Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 604: Duke vs. Ner’zhul

Back in his gaming days, Duke never understood why raid bosses always had multiple phases. Now that he was living it, the brutal truth hit him like a ton of bricks—every legendary fighter had an ace up their sleeve that could flip the entire battle on its head.

There ain't no silver bullet in this world.

He'd unleashed Alexstrasza to tear through Ner'zhul's nightmarish demon horde, then deployed his system-controlled clones like disposable chess pieces to drain the bastard's mana reserves dry. But Duke knew better than to count his chickens before they hatched. Ner'zhul definitely had another card to play.

Duke wasn't about to let this son of a bitch slip through his fingers, which meant he'd have to go balls-to-the-wall and scorched-earth the entire battlefield himself.

If he was flying solo, sure, he could dance this deadly tango all night long. Unfortunately, keeping something this explosive under wraps was like trying to hide an elephant in a phone booth.

He could ship Jaina and Rhonin off to Stormwind under the guise of "tactical repositioning." After securing Ilushia's immortality package deal, he'd temporarily relocated her too. But the Windrunner sisters? That was a different beast entirely.

Having badass female heroes as battle partners was a double-edged sword sharper than Frostmourne itself. Sure, they could kick ass and take names alongside him, but they also came with emotional baggage heavier than a dwarven siege engine. Last time Alleria wasn't around, Duke had to drag his half-dead carcass across hell and back to save the Red Dragon Queen, and Alleria had been eating herself alive with guilt ever since. This time, wild horses couldn't drag her away from Duke's side when he faced Ner'zhul.

Since Ner'zhul had the brass balls to show up without his usual crew of heavyweight orc chieftains, strutting around like he owned the place, Duke figured it was time to knock him down a peg or twelve.

"Showtime, people! Let's dance!" Duke's magical message crackled through the air just as another door on the massive platform exploded inward like it had been hit by a runaway kodo beast.

Two golden figures burst through the smoking doorway like avenging angels.

Two paladins astride magnificent warhorses thundered forward—Tirion Fordring and Gavinrad the Dire, looking like the Light's own personal wrecking crew.

Originally, Duke had wanted to recruit all four of the legendary Silver Hand paladins except Turalyon for this suicide mission. But his relationship with King Terenas had gone south faster than a goblin's ethics. After practically mugging the old king for 10 million gold pieces, asking for military favors was like trying to squeeze blood from a stone. Even with the fate of Azeroth hanging in the balance, Terenas had hemmed and hawed for ages before finally coughing up Tirion.

The King of Lordaeron's excuse was slicker than a greased pig: Grom Hellscream was breathing down their necks, and Mograine couldn't hold the line alone, so Uther and Saidan were staying put, end of discussion.

Meanwhile, the Kirin Tor had just lost another councilor to Dalaran's latest magical clusterfuck, and now they wouldn't lend Duke a damn apprentice, let alone a battle-mage. Typical wizard politics—couldn't organize a piss-up in a brewery.

So Duke was stuck with the most lopsided five-man team since the dawn of tactical warfare: two paladins, two rangers, and one mage.

If this were a dungeon run, even the most brain-dead raid leader would've laughed his ass off at this composition.

But these five warriors had all crossed into the realm of legends, and each one was a triple-threat killing machine who could probably solo a small army. Don't let the paladins' "swing hammer, smash face" approach fool you—these holy warriors were walking apocalypses who could tank damage like fortified castles, deal punishment like angry gods, and heal wounds that would kill lesser mortals!

For the first time since this whole shitshow started, Ner'zhul's corpse-pale face actually showed some genuine concern. His white war paint was practically sliding off from nervous sweat.

"Aluduta..." The incomprehensible incantation slithered from his rotting lips like a venomous snake, and then a curse so subtle it was practically invisible streaked toward Tirion faster than a crossbow bolt.

At that heart-stopping moment, one of Duke's clones threw himself into harm's way like he was diving on a grenade, absorbed the lethal curse full-force, then promptly keeled over deader than disco.

Tirion wasn't born yesterday—he immediately recognized that Duke's clone had just saved his bacon. But as Uther's right-hand man and one of the most stone-cold paladins in the known world, Tirion's poker face could've won him a fortune in Stormwind's gambling dens. Without missing a beat, he hefted his massive warhammer that blazed with righteous fury, completely ignored the writhing serpents of flame coiling around Ner'zhul, activated his divine protection, and charged straight into the fires of hell itself.

Flames hot enough to melt dragon scales crashed against Tirion's holy barrier like a tsunami of pure destruction, creating a sound like the world's angriest thunderstorm!

This was the ultimate cage match between arcane destruction and divine protection.

The final boss fight between annihilation and salvation.

For a terrifying moment, Tirion felt his knees buckle and his resolve waver.

But his blessed gear from Karazhan's deepest vaults held strong—equipment so legendary that even his battle-brothers Saidan and Turalyon had turned green with envy. As one of the five greatest champions of the Silver Hand, faith in the Light was his foundation, but sometimes you needed the right tools for the job!

"RAAAAAAHHHHH!" Tirion's battle cry could've woken the dead in Westfall as he channeled every burned village, every slaughtered family, every innocent life lost to the Horde's rampage through the Dark Portal. His fury became a weapon sharper than any blade.

A devastating volley of ice shards materialized at the perfect moment, giving Ner'zhul's inferno a much-needed cold shower.

"By the Light's justice—your reckoning has come!" A massive ethereal hammer materialized above the battlefield and plummeted toward Ner'zhul's skull like divine retribution incarnate.

Ner'zhul might not have known jack shit about paladin abilities, but every instinct screamed that his number was about to be permanently retired.

"Like hell!" Finally pushed past his breaking point, Ner'zhul grabbed his ivory necklace like a drowning man clutching driftwood. Those beast fangs, originally crafted with shamanic power and later corrupted with demonic energy, possessed protective magic that would make even dragons think twice.

Seven mystical barriers shimmered into existence around him like layers of an arcane onion.

But the Windrunner sisters weren't about to let him turtle up in peace. Their Storm Arrows arrived like a precision strike from the gods themselves—three volleys of twenty-one arrows each, forcing Ner'zhul to frantically reconfigure his defenses faster than a goblin switching loyalties. Blunt force protection, piercing resistance, elemental immunity—he was juggling more magical effects than a Dalaran apprentice's final exam.

Then Gavinrad's hammer joined the party.

"Damn you all to the Twisting Nether!"

As they say, you can't fight City Hall, and when you're outnumbered this badly, you're basically screwed six ways from Sunday. One-on-one, Ner'zhul could've turned any of these heroes into fertilizer without breaking a sweat. The former shaman had more tricks up his sleeve than a Stormwind street magician. freewёbnoνel.com

But facing this many elite killers simultaneously was like trying to juggle flaming torches while riding a unicycle through a hurricane.

"Pop!" The sound was almost comical—like someone stepping on bubble wrap—as at least five layers of Ner'zhul's magical defenses crumbled like a house of cards.

But wait, there's more!

Another Duke materialized behind Ner'zhul like a bad dream come to life.

This particular clone, supercharged with enough magical energy to level a small town, unleashed an attack that caught Ner'zhul completely off-guard.

Technically speaking, calling it "magic" was like calling a dragon a large lizard.

It looked like some bizarre cross between a sucker punch and ancient martial arts—a palm strike that would've made Bruce Lee weep with pride.

The horizontal palm thrust generated a wind pressure so intense that even Tirion, standing on the opposite side of Ner'zhul, felt like he was facing down a hurricane.

Great Impact FIST

This utterly alien technique, completely foreign to Azeroth's established magical traditions, left Ner'zhul as confused as a murloc in a spelling bee. His half-second hesitation in defense was like leaving the front door wide open during a zombie apocalypse.

When you're getting jumped by multiple legendary fighters, half a second might as well be half an eternity.

Ner'zhul, who'd been standing firm as the Rock of Gibraltar, suddenly found himself stumbling backward like a drunk dwarf.

Gavinrad seized the opening like a hawk diving on a field mouse, delivering a devastating uppercut that would've made heavyweight champions weep.

Even though Ner'zhul's remaining shields held, the impact scrambled his spell-casting abilities worse than a troll's attempt at poetry.

Holy shit! Ner'zhul's heart nearly jumped clean out of his chest!