But hold on, the nightmare was just getting ward up. No, worse than that—it was about to snowball into sheer madness.
These weren't just words popping up. No, no. These were pure, unfiltered SYSTEM PROMPTS—like a relentless spam bot unleashed on Duke's poor eyeballs:
"Fluid chanics and Introduction to Heating, Ventilation, and Air Conditioning detected. Thermal knowledge streaming in... So, turns out air conditioning isn't magic—it's just moving heat from one place to another. Who knew? Spell model optimization in progress... Optimization complete. When you fire Frost Arrow, you can now extract the fire elent in advance to instantly suck heat between you and your target, carving an ice highway perfectly paved for freezing fury."
"You have unlocked the ultra-super-duper magic feat of elental spell Ice Classification: Ice Trail. Your icy projectiles now deal 33% more frostbite and zip through the air 45% faster. If you want more perks, keep feeding your data—I'm a bottomless info buffet!"
"Based on the new info, your Blizzard spell now cos with a special 'scatter like confetti' mode—attack radius boosted by 40%, power dialed down by 20%. Spread that chill around like holiday cheer!"
It was like Duke's brain had been hit with a thousand fluorescent green text ssages all at once. His eyes scread in protest as knowledge flooded in—magic secrets, college lessons he thought were lost to the abyss of cramming and forgetting, and random HVAC tidbits that made his head spin faster than a wizard's staff in a hurricane.
College for Duke? Pfft. Just a glorified playground for procrastination and last-minute cramming. Exams? Three days of caffeine-fueled morization, then instant amnesia the mont the test was over.
Yet here it was, all that "forgotten" wisdom resurrected by the AI system like so kind of academic zombie apocalypse.
Duke was just starting to process this overload when—BAM!—the sand in the giant hourglass ran out, and the scene twisted and morphed again.
Now Duke was standing on a chessboard. But not so tiny, dainty board — this thing was magnified like he'd shrunk down to bug size. He was teetering on the edge of a pristine white square, and three ters away—his opponent appeared: a young, nervous-looking wizard apprentice with zero chill and way too much twitchiness.
The newbie wasted no ti trying to cast ice arrows. Or, more accurately, trying to hold back his ice arrows.
Forgive Duke for this, but watching the guy struggle was like witnessing the world's worst constipation. Seriously, the poor kid looked like he was about to burst—but the spell just wouldn't co out.
Now, casting a spell normally is like a magical dance: call the elental spirits, gather the right energy, shape it, release it in a beautiful symphony of frost and fury.
Even with the process simplified to "ntal connection plus elental energy equals spell," it was still a colossal pain for a newbie who barely knew the basics.
So yeah, the other guy was trying to give Duke a fighting chance by holding back his fire—or rather, his ice. But Duke wasn't having it.
Thanks to the system whispering sweet formulae in his ear, Duke knew this was the poor sap's third failed attempt in two seconds flat. The first two failures were elental communication breakdowns; the third was just a pathetic energy shortfall.
That pathetic sliver of ice was less "freezing arrow" and more "frosty sneeze."
Duke gave the poor apprentice a gift: a swift and rciless beatdown.
Horse stance solid as a rock, left hook, right hook—bam—ga over.
In the grand hall of the School of Magic, a dozen elite mages stared at the giant "oil painting" screen showing Duke's battle like they'd just seen a heretic insult the very foundation of arcane knowledge.
Silence fell, thick and heavy.
Finally, an elderly wizard barked in outrage: "This is blasphemy against the sacred halls of magic! Norton, this is the prodigy you touted as the most talented apprentice in the entire batch?!"
Old Norton was about to defend his pick when a cool voice interrupted:
"No. Edmund Duke made the right call. You've sheltered this kid in lee's warm embrace for so long, you forgot one critical fact: it's deadly for a wizard to get stuck casting slow spells without keeping their distance."
The old wizard was left speechless.
Round two: Duke's opponent, clearly a level or two above, finally unleashed a proper Frost Arrow. Distance stretched to ten ters, but Duke? Pfft. Child's play.
Why?
Because that frosty shot took eight excruciating seconds to cast.
Duke, with a grin, danced out of the casting range like a cheeky rogue dodging taxes, sidestepping the slow-motion ice missile with effortless swagger—and then decked his opponent with a couple of quick punches.
Back by the oil painting, the old wizard glared at the voice of reason: "Explain this!"
"Simple," the other wizard shrugged. "No matter how powerful a spell is, it's useless if it never hits the target."
The old wizard had no coback for that. Nada.
Level three, four, five... sa story. The spellcasting speed improved, but Duke's approach was unchanged—punch first, ask questions later. The grumbling among the senior mages grew louder.
"Hey! This isn't a battle royale between mages and bar brawlers! We're recruiting wizards, not street fighters!"
Just when things were about to spiral into chaos, Duke dropped the mic with:
Level 1 Ice Arrow.
And just like that—it was devastating.
The casual onlooker might have seen a simple Frost Arrow, but the true magic crowd gasped.
Why?
Because Duke's arrow was a masterpiece of precision and speed completely nailing the landing spot between the opponent's eyes, then splitting with surgical cruelty to pierce both eyeballs like a frozen double tap.
Physically, the damage was enough to floor any normal opponent.
Magically, it was an ice-cold declaration of "I'm not just lucky I'm a freakin' genius."
"Hissss!" The room echoed with shocked gasps.
One word ca to mind for every wizard watching this trainwreck-turned-masterpiece: GENIUS!
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