Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 615: The Walking Dead Have Nothing on This

Duke was trudging down the forest path that was narrower than a pencil line, his mind racing faster than a greyhound chasing a mechanical rabbit.

Yeah, he was back! But calling his condition "bad" would be like calling the Titanic's maiden voyage "a minor inconvenience." Don't let his ruggedly handsome exterior fool you—inside, he was about as stable as a house of cards in a hurricane, playing the most dangerous game of interdimensional hopscotch known to man, and only he knew just how royally screwed he really was.

He'd made the solo journey back like a lone wolf howling at the moon.

Had to be done, no two ways about it.

Karazhan was wrapped up tighter than a Christmas present in a spider's web of space-time cracks that would make a physicist weep tears of pure confusion. Nobody else could've escaped that cosmic mousetrap. Sure, Alexstrasza could shift into human form, but teleporting her would've required enough magical juice to power a small city for a decade—talk about your energy crisis!

Besides her, the rest of his crew had about as much magical talent as a wet paper towel. Khadgar was stronger than a bull in a china shop, but that ghostly mage was practically welded to Karazhan like barnacles on a ship's hull—couldn't pry him loose with a crowbar and a prayer.

Finally, after being trapped longer than a bear in hibernation, Duke had spent months preparing for the most insane magical stunt since Houdini tried to escape from a straightjacket underwater. The solo teleportation back to Azeroth was like threading a needle while riding a bucking bronco in a tornado.

It was a trip that would've made Evil Knievel wet his pants. Even with his trusty system sprites lending a hand, Duke nearly bought the farm in the cosmic void more times than a cat with nine lives playing Russian roulette. Half the time, he had to change direction three or four times faster than a politician changing his story, all while flying at speeds that made sound barriers look like speed bumps.

This job definitely wasn't cut out for mere mortals—hell, it barely qualified as fit for the certifiably insane.

But rolling back into town brought Duke face-to-face with two problems bigger than Texas.

First off, he'd fried his magical circuits crispier than Kentucky Fried Chicken, dropping his power level from "Holy crap, run for your lives!" down to "your average neighborhood archmage." Still nothing to sneeze at, but with some time to rewire his magical plumbing, he figured he could climb back up to that level he'd achieved back in Karazhan—basically magical muscle memory.

Second, his System had gone quieter than a church devotee on Sunday. No matter how much he hollered, sweet-talked, or threatened it, the damn thing gave him the silent treatment. Could've been cosmic interference, solar flares, or maybe the System just needed a vacation—either way, it was deader than disco.

Both problems had knocked Duke's combat effectiveness down more pegs than a carnival game.

As Duke meandered down the trail like a lost tourist, he pumped Renault for information about current events like a reporter chasing the story of the century.

Despite being scared out of his wits, Renault still managed to spill the beans with all the careful precision of a bomb disposal expert.

Through Renault's nervous chatter, Duke pieced together some news that hit him like a ton of bricks:

Lordaeron had been gobbling up Alterac's old territory like a fat man at an all-you-can-eat buffet for the past decade. Now, except for Southshore—which had gotten promoted to Southshore City-State with enough autonomy to make it feel special—pretty much everything else belonged to Lordaeron. However, Broken Ridge, the former capital that used to be Alterac's crown jewel, had been abandoned by Lordaeron because it was crawling with more Yetis than a cryptozoologist's wet dream, and every attempt to clear them out had ended about as successfully as a chocolate teapot.

King Llane Wrynn had been assassinated by an orc swordmaster in the eighth year after the Dark Portal opened—stabbed in the back like Julius Caesar on the Ides of March. Since then, Anduin Lothar had been playing regent to young King Varian like a surrogate father, but lately Lothar's health had been going downhill faster than a sled on a ski slope, leaving Duke Bolvar Fordragon holding the reins of power like a cowboy trying to tame a wild mustang.

When Duke heard Renault mention that the holy city of Stormwind was holding steady, he felt relief wash over him like a cool breeze on a summer day. According to the history books he remembered, Arthas shouldn't have taken his little stroll down Corruption Boulevard yet. If that was still true, then maybe—just maybe—things weren't completely shot to hell in a handbasket.

But when Duke started fishing for details about Arthas's current situation, Renault's eyes narrowed tighter than a miser's purse strings: "Didn't you tell Sally you were some mountain hermit? Why are you nosier than a church lady at a town council meeting about His Royal Highness Arthas?"

Duke was as innocent as a lamb led to slaughter!

The poor guy found himself tongue-tied facing the suspicious glares of these two kids who were sharper than a serpent's tooth.

Just as Duke was about to smooth-talk his way out of this mess like a snake oil salesman—

A stench hit them that was fouler than a skunk's armpit after a garlic festival.

Sally slapped her hand over her mouth faster than a gunslinger drawing iron, and even Renault, who was trying to play the tough protector, looked greener around the gills than a seasick sailor.

It was the kind of smell that belonged in a slaughterhouse's nightmare—sickly sweet with undertones that would make a buzzard lose its appetite. Not the clean metallic scent of fresh blood, but the gut-churning stench of death that had been marinating in its own juices for way too long.

Duke hadn't encountered this particular perfume of horror in ages.

This was the signature cologne of a battlefield after the vultures had been picking at it for days—eau de decomposition with hints of "dear God, what died here?"

The death-stench was wafting from a house squatting near the forest path like a toad on a lily pad. It was crystal clear what kind of horror show was playing inside that little house of horrors.

Sally turned to Renault, her face whiter than fresh snow but her jaw set with determination harder than concrete: "I've got to check inside. If there are lost souls in there crying out for salvation..."

Suddenly, riding the poisonous wind like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, came a scream that sounded like someone gargling with broken glass and liquid terror. Something burst from the house and charged toward them with all the grace and speed of a runaway freight train carrying dynamite.

Without hesitation, Renault whipped out his sword faster than lightning and pointed the blade at the incoming nightmare with hands shaking like leaves in a hurricane.

In the sword's gleaming reflection, Renault found himself staring into a pair of eye sockets darker than the bottom of a coal mine at midnight.

Poor Renault, who'd never seen more combat than a pillow fight at summer camp, suddenly realized he had about as much idea how to handle this walking nightmare as a fish has about mountain climbing.

The thing wore clothes that had seen better days—much better days, like maybe when they were still on a living person. A raggedy shirt and overalls that looked like they'd been through a blender, and it brandished a pitchfork like some twisted parody of American Gothic. Must've been a farmer once upon a time, back when it had a pulse and didn't smell like death warmed over. Now it was deader than a doornail, with gray-green flesh peeling off its bones like old paint, and rotted fingers leaving trails of filth on the pitchfork handle that would make a garbage collector gag. Black pus oozed from pustules like some hellish lava lamp nobody asked for.

It howled like a banshee with strep throat, and foul-smelling drool poured from its black mouth like a broken sewer pipe. Sally's scream could've shattered glass in three counties.

Her shriek seemed to rattle Renault worse than a paint mixer, stunning him for a heartbeat that nearly cost him his life as the pitchfork came at him like a heat-seeking missile.

Lucky for him, years of training had beaten fighting instincts into his muscles deeper than tattoos. He managed to knock that rusty pitchfork away with his sword like he was swatting a particularly aggressive fly, then spun around to deliver a neck chop that would've made a lumberjack proud.

The neck, about as tough as overcooked spaghetti, gave way with a sensation that made Renault feel like he was hacking through a pile of moldy vegetables. The filthy head went flying like a home run ball, while disgusting liquid erupted from the stump and painted half of Renault's face with eau de zombie—a cologne that definitely wasn't going to catch on.

With its head rolling around like a bowling ball, the thing toppled backward and stayed down for the count.

Sally, being a trainee priest with more guts than a butcher shop, managed to blast one zombie into next week with a holy light spell that lit up the forest like the Fourth of July. But for every zombie that went down, two more popped up like the world's most disgusting whack-a-mole game.

This was way more than these two could handle—like trying to stop a avalanche with a flyswatter.

"Sally, get out of Dodge!" Renault screamed like his pants were on fire. Even with his hands shaking like a paint mixer, he still put himself between Sally and the shambling horde like a true knight in slightly tarnished armor.

That's when they both heard a sound like angry hornets having a bad day—a continuous whistling that could only mean one thing.

Countless streaks of fire blazed past them like tiny comets and slammed into the zombie mob with all the subtlety of a meteor shower. The fireballs exploded like the grand finale at a fireworks show, sending those walking corpses flying in all directions while filling the air with the smell of barbecued nightmare fuel.

The monster mosh pit went from ear-splitting cacophony to barely a whisper in seconds flat, leaving nothing but the cheerful crackling of flames doing their thing.

More zombies were still stumbling toward them like drunk wedding guests looking for the bar, but when Renault and Sally spun around, they saw something that made their jaws drop faster than a lead balloon.

There was Duke, cool as a cucumber in a snowstorm, with ten little flames dancing on his fingertips like trained fireflies putting on a show.

The next moment, those harmless-looking sparks roared out and transformed into fireballs bigger than beer barrels, smashing into the monster crowd like bowling balls through pins.

In less time than it takes to sneeze, dozens of monsters were kissing dirt permanently.

Sally's voice shook like a leaf in a tornado as she stammered, "Who in the Holy Light are you?!"