"I've never seen such luxury! Not since that incident with the Duke of Gnos and his solid gold chamber pot!" the ancient librarian wheezed, his voice sounding suspiciously like a dying badger caught in a rusty wind chis. He squinted at Duke, his eyes, tiny pinpricks in a landscape of wrinkles, gleaming with a mixture of bewildered awe and profound, professional offense.
Not only was this young whippersnapper obscenely generous, practically throwing gold coins around like they were stale breadcrumbs, but he was also, apparently, a little bit silly. Or perhaps, utterly, magnificently insane.
The administrator of the Stormwind Royal Academy of Magic's hallowed library was an old man who looked less like he was "about to die" and more like he'd already been dead for a few centuries and was rely animating his own decaying husk out of sheer, stubborn spite. His face, a veritable topographical map of wrinkles, sagged and folded like an ancient Mastiff dog that had seen too many winters and far too many bad decisions. Yet, despite his outwardly decrepit appearance, Duke could clearly, palpably feel the abundant, almost thrumming arcane energy radiating from the old man's wizened form.
The system AI, ever the blunt instrunt of truth, had already judged the old man's strength level as "red skull"! In other words, this walking, wheezing, seemingly-about-to-choke-to-death-when-swallowing-saliva relic was actually a boss-level existence, a veritable arcane titan whose strength far, far surpassed Duke's own burgeoning power.
Duke's face, usually a picture of smug confidence, flushed a rather unbecoming shade of crimson. A deep, unsettling thought word its way into his brain: Should we say that Stormwind City is worthy of being the second most powerful human magic sanctuary after Dalaran? Or should we just say that every single librarian here is secretly a demigod of destruction?
"Young man," the old man rasped, his voice rattling like dry bones in a sack, "I know you possess a talent so great it probably makes the stars jealous, but no matter how prodigious your innate ability, you cannot, by the very laws of magic and sanity, hope to master the entire, boundless ocean of magic. The magic here, in this very library, can be divided into nine major schools, naly: Protection, Conjuration, Divination, Enchantnt, Illusion, Necromancy, Abjuration, Evocation, and Transmutation. Take the Transmutation school, for instance, which you, my dear boy, seem to be most comfortable with. Transmutation is the fundantal shaping of energy, which is itself further divided into smaller, equally complex sub-schools such as Fire, Frost, and Arcane. It's not a simple cookbook, you know!"
"Uh, yes, I know that," Duke replied, trying to sound bored, as if this was all terribly elentary. Internally, he was screaming, Nine schools?! I thought there were only five! And sub-schools?! Oh, for the love of all that is holy!
"You know there are so many schools, and yet you still harbor the utterly delusional ambition to learn them all?!" the old man scoffed, a wheezing, sardonic laugh escaping his lips. "Do you know that even if, by so miracle of the cosmos, you could learn all the second-level spells that an Apprentice Wizard can learn, attempting to cram so many spells into your tender young mind will, at the very least, make your beard grow an inch longer! And you don't even have a beard yet!"
"It's not that exaggerated!" Duke retorted, waving a dismissive hand, trying to act nonchalant about re Level 2 magic, as if it were child's play. He kept spouting platitudes about how magic was actually very easy to learn, especially for soone of his unparalleled intellect. He even boasted, with a completely straight face, that he was a genius with master qualifications, a true prodigy among prodigies.
In fact, all of this bluster was rely a desperate, frantic attempt to conceal the glorious, ga-breaking, utterly unfair fact that he possessed a system that could learn magic instantly, with the re flick of a ntal switch.
As he was talking, perhaps a little too loudly, and certainly with far too much bravado, Duke decided to provide irrefutable proof that he was not, in fact, lying. With a casual, almost bored flick of his wrist, he pulled out a Level 2 magic spell, Ice Armor, and proceeded to demonstrate it for the ancient, skeptical librarian.
Instantly, Duke's connection to the boundless, frigid expanse of the Ice Elental World flared to life. A massive amount of cold air, so pure it made the very dust motes in the library shudder, was mobilized from the void, swirling and condensing around Duke's body. A cold, brilliant white light surged from his arms, quickly, almost impossibly, covering Duke's arms at a speed visible to the naked eye, like a living, breathing glacier.
Not only his arms, but his legs, his torso, every inch of his being flashed with that cold, pristine white light. The white light covered Duke's torso and limbs in a streamlined, almost aerodynamic shape, solidifying into what should have been a simple, functional ice shell.
It is almost impossible for an ordinary wizard, even a highly gifted one, to learn a spell formula the very mont he cos into contact with it, let alone cast it with such effortless mastery. Even if Master divh, a renowned expert, were asked to learn and instantly use a Level 2 spell he had never seen before, not everyone could accomplish such a feat. It would take weeks, months, years of painstaking practice.
Other wizards' Ice Armor was considered good enough if it rely had the basic appearance of armor and could cover the wizard's vital points, a crude, icy shell.
But Duke?
He actually made a fancy move out of a re Ice Armor spell. He didn't just cast it; he sculpted it.
The King's Plate Armor Set, oh, excuse , the Stormwind Guard's full body ceremonial armor set, suddenly materialized in shimring ice directly in front of the old man. It wasn't just armor; it was a work of art.
The orderly, layered shoulder armor, each plate perfectly articulated. The gleaming, almost blinding breastplate, sculpted with such precision it looked like polished steel. The solid, protective waist skirt armor, flowing seamlessly. It was already a feat of staggering magical artistry to be able to create these using a simple Ice Armor spell.
But do you know what Duke actually created?
He even painstakingly crafted a chain mail made of tiny, intricate ice rings to protect the upper arms, each link perfectly ford, shimring with frozen light. As for the majestic lion head carvings, the iconic symbols of Stormwind, emblazoned on the belt and arm armor? He did those too, with breathtaking detail, each icy mane flowing with frozen majesty.
Except for the fact that it had no color, being made entirely of translucent ice, this was exactly the standard, parade-ready equipnt for Stormwind soldiers! It was so perfect, you almost expected it to clank.
As soon as the old man, his jaw now hanging open like a broken trapdoor, saw it, he no longer harbored any doubts about Duke's talent and ability. All skepticism evaporated, replaced by a profound, soul-shaking shock... and a deep, simring resentnt in his ancient heart.
Is it truly so easy to practice magic?! he thought, a bitter, self-pitying wail echoing in his mind. Has my entire life been a lie?!
If it was really that easy to practice, the Stormwind Royal School of Magic wouldn't have to send a large number of exhausted, perpetually frustrated recruiters every year to scour the entire country, or even the seven human kingdoms, for even a flicker of magical talent. Every year, tens of thousands of hopefuls would take the grueling test, only for a re few dozen, if they were lucky, to be found with even a modicum of talent for magic.
Among these precious few dozen, most of them were still barely qualified, recruited by the Magic Academy reluctantly, with the desperate ntality that even if they couldn't be trained as formal magicians, it would be good to find so apprentices to help out with the endless chores and potion stirring.
With the help of ti, a truly dedicated (and possibly masochistic) apprentice might, might, beco a formal Apprentice Wizard before the ripe old age of 40, and then, perhaps, join the wizard corps as a fighting force, a minor cog in the grand arcane machine.
Therefore, in the hallowed halls of the magic academy, it was not uncommon to see apprentices in their forties or fifties, still struggling with basic cantrips. So Duke's age, let alone among formal mages, was already ridiculously, infuriatingly young even among apprentices. He was practically a magical toddler.
When Duke had initially given up on becoming divh's disciple, the old man had still felt a pang of resentnt, a good seedling, a potential world-changer, seemingly ruined by a foolish decision.
But how long had it been since then?
About a month. A re, insignificant, blink-of-an-eye month.
In just one month, Duke's strength had inexplicably, terrifyingly, skyrocketed from a first-class Earth Wizard to a fifth-class one. It was like watching a snail suddenly transform into a supersonic jet.
If it were another wizard, with such impossibly rapid progress, they would have already had catastrophic problems: disordered magic circuits, a mind fractured by too much raw power, or over-developnt leading to irreversible damage to their arcane conduits and a drastically reduced potential. They'd be drooling in a padded cell, muttering about sparkly things.
But Duke?
You could clearly feel the elental power circulating slowly, smoothly, and incredibly orderly in Duke's body. The extrely gentle elents, like purring kittens, hid an unimaginable, world-shattering violence. As long as Duke was willing, these elents could be transford into the most violent, scorching flas or the most biting, soul-freezing frost at any given mont, ready to utterly obliterate Duke's enemies.
It's only one month!
One month is plenty of ti? Even if Duke had been accepted as divh's core disciple and started training from the very beginning, he would not have been able to make such terrifying, solid, and utterly unfair progress in just one month.
Even divh, who was known as the Guardian with the greatest talent in all of Azeroth, could only improve at this speed. And even he, when he was a child, was carefully guided by the strongest wizard in Azeroth at that ti – his own mother, the legendary Aegwynn! Duke, apparently, had no such parental guidance, just a suspiciously helpful system AI.
The old man himself, a paragon of diligent study, had practiced from the first-class Apprentice to the fifth-class, a journey that had taken him a full year and a half of grueling, mind-numbing effort.
This is in Stormwind Kingdom, the second most powerful human wizard nation after Dalaran, a veritable bastion of arcane knowledge.
For those poor, wandering wizards in small, forgotten places who could not receive orthodox magic education, if they could make such progress in five years through their own painstaking, often dangerous, research, it was already a major event worthy of celebration for the whole town, probably involving a lot of bad singing and even worse ale.
Facing Duke, the old man was completely, utterly speechless. His mind, already strained by decades of arcane study, simply short-circuited.
Such rapid progress in just one month, and such an incredibly solid foundation, were not only a shock to him.
There was more – a crushing, soul-destroying strike!
Comparing yourself with others will only make you angry! And the old man was now incandescent with a rage born of professional jealousy.
Is the master talent really so terrifying and amazing?! Or is this kid just cheating?!
The old man was deeply, profoundly, existentially shocked. His entire life's work felt like a child's sandcastle next to Duke's gleaming, ice-sculpted fortress.
Glancing once again at Duke, who looked utterly matter-of-fact, without a single trace of self-satisfaction, as if conjuring perfect ice armor was as mundane as tying his shoelaces, the old man muttered to himself: This kid would still be a monster even among the high elves. A truly, utterly terrifying, infuriating monster.
Duke, however, had no ti to care about the old man's rapidly deteriorating ntal state or his simring resentnt.
He was currently stunned by the sheer, overwhelming, utterly ludicrous spell list of the Royal School of Magic. It was less a list and more a to of impending doom.
He genuinely couldn't figure out whether, in the original ga, the wizard's spells were deliberately reduced to beco a purely attacking and controlling magic profession, a simplified, combat-focused archetype, or whether Azeroth originally had so many, many more spells than he ever knew. It was like discovering the entire universe was contained within a single, very thick book.
The Grease and Hidden Mist of the Conjuration Departnt... The prophecy-type Identification... Enchantnt: Hypnosis... And so, so much more.
When the old man, his face now a mask of triumphant mockery (despite his inner turmoil), brought out a pile of single spell books, stacked as high as a small hill, Duke felt a distinct, very real scalp-tingling sensation. It was less a tingle and more a full-blown existential dread.
But now that the big talk had been made, now that he had boasted about his unparalleled genius, it must be learned! He had to pretend to be cool to the very end, even if he had to cry himself to sleep every night, surrounded by a mountain of arcane textbooks. The show, after all, must go on. And Duke was nothing if not a perforr.
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