"Hellfire!"
From the edge of the battlefield, Galen caught sight of the chaos erupting at the center. He immediately recognized the warlock's signature summoning—Hellfire. Another warlock was already beginning the ritual for a Fearguard. Without hesitation, Galen silently issued a command through the Heart of Origin to the fifty priests he had embedded within Lothar's central army: watch for opportunities to dispel.
Priestly dispel magic could nullify all mystical effects within a given radius, and wreak havoc on summoned creatures. It was one of the most effective counters to conjured horrors—capable of purging illusions, invisibility, and even destabilizing summoning spells.
And Hellfire was just such a creature.
Galen gave the signal. It was time. The knights would begin their charge.
The arrival of the Hellfire had devastated the human vanguard—entire formations incinerated in an instant. Lothar saw the flaming juggernaut tear through his ranks and knew he had to act. He could not allow these living infernos to tear apart the army unchecked.
"Medivh!" he roared. "Find a way to deal with those burning monsters!"
"All troops—attack!"
Lothar lowered the visor of his helm and gripped the great Royal Sword. His warhorse surged forward, eating up the hundred-meter distance in seconds. Behind him, the surviving members of the Iron Horse Brotherhood charged into the fray, striking hard into the orc flank.
The Royal Sword was a massive weapon, meant for two hands. Lothar wielded it with one, cutting down orcs with brutal efficiency. None could withstand a single blow. Corpses piled around him as he carved a bloody path, orders drowned in the chaos. Now, only stamina and will would decide the battle.
Medivh moved with the main force, eyes locked on a nearby Hellfire. A beam of blue energy lanced from his outstretched hand and slammed into the creature's chest. It staggered, green flames flickering—then collapsed, extinguished.
But as Medivh turned toward the next one, a Shadow Bolt streaked toward his back.
Swish! Swish!
He vanished, reappearing fifty meters away after two quick teleports. Shields of arcane energy shimmered around him. His eyes scanned the field until he spotted the source—a tall orc surrounded by warriors, crowned with curling demonic horns.
"A demon?" Medivh muttered. The orc invasion was clearly more than tribal warfare—it reeked of demonic influence. He would take this spellcaster alive. He needed answers.
As he moved to engage, the priest-wizard team followed behind Lothar, slipping toward the rampaging Hellfires. The wizards fended off stray orcs with a barrage of Frostbolts and Fireballs. Once close enough, the priests unleashed a volley of dispels. The summoned creature crackled and hissed, green fire snuffed out like water over coals. It collapsed into a heap of inert stone.
Then they advanced to the next one.
Lothar fought like a whirlwind. His guards matched his fury, charging with merciless precision. Orcs were cut down, maimed, disarmed, or trampled underfoot. A legendary warrior in the thick of it, Lothar was relentless.
Yet only thirty minutes had passed since the first clash, and already thousands lay dead. It took nearly three humans to kill a single orc—and the lopsided ratio gnawed at Lothar's heart. This was the first large-scale battle against the orcs, and the toll was higher than expected.
RUMBLE. RUMBLE.
Then came the sound of hooves—Galen's heavily armored knights. Their charge, now at full speed, was thunder incarnate. Galen led the front line, flanked by Uther, Dathrohan, Danath, and Tirion. The five formed the tip of the spear, while the crimson-armored knights behind them made the blade. Compared to the earlier silver infantry, this was a full torrent of red-steel might.
Galen's strategy was surgical. The knights didn't plunge blindly into the orc ranks—they struck along the edges, cutting off small groups, isolating them, and finishing them off. It was like slicing a cake, bit by bit, each pass carving away the orc numbers while avoiding entrapment.
On another flank, Gavinrad led a second knight unit—the elite of the Iron Horse Brotherhood. He mirrored Galen's tactics, carving the orc lines like a sculptor with a blade. The results were devastating.
The orc rear ranks roared in fury, their expressions twisted with rage. They tried to stand their ground, but the knights crashed through them like a tidal wave, crushing ribs and caving in chests. Most never rose again.
"Warlocks! Where are the warlocks? Stop those riders!"
Orc wolf riders were present, but they weren't bred for direct confrontation. Their role was to harass, not to clash with steel-plated juggernauts. Against heavy cavalry, they would be slaughtered along with their wolves.
A group of orcs stepped forward, cloaked in dark robes, staffs gripped in bony hands. Black spikes jutted from their backs, adorned with tiny skulls—the warlocks.
Kill them.
Galen yanked his reins and turned his mount, eyes fixed on the dark-robed figures. But before he could reach them, something even more menacing appeared.
A squad of demon guards emerged—towering brutes nearly four meters tall, wielding massive battle axes. They charged, blocking the knights' advance.
Behind them, the warlocks began chanting.
"Paladins!" Galen bellowed. "Exorcism spells! Prepare—release!"
Holy light burst forward, striking the demon guards. The creatures shrieked as divine fire scorched them, the radiant power like acid on their demonic flesh.
"Disperse! Divine Wrath—now!"
A wave of golden light exploded outward. The demon guards disintegrated where they stood. In an instant, the battlefield was cleared.
High above, on a peak in the Redridge Mountains, a lone observer watched the chaos unfold with bemused interest.
"Heh. Medivh's actually getting pushed around by a warlock? Didn't see that coming."
"Tsk, tsk—Lothar's got fifty-eight kills already. Still got it, old man."
But when Galen's knights entered the field, clad in unfamiliar red armor, the figure leaned forward.
"Red armor? Huh… they're not from Stormwind."
Then came the burst of holy light, vaporizing the demon guards in one sweep.
The expression on the watcher's face changed.
It was a small gnome woman. She narrowed her eyes and growled.
"Paladins. And this early? So, you're the one! You made me cross the Bay of Baradin, slog through a blizzard on Dun Morogh for two damn days, and now this?! You brat—I've finally found you!"