Do you still remember the theft of magic circuits? The most audacious magical larceny in the history of Azeroth?
The laws of circuit transfer are absolute and merciless: first, both parties must share the same bloodline and origin; second, the transfer must occur between living beings; and third, the donor must consent willingly. Break even one rule, and the magic will consume you from within, leaving nothing but charred bones and screaming echoes.
Fate, that twisted mistress, had conspired to make Duke and Antonidas perfect candidates for this forbidden art. Every. Single. Condition. Met.
Duke had originally wielded Antonidas's own Arcane Throne and Ice Crown—the very foundations of the old master's power. Though the Sunfire gift from Wyrmrest Temple had transformed and expanded his circuits beyond recognition, the core essence remained unchanged. The blood recognized blood. The magic recognized its maker.
The living requirement? Antonidas's body still drew breath, barely. His chest rose and fell with the mechanical persistence of a broken bellows, his heart beating out a death march while his soul wandered the twisted corridors of demonic possession. Technically alive. Legally alive. Magically alive.
And voluntary? With the old man's soul trapped in infernal chains, his empty flesh had no will to resist. The magic circuits lay defenseless, ripe for the taking. In that moment of vulnerability, Antonidas was as "willing" as a corpse could be.
Thanks to his brutal practice sessions with Ilucia's circuit transplant, Duke had become a surgical master of magical theft. The system spirits whispered dark encouragements as his hands moved with inhuman precision.
In those precious minutes clutching Antonidas's cooling corpse, Duke performed the heist of the millennium. Sixty percent of the Sunfire Master's legendary circuits were carved away with the efficiency of a butcher processing meat. The outer rings fell first, then the middle layers—each severed connection sending jolts of stolen power coursing through Duke's veins. Only time's cruel shortage prevented him from claiming the innermost core. Given one more hour, Duke would have reduced the returning Antonidas to a fumbling apprentice, barely capable of lighting candles.
This savage plundering explained why Antonidas returned as a shadow of his former glory. Even as a mighty lich, his power had been gutted, hollowed out, made pathetic.
Yet even with sixty percent of his circuits stolen, Antonidas still commanded respect. The bastard had been THAT powerful originally. Terrifyingly, impossibly powerful.
But power and vulnerability dance together in every mage's soul. A prepared wizard can shatter mountains and boil seas, yet one misplaced step, one moment of carelessness, and even demigods fall to simple steel. Ask Medivh's corpse about overconfidence.
With sixty percent of Antonidas's circuits writhing through his body, Duke had achieved the impossible—he possessed the raw "quantity" of a legendary archmage.
But quantity without mastery is like wielding a dragon's flame with a child's hands.
The theft had been too hasty, too desperate. Duke hadn't had time to properly integrate Antonidas's alien magic patterns. Every mage carved their own unique pathways, specialized their outer circuits for personal techniques and preferred elements. These stolen circuits fought against Duke's natural inclinations, creating internal magical discord that threatened to tear him apart from within.
Besides, Duke's ambitions burned far beyond merely matching one old man's power.
If Antonidas had been his ceiling, then yes—this stolen legacy would have been sufficient. But Duke craved something more apocalyptic.
His chosen path demanded perfection: the trinity of Arcane, Fire, and Ice flowing in perfect harmony. With Alexstrasza and Malygos as his enthusiastic benefactors, this dream had become a ravenous beast that devoured progress. Under normal circumstances, Duke would need centuries to master such complexity.
The stolen Fire circuits remained completely dormant—not even a spark answered his call. The Frost circuits, despite being sixty percent of Antonidas's mastery, produced only pitiful bubbles and wisps of cold air.
Four words captured his predicament perfectly:
NOWHERE NEAR ENOUGH!
Duke could only laugh bitterly at the cosmic joke. Everyone else saw him as the new Antonidas, the rising God of Magic, the Alliance's ultimate weapon.
They had no idea he was barely holding together the magical equivalent of a house of cards in a hurricane.
Duke couldn't shatter this beautiful illusion. The Alliance desperately needed hope, and without inspiring news, their morale would collapse faster than a tower built on quicksand. The avalanche of despair would bury them all.
So Duke played his role, wearing the mask of supreme confidence while his stolen power threatened to consume him.
Given enough time, he believed his own magical strength would eventually match what he'd taken. But time was a luxury he didn't possess.
Now Edmund Duke, the fraudulent Grand Mage of the Sun, strode onto his masterpiece—an ice pier that gleamed with deceptive perfection. Alliance generals surrounded him, their faces filled with awe and misplaced faith.
Kael'thas walked the flawless ice surface, his expression twisted with bitter envy.
"Even father at his peak couldn't achieve this level of elemental control," the prince whispered, remembering his father's proudest magical display—a fire phoenix the size of a peacock, every feather crafted from living flame. As a child, Kael'thas had marveled at its intricate beauty.
But this dock shattered that memory. Duke had shaped thirty-six massive piers from raw ice, each capable of anchoring warships against the ocean's fury. The magical precision required was staggering—controlling elements across such distances pushed the boundaries of possibility itself.
King Anasterian might manage one pier. Maybe two if he pushed beyond his limits. But thirty-six? Never. The elf king would be a smoking corpse long before completing such a feat.
Kael'thas stared at Duke with grudging amazement mixed with growing suspicion.
In the distance, Jaina's flagship approached, its sails pregnant with wind and destiny.
The massive vessel carved through the waves, its prow cutting the sea like a blade through silk. At the bow stood a figure draped in blue and gold—Jaina Proudmoore, poised with divine grace as she witnessed the impossible made manifest.
Duke's chest tightened as memories flooded back. Jaina Proudmoore, the Alliance's golden daughter, forged in the fires of the Dark Portal wars, tempered by countless battles. She had blossomed from promising student into devastating sorceress.
Beautiful. Brilliant. Dangerous.
If not for that cursed lost decade, Duke could have claimed her completely. Now she remained tantalizingly beyond reach.
Jaina studied the man waiting on his crystal dock—Edmund Duke, the living legend whose deeds would echo through eternity. This terrifyingly powerful mage was supposedly her betrothed, yet they were strangers bound only by political necessity.
She didn't know whether to approach with reverence, fear, or cold calculation.
Duke stood wreathed in frost magic, the summer sun transforming his icy aura into cascading diamonds of light. The most powerful being in the Alliance had arrived, and the very air trembled with barely contained power.
Even if that power was mostly an illusion built on stolen foundations.