The Mage Tower—originally designed to be the cozy patron saint of bumbling mage apprentices who couldn't light a candle without setting their robes ablaze. But when this towering monument of magical mayhem, bristling with enough elemental energies to power a small continent, suddenly turned its wrath upon the very mages it was meant to protect and began bombarding them with the fury of a thousand angry elementals, Duke calmly cracked his knuckles and opened countless elemental passages with the casual ease of a man opening his morning mail.
This feat was supposed to be absolutely, categorically, mind-meltingly impossible.
Those who dabble in the mystical arts naturally don't appreciate having magic used against them—it's terribly rude, rather like being stabbed with your own sword while complimenting the craftsmanship.
In the magnificent magical metropolis of Dalaran, where even the pigeons cast minor cantrips, the gateways to the most powerful elemental realms are locked down tighter than a dragon's treasure hoard. Every portal, every dimensional crack, every whisper of otherworldly power is shackled by layers upon layers of magical arrays, prohibitions, and seals so complex they make ancient dwarven tax codes look simple. You can wave your staff around casting parlor tricks and apprentice-level nonsense to your heart's content, but every spell of genuine consequence requires the express written permission of someone higher up the magical food chain, preferably stamped in triplicate.
This means that unless you're foolish enough to dabble in some obscure backwater magic that wouldn't impress a village hedge wizard, every incantation you utter, every bolt of power you unleash, every magical breath you take depends entirely on whether the Kirin Tor Council had a good breakfast that morning.
In the eyes of the two councillors, who considered themselves the final word on all things arcane, it was laughably impossible for Duke—a complete outsider, a magical nobody—to perform high-level sorcery within their sacred domain.
Duke had other plans entirely.
Impossible, you say?
A wicked sneer twisted across Duke's lips, the kind of expression that made hardened veterans check their armor straps.
Do you honestly believe that I've spent ten years floating in the endless void doing absolutely nothing but filing reports and organizing magical paperwork like some cosmic secretary?
Ahem, while it's absolutely true that I devoted considerable time to... educational pursuits involving the Windrunner sisters (purely academic research, naturally), I genuinely did practice magic during those long, dark years!
The most spectacular result of my decade-long magical boot camp was cramming my skull full of enough arcane knowledge to make a library jealous and transforming my system spirits into the most devastatingly efficient magical assistants this side of the Twisting Nether!
Only at this precise moment did the two councillors, their jaws hanging open in dawning horror, notice that Duke had casually grabbed the fallen Antonidas by the collar with all the ceremony of picking up a dropped handkerchief.
Without warning, crackling electricity erupted from Duke's entire body. Against the backdrop of the undead-choked sky that hung over them like a rotting funeral shroud, this lightning writhed and danced upward, tearing through the boiling dark clouds with the enthusiasm of a child ripping open birthday presents, then spreading outward in a magnificent umbrella formation before lancing into every mage tower within sight.
A crimson dot blazed to life between Duke's eyebrows, pulsing with malevolent energy. As this scarlet beacon throbbed with increasing violence, it generated ripples in the very fabric of reality—mysterious waves of power that defied every known principle of arcane theory and made seasoned wizards question their life choices.
These circles of incomprehensible force expanded outward with relentless determination, covering a radius of three to four kilometers and turning the entire battlefield into Duke's personal magical playground.
Kael'thas watched this apocalyptic spectacle with the wide-eyed amazement of a child seeing his first dragon.
He couldn't fathom what Duke had accomplished. One moment he was desperately struggling to activate his own Mage Tower's defenses while fending off the coordinated assault from dozens of towers now controlled by the Scourge's foul influence.
The elemental missiles had been falling upon them in a torrential downpour of destruction, each tower unleashing its fury upon the others in a magical free-for-all that would have made the gods of war weep with joy.
His Mage Tower, backed by the considerable resources and ancient wisdom of Quel'Thalas, was naturally superior to the common towers that dotted Dalaran's skyline. However, city regulations strictly limited the size and grandeur of all magical constructions—even Kael'thas's impressive spire could never match the sheer overwhelming magnificence of the Sunwell Mage Tower.
His position had been growing increasingly desperate. The battlefield was crawling with magical turncoats who had sold their souls to the Scourge for power, and their combined assault was relentless. Two full Archmages and twenty-eight Master-level mage towers of various shapes and sizes had been pummeling his stronghold with the persistence of angry wasps.
Kael'thas had been grimly calculating that if Antonidas's legendary tower joined the attack against him, he would be utterly, spectacularly doomed.
Who could have predicted that in the span of a single heartbeat, the entire battle would flip completely on its head!
The largest and most breathtakingly magnificent seven-story mage tower, standing proud in the very heart of Dalaran City, suddenly erupted in a blinding cascade of ice-blue radiance that could have guided ships through the darkest storm.
"Oh, bloody hell!" Balnazzar, the dreadlord who had been grinning with sadistic glee just moments before as he orchestrated Dalaran's destruction and watched thousands of mage apprentices flee in pure terror, now turned as pale as fresh snow and twice as cold.
Having only recently possessed the great Antonidas, he understood better than anyone the absolutely terrifying nature of the archmage's defensive systems and the mountain of magical power at his disposal.
After their successful ambush, Antonidas's soul had been torn away and presented to Arthas as a trophy. All that remained was the lifeless shell of the old man's body. With nothing but empty flesh and bone, even a dreadlord of considerable power couldn't hope to control Antonidas's tower.
Now that the tower blazed with renewed life, it had absolutely nothing to do with the undead pretender!
The brilliant white light gathering around Antonidas's Mage Tower grew brighter and more intense with each passing second. A colossal hexagonal ice flower materialized in the air above the battlefield, spanning a full kilometer in diameter and floating with ethereal grace. Fed by the enormous magical reserves stored within the tower's crystalline heart, this translucent masterpiece of destruction hovered like the world's most beautiful harbinger of doom.
The liches commanding the Scourge forces finally tilted their skeletal heads upward with characteristic undead awkwardness, their empty eye sockets taking in the massive illusory ice formation. They, along with their shambling minions, watched in growing dread as the gorgeous ice flower began transforming into countless razor-sharp ice arrows, each one gleaming with deadly intent as they prepared to rain death upon the undead horde below.
Thousands upon thousands of brilliant white rays extended from every corner of the hexagonal ice crystal, creating a sight that resembled a colossal tree of pure light falling from the heavens. These piercing beams instantly skewered countless undead monstrosities, obliterating the weaker creatures entirely while pinning the stronger ones to the ground with the efficiency of a master anatomist preparing specimens for dissection.
Kael'thas watched in fascination as several cave demons—each one larger than an oxen-drawn carriage—found themselves nailed to the earth, their massive forms thrashing and writhing frantically but unable to break free from their crystalline bonds.
But Antonidas's tower was merely the beginning of Duke's magical coup. Every other mage tower in the city, whether it had a living owner or stood empty, every structure below Archmage level, fell under Duke's iron control in a single devastating moment of magical domination.
The result was a complete reversal of fortune: except for the two towers still controlled by the Scourge's Archmages, every remaining spire continued pouring overwhelming firepower upon the undead army with renewed vigor and precision.
This battle now looked less like a Scourge trap and more like Duke had orchestrated the entire conflict as his personal magical demonstration.
The ice crystals suspended in the sky suddenly shattered with thunderous force, reforming into six absolutely massive ice blades that descended toward Balnazzar with the inevitability of fate itself.
Even under normal circumstances, the dreadlord wouldn't dare face a direct assault from the legendary Antonidas. Now, with the attack amplified and focused through the Mage Tower's considerable power, the incoming destruction was beyond anything the demon had ever encountered.
Balnazzar twisted his massive form desperately, conjuring every shield spell in his considerable arsenal, even grabbing nearby low-level undead to use as impromptu meat shields. But all his frantic efforts proved utterly futile against the six consecutive ice blades that Duke guided with surgical precision.
Duke, who had already calculated every possible escape route with the cold efficiency of a master chess player, effortlessly directed Antonidas's tower to deliver its ultimate attack directly into the dreadlord's most vulnerable points.
Balnazzar immediately released a shriek of pure agony that shattered windows three districts away.
In the next instant, howling winds began tearing through his massive frame as multiple gaping holes appeared across his body. Not a single drop of blood emerged from these wounds—instead, screaming arctic gales rushed through the openings like tortured spirits seeking escape.
With terrifying speed, the dreadlord's once-mighty form began turning bright white, then shifted to complete translucency as the elemental forces consumed him from within.
"Time to die, you overgrown bat!" Duke roared with savage glee and clenched his fists with decisive finality.
Balnazzar's body immediately began its final collapse as he suffered a saturation bombardment of frost elements that far exceeded what his physical form and immortal soul could endure. The overwhelming torrent of elemental power didn't merely destroy his body tissues—it actively tore apart and obliterated his very essence, unraveling the fundamental bonds that held his demonic existence together.
In his final moment of existence, his entire form blazed with blinding white radiance before exploding into countless elemental fragments smaller than cosmic dust, each piece scattering on the wind until nothing remained.
The Dreadlord Balnazzar—permanently and completely annihilated!
At this moment, not a single member of the Cult of the Damned dared trust their own eyes, and not one lich possessed the courage to step forward and challenge Duke's terrifying display of power.
Because for the first time in recorded history, someone had achieved the impossible: the complete and permanent destruction of a dreadlord on both physical and spiritual levels, erasing the demon's existence so thoroughly that even the Burning Legion would find no trace to resurrect!