At this point in ti, Reginald Windsor was just a naless, run-of-the-mill soldier. A knight candidate so green you could plant him in the Elwynn Forest and expect him to sprout. He was indistinguishable from the tens of thousands of raw recruits under Anduin Lothar—boys who'd never slled blood, never heard the crunch of steel through bone, and who would likely be bisected by an orc axe before they even finished drawing their swords.
Even in the future, Reginald wouldn't beco a powerhouse by any stretch of the imagination. Sure, he could handle your average brigand or drunk rcenary in a bar brawl, but against real threats? A tribal warlord, a nad champion, or even a half-decent dungeon boss? Forget it—he'd be pancaked faster than a gnoll under a catapult.
He had no peerless swordsmanship, no sky-shaking charisma, no legendary feats. Not even a signature move. His rise through the ranks wasn't from battlefield glory or miraculous victories—it was pure, grinding seniority. Slow, steady, and just a bit boring.
And yet... it was this unremarkable Reginald Windsor who would one day be hailed as a marshal, a paragon of Stormwind, a legend immortalized not just by people and soldiers, but by the countless players of a certain World of Warcraft.
Why?
Because Reginald Windsor was loyal.
Not the wavering, speech-making, politician's loyalty. No. His loyalty was unshakable, indomitable, and downright irrational. The kind of loyalty that made you march into a volcano with a rusty sword because "Stormwind needs ."
Decades after this mont, when the king of Stormwind mysteriously vanished, and the capital's noble class began acting more like drunk peacocks than rulers, Windsor took notice. While aristocrats drowned in silk sheets and wine goblets, the outer regions of the kingdom were left to rot.
In Westfall, Gryan Stoutmantle ford a militia from starving farrs and ex-cons. In Duskwood, Duke Elroy Ebonlocke rallied his people under the banner of the Night's Watch. Heroes rose because Stormwind's light no longer reached its farthest corners.
And in the midst of this decay, when rumors of orcs and even black dragons stirring in the Burning Steppes spread, Reginald Windsor, by then a hardened but still humble soldier, couldn't sit idle.
He requested to lead forces to the front lines. Countess Katrana Prestor—the ever-influential beauty lounging in the halls of power—objected fiercely. With her backing, even the stoic Bolvar Fordragon hesitated. Windsor, too stubborn for court politics and too honest to grovel, stord out and marched alone to the front. Or rather, he was politely exiled.
He went anyway. Alone, if need be. He rallied troops on the ground, organized defenses, and stood firm as the Blackrock Orcs began their advance. And then? Bam. Captured by Dark Iron Dwarves during a brutal raid. Tossed into a prison carved into the roots of the mountain, where the sun had never shone.
But Windsor did not break.
In his cell, amidst damp stone and echoing silence, he pieced together the web of lies. The king's disappearance. The nobles' apathy. Prestor's uncanny influence. The puzzle ford an image too terrifying to ignore.
The Countess was not what she seed.
Years later, Duke and a ragtag band of adventurers stumbled across a mysterious note in Blackrock Depths. When they passed it to the ragged but still-burning Windsor, hope reignited in his eyes.
Evidence. A chance. A spark.
With two stone tablets and a party of heroes, Windsor tore through prison bars and Dark Iron thugs. He marched, wounded but resolute, to Stormwind. All along the path, soldiers saluted, kneeling to their forr comrade.
He confronted the royal court. Five of the Second War's greatest heroes bore witness. There, in the heart of the kingdom, he used the stone tablets to unveil the truth:
Countess Katrana Prestor was Onyxia, the black dragon princess, cloaked in human guise.
Enraged, Onyxia lashed out. Windsor took the blow ant for the world, collapsing beneath the fury of a wyrm. Even Bolvar, now awakened to the truth, fought back and slaughtered Onyxia's disguised minions—but Windsor was already dying.
With a smile, he embraced death. For the kingdom. For the truth. For honor.
Back in the present, Duke found himself staring out the window, lost in thought. The early morning sun brushed the horizon, a golden shimr lighting up the edges of the city.
Though he had only been in this world for a few days, everything had felt like a whirlwind of panic, decision-making, and destiny tugging at his sleeves.
He laughed quietly.
Once upon a ti, just hearing the nas "Stormwind City," "Karazhan," or "Dark Portal" in a movie trailer would've been enough to give him goosebumps. Back then, he'd road these lands as "Little Devil Furyon," a goofy fire mage whose spells sotis misfired more than they hit.
Warcraft may have aged, and younger gars mocked it for its pixelated nostalgia and creaky combat systems, but to Duke, it was sacred.
How many sleepless nights had he logged in, mounted his white griffin, and soared over the starlit kingdoms? How many tis had he stood at the edge of the world, gazing into the unknown, his heart full of wonder?
When the Warcraft movie premiered, he had rallied old guildmates, bought dozens of tickets, and forced them all into a theater just to give it the numbers it deserved.
Back then, that was his way of saying thank you.
But now?
"Now... I've found a better way to protect her," Duke whispered.
The Dark Portal would open.
Sargeras, riding divh's mortal coil, was a threat beyond comprehension. Even united, the world might not survive.
But it wasn't about victory. It was about defiance. About planting your feet in the dirt and saying, "Not today."
The sunlight kissed Duke's face. He felt its warmth like a heartbeat. His heartbeat.
He looked down at the list in his hand and jabbed his finger at a na.
"Hello, Captain Garcia. I want him."
"Him?" Garcia looked baffled. More than baffled, actually. His face scrunched up like soone who just bit into a lemon made of confusion. "You're serious? Reginald Windsor?"
Duke raised an eyebrow. "Is there a problem?"
"No, no. If his na is on the list, that ans Lord Lothar personally approved him. I'm just... surprised. You had a very strong reaction."
Duke flashed a grin. That classic smirking grin of soone who knew more than he let on.
"Because," he said with the gravitas of a bard revealing the climax of a saga, "I sensed the bond of fate!"
Garcia blinked.
"...Is that a wizard thing?"
"Oh, very much so," Duke said with a wink. "And fate just told : follow the rookie with a death wish and the unbreakable spine."
And just like that, the wheel of destiny turned.
The little-known soldier Reginald Windsor was chosen.
Not by chance.
But by fate, wrapped in the robes of a sarcastic, ga-loving, dinsion-hopping wizard nad Duke.
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