A prodigy so rare he only crops up once every millennium—or maybe once every cosmic century if you ask the right old wizard with a long beard and a suspicious twinkle in his eye.
Even divh's legendary apprentice, Khadgar, hadn't pulled off such jaw-dropping feats at the tender age of 13 or 14. No sir, this was a whole new level of ridiculous talent, the kind that made senior mages choke on their tea and mutter under their breath.
The only rival in the talent departnt? The modern-day world guardian himself—divh!
Wait. Who's divh? Strap in, because this guy's family tree reads like the royal dynasty of arcane badassery:
His mother, Aegwynn—the fiercest guardian the Council of Tirisfal had seen in over a thousand years. She was basically the secret weapon dread up by the Magocrats Council of Dalaran (the holy Hogwarts of human mages) and the Silvermoon Council of the high elves way out in Quel'Thalas. Their mission? Stop the world from burning, exploding, or getting totally wrecked by evil cosmic forces.
Oh, and his dad? Nielas Aran, a Stormwind court magician who's the kind of guy you whisper about in hallowed halls. Less flashy but no less formidable.
Pure red bloodline magic royalty.
But here cos Duke—this scrappy kid from so no-na mountain valley, probably famous only for goats and questionable mushrooms—breaking the mold with a talent so insane it had mages questioning reality and their life choices.
In the mage world, lineage usually mattered. Most wizards were born into bloodlines or schools—so families literally pumped out magic prodigies like a factory on overti. The Stormwind Royal School of Magic, pulling apprentices from every corner of the human realm and even the high elf kingdom, typically didn't care where you ca from. They were desperate for raw talent because, let's be honest, good mages were about as rare as a goblin who doesn't haggle.
If Duke beca their apprentice? Oh boy. That would be the jackpot for any mage master. The kind of jackpot that launches careers, funds research, and inspires epic ballads.
Because a wizard is never just a solo act.
Every great mage has followers, a power base, a mini kingdom of loyal magical minions to ensure funding for cool new spells, crazy experints, and probably a magical throne room sowhere.
Many wizards cozy with the powerful Brando family had their eyes locked on Duke—and imdiately forgot whatever favors or deals the Brandos might have wanted. Forget Brando's petitions.
Grab him!
Whoever snagged Duke as their disciple was looking at skyrocketing fa, political power, and probably a lifeti supply of enchanted scrolls.
Duke's seventh level performance? So explosive it made mages' eyes glow red with a mix of rage, awe, and sheer jealousy.
What did he do?
While his opponent was desperately tossing down a raging Blizzard that crackled like a frozen lightning storm, Duke casually tiptoed around the outer edge, dodging hailstones and ice chips like a ballet dancer on ice—then shot an Ice Arrow through a tiny gap in the storm and nailed his opponent dead-on.
Seven levels? Smashed. Victory? Instant.
The crowd of mages in the observation room jumped to their feet, ready to throw Duke a parade. The one-in-a-thousand-years prodigy, the living legend.
Then ca the shocker:
Duke moved on to the eighth level.
"What?! I thought there were only seven levels!" gasped every wizard simultaneously, their collective jaws hitting the floor like a synchronized spell gone wrong.
They started whispering wild theories—was Duke bending reality? Breaking the system? Cheating with so secret scroll?
anwhile, Duke blinked at the shifting scene, his brain struggling to keep up.
Seven grueling duels had almost erased from his mind the existence of Karazhan chess—and now, this chessboard wasn't a chessboard at all.
From the mages' perspective, they saw Emperor Thoradin leading the human alliance—centered around the Arathi tribe—in a desperate war against the fearso Northern Troll Empire.
But what did Duke see?
A twilight prairie. The air thick with tension and raw power. The heavy breathing of soldiers, the frantic neighing of horses, and the low, nacing growls of massive black-furred wolves grinding their teeth.
Two colossal beasts poised for battle on a vast grassland, the kind of battlefield that would make any rookie pee their pants before the first arrow flew.
The setting sun draped the landscape in fiery orange and red, like the world itself was holding its breath for the bloodshed about to stain the earth.
Nearby, Stormwind's King Llane's hair caught the dying sun, glowing like a beacon of hope or, maybe, impending doom.
And Llane? Llane was the epicenter of this inferno.
If Llane fell, the tribe would claim total victory.
If Warchief Blackhand died, the Alliance would snatch the win.
Duke's gaze followed Llane's, tracing the battle formations etched across the land like war maps burned into his soul.
No longer a chessboard, this was a real battlefield.
Stormwind Commander Lothar's booming voice cracked through the tension:
"Prepare for battle! First formation: shield wall! Wheel the cavalry onto the flanks and prepare to counter the wolf riders!"
Stormwind's nobility might have been rotten at the core, but under Lothar's iron grip, the city guard had beco a force of nature.
Facing orcs twice their size, those soldiers held fast.
Shields slamd into the ground, row after row locking into an impenetrable wall.
Spears glinted coldly in the dying light, forming a deadly hedge around the formation.
Any attacker would bleed dearly trying to break through.
Just five minutes—that's all the ti Duke had before the clash.
King Llane raised his hamr, voice booming like thunder:
"Warriors! Will you let these filthy enemies trample Stormwind's lands? The enemy's arrival ans war is inevitable. Behind you lies your ho—Stormwind City! Many of you may fall here, but your kin will live because of your sacrifice! When we win, our nas will echo through every tavern and every old man's tale in the Eastern Kingdom!"
"For the Alliance—fight!"
Llane's shout sent waves of courage surging through the troops.
Thousands of voices, tens of thousands of wills, rging into one unstoppable force.
Duke, knowing it was all an illusion, felt a spark ignite inside him anyway. Needed. Recognized. Important.
Then, walking up with the confident stride of a battle-hardened hero, Anduin Lothar himself—handso, beard perfectly trimd—patted Duke on the shoulder.
"The magic support strike depends on you," Lothar said with a smile. "With you here, Stormwind won't lose the magical war."
Duke's heart ward, even knowing the man was just a mirage.
"Leave it to !" Duke answered with a grin.
Behind him, a senior wizard from the Stormwind Wizard Corps stepped forward.
"Grand Wizard, the corps will follow your orders. Wherever your spells go, our attacks will follow."
Archers had their lead shooters; wizards had their Grand Wizard.
Duke smiled, feeling the weight of responsibility settle in.
But the Stormwind army soon learned harsh truth.
The Horde warlocks on the other side weren't ssing around.
They unleashed relentless teor Shower spells, turning Stormwind soldiers into crispy critters.
anwhile, Duke's wizard corps looked like a bunch of drunken amateurs, firing spells in every direction like confused fireflies, clueless and chaotic.
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