trolls? They didn't even need a reason to troll, but if they had one, their verbal artillery was basically the nuclear option.
Insults rained down like fireballs in a siege. The hall echoed with curses, jabs, and snide remarks—endless, brutal, and merciless.
And Medivh, well, let's be honest, Medivh was just adding fuel to the fire. Or more accurately, the demon inside him was.
He could have stopped the barrage with a single gesture, a few carefully chosen words to hush the mob.
But he didn't.
Because Sargeras's grand plan was working perfectly: pressure, humiliation, mental collapse,then the kneeling, the tears, the submission at his demonic feet.
But Duke? Duke just stood there, like a stubborn rock in a raging river, chest out, shoulders squared, unshaken by the thousand daggers of words thrown his way.
Little did Sargeras realize Duke wasn't just any kid.
No, Duke was a time traveler.
And right now, his mind wasn't on the insults, or even Medivh's eerie calm. No.
His thoughts were running laps in his head like a caffeinated griffon.
"Good thing I landed in Azeroth early—this is the calm before the storm, the last sweet breath before the chaos."
"But bad thing? These guys have been spoiled by peace for so long, they're as soft as butter left out in the sun."
Long peace makes kingdoms complacent.
Complacency breeds arrogance, arrogance breeds rot.
But the worst part? The nobles and mages, drunk on their own hereditary power, thought their birthright was a license to scoff at anyone who dared dream beyond the status quo.
It wasn't just personal offense.
It was the system biting back.
Because Medivh's family line was the ultimate aristocratic dynasty his mother Aegwynn, the legendary immortal guardian who held the fate of Azeroth in her hands for over 800 years, passed her mantle to him.
And here was Duke, a mere mortal, tossing a gauntlet at that eternal legacy, daring to say he'd surpass it.
Sacrilege.
Duke smiled bitterly to himself.
No matter the world, history loves to replay itself.
Empires rise, fall, and rise again—and this world was no different.
Since he was stuck in this timeline, tied to Azeroth's fate like a ship anchored in a storm, he had no choice but to act.
All the yelling faded, the fingers pointing at him blurred, and the noble mages around him looked like puppets in a badly run shadow play.
Duke, the time traveler, tuned into the pulse of Azeroth's fate, feeling the terrifying unstoppable tide rushing toward him.
He recalled his purpose as a traveler between worlds.
At first, confusion reigned:
What can I do?
What should I do?
Maybe survival alone is enough.
But now, clarity cracked the horizon.
What about fate?
Fight it.
Turn it upside down.
Break the chains.
Never bow to destiny.
I, Duke, will be the master of my own damn fate.
The room was full of furious, murderous glares.
He was the only odd one out—a weak boy who should be trembling, begging for mercy.
But no.
A roaring wildfire surged through his veins, pounding from his heart like a thousand stampeding horses, lighting every nerve and cell with passion and power.
His lips curved in a quiet, deadly smile.
Anger? Sure. A sneer? Possibly.
But it was as if his soul floated above the hall, gazing down on these so-called mighty mages—cowards all—frozen in their outrage.
His vision cut through time and space.
He saw it all: Stormwind City razed by orcish flames, the proud human kingdom burning to the ground.
He saw Anduin Lothar's charge, the fiery retaking, the phoenix-like rebirth of the city and its people.
Then destroyed again.
Then reborn.
The indomitable human spirit captured perfectly in the battered stones of Stormwind.
Thousands of heroes forged in the furnace of crisis.
And here he was.
Finally part of the epic.
Suddenly, Duke burst out laughing.
"Hahahaha! Hahahaha! Hahahahahaha—"
His arrogant laughter shattered the silence, silencing every curse, freezing every pointed finger mid-air.
The mages were dumbstruck.
Duke's gaze swept the room like a king surveying a crowd of grumbling peasants.
"So it turns out," he said, voice dripping with irony, "that just dreaming of surpassing a legend is blasphemy."
"That just not wanting to be ordinary is a mortal sin in your eyes."
"Stormwind's Royal School of Magic? Narrow-minded and small. No wonder all the real wizards flock to Dalaran, not this backwater."
"Well then, since you all won't have me, I'm out. Ta-ta, folks!"
"Or and here's a fun question do you want to execute me for offending the Guardian, Lord Medivh? I'm all ears."