As the light faded, a massive crater was revealed at the center of the battlefield.
Uther knelt at the edge of the pit, his Hammer of the Silver Hand thrust deep into the earth to steady himself. His Holy Light armor was covered in web-like cracks, and a trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, yet his gaze remained as sharp as an eagle's, the Light burning stubbornly around him.
At the bottom of the crater, Grommash Hellscream was half-kneeling, using Gorehowl to prop up his body. His crude armor had long since shattered, and his dark red skin was covered in charred marks from the Holy Light's judgment—especially his chest, which had taken the full brunt of the Holy Retribution, leaving it a bloody mess.
He panted heavily, each breath exhaling scorching air that smelled of sulfur. The madness remained in his crimson eyes, but it was now joined by a trace of exhaustion and a look of stunned horror.
The strength he took such pride in... had actually been suppressed?
The exchange between the two had been so rapid that Rhodes hadn't even had time to cast auxiliary spells on Uther. Reacting quickly now, Rhodes summoned three Master Genies and had them cast beneficial spells on Uther.
Joy, Bless, and Prayer—three powerful legion-scale spells—were unleashed, bolstering nearly a thousand allied troops. Simultaneously, Rhodes cast Shield, Stone Skin, and Bloodlust on his allies, while targeting Grommash with Slow, Blind, and Misfortune.
These debilitating curses would significantly weaken the Orc warrior's strength. With one side empowered and the other diminished, Hellscream—who had just been evenly matched with Uther—immediately fell into a disadvantage.
This old Orc is truly a monster, Rhodes thought. While Gorehowl was a legendary weapon among Orc clans, it was still outclassed by a Titan-forged artifact. Yet, this brute had managed to hold Uther back through sheer force and that axe. But now, the tide had turned.
The Blind spell forced the old Orc to freeze in place, taking a direct hit from Uther's hammer. By the time he broke free from the restraint, he found his movements incredibly sluggish. Moreover, for some inexplicable reason, even when his axe was aimed at the human's throat, it would veer off slightly, missing Uther's vitals. Meanwhile, Uther's hammer always seemed to find its mark.
Curse it! This sensation was agonizing. It was the power of magic; someone was using sorcery against him.
In yet another clash, the Orc's battle-axe finally shattered under the assault of the Titan weapon. Grommash stumbled and fell to the ground. He was filled with bitter resentment—he believed the human was only winning because of a superior weapon. More importantly, in this "sacred duel," the opponent was clearly benefiting from magic that weakened him.
"Coward! Despicable wretch!" Grommash spat, gasping for air. "You don't dare face me in honorable combat; you can only use these filthy spells against me."
He felt stifled beyond measure. Hellscream hadn't even been able to exert his full strength because of these restrictive spells. Specifically, being blinded and frozen in place earlier had forced him to take a devastating blow, causing massive internal damage.
Seeing their chieftain's weapon destroyed, nearby Orc warriors immediately threw their axes to Grommash. Though not as good as Gorehowl, they were better than being empty-handed.
"I never said I would fight you in a duel," Uther snorted coldly. "You villains destroyed our homes and slaughtered our people. I have no intention of discussing 'chivalry' with the likes of you."
You talk to me about fairness? Uther thought. Did you not use demonic power? What is wrong with me using the Holy Light and Rhodes' auxiliary spells?
Just as Grommash was about to retort, a massive bolt of lightning struck down, leaving the old Orc charred.
"Shameless mage! You have interfered in our sacred battle!" Hellscream roared. "Paladin! I challenge you to Mak'gora! An honorable duel—pure martial strength, no magic!"
He wished for nothing more than to tear Rhodes into pieces.
"Mak'gora! Mak'gora! Mak'gora!" The surrounding Orc warriors began to chant. In Orcish tradition, this was a battle of absolute honor that no one dared refuse. Furthermore, in such a duel, no outside power other than one's weapon was permitted, or the offender would be declared the loser.
"I have no need to duel you," Uther replied with a cold huff.
You want a duel just because you say so? Uther thought. I have the absolute advantage; why would I give you a chance? Uther had no sympathy for Orcs. He remembered all too well how the Horde had once invaded and turned the corpses of Paladins into Death Knights. Why should I follow the code of chivalry with these green-skinned heathens?
"Die then, coward!" Grommash roared once more and charged. He was filled with fury; in the eyes of an Orc, refusing a challenge of honor made one a true coward, and he refused to lose to a coward.
Grommash Hellscream's roar sounded like the final cry of a wounded beast, filled with the rage of humiliation and the resentment of stripped power. Ignoring the searing pain in his chest and his sluggish limbs, he squeezed out the last bit of life force enhanced by the demon blood. Gripping a heavy axe thrown by a regular warrior with both hands, he hurled it at Uther with all his might!
It was a tragic sight—the old Orc's final, desperate strike. This throw, concentrated with all his anger and despair, was still incredibly fast. The axe tore through the air with a piercing shriek, aimed straight for Uther's head!
However—
Vwoom!
A thin, leaf-like but incredibly tough green light shield manifested in front of Uther! It was the Shield spell cast by Rhodes. The axe slammed into the shield, erupting in sparks and energy ripples. The shield flickered violently and even buckled inward, but it stubbornly held against the desperate blow.
The ordinary axe fell powerlessly to the ground with a clang.
The madness in Grommash's eyes froze, replaced by an absolute, bottomless despair. Even this final counterattack... had been blocked by that damned spell!
Rhodes, not one to miss an opportunity, struck the fallen foe with Lightning Bolt, the terrifying thunderous power crashing down upon the old Orc.
Honestly, I suppose I am a bit of a scoundrel, Rhodes thought. Though winning this way was hardly "glorious," he didn't care. The old Orc's dueling ability was simply too high. If left to a fair fight, Grommash might have taken Uther down with him, or at best, left Uther too wounded to continue fighting.
"Great Holy Light, judge this evil!" Uther raised his hammer, dazzling light condensing at its head. He would give this demon-twisted, blood-soaked Orc no more chances! Whether it was "Mak'gora" or a dying struggle, to Uther, it was all just the final gasps of an enemy—not worth responding to, and certainly not worth risking a knight's honor.
His duty was to purify evil and end the threat, not to satisfy a demon servant's twisted obsession with "glory."
The old Orc lay on the ground, powerless to fight further. He didn't even have the strength to move a finger. Just as the devastating judgment of the Holy Light was about to descend and turn Grommash into ash—
"ROAR!!"
A roar even more violent, more ancient, and filled with the pure will of destruction exploded from the depths of Ashenvale like a death knell from the abyss!
This sound wasn't just a physical wave; it was an impact that struck the soul itself. The entire battlefield—the fleeing Orcs, the cheering Night Elves, and even Rhodes and his companions—felt as if their souls were being gripped by an invisible giant hand.
The sky was instantly covered by thick, sulfur-colored Fel clouds, blotting out the sun. An indescribable pressure crushed down like a tidal wave. The earth groaned, and ancient trees twisted and cracked under the invisible weight.
Several massive green meteors fell from the sky, crashing into the ground and transforming into Infernals over five meters tall. A shadow so vast it obscured half the sky appeared before them, accompanied by a scorching storm and the stench of sulfur.
It had a mountain-like demonic body covered in dark red scales. Each beat of its massive leathery wings whipped up a destructive storm. Its hideous head burned with Fel flames, and its thick tail ended in a lethal bone mace. In its hand, it gripped a massive double-headed spear that burned with green Fel fire.
The Pit Lord—Mannoroth!
Rhodes felt an unimaginable pressure. Only when truly facing a Pit Lord did one realize how terrifying these monsters were. Their bodies were larger and stronger than dragons—monstrosities over ten meters tall and twenty meters long.
This was an enemy only Cenarius could handle; the rest could only offer support. Rhodes and Uther would have to summon Light Elementals to join the fray.
The master of Grommash Hellscream, the true manipulator behind the Dreadlords, and one of the Burning Legion's most powerful ground commanders had arrived!
Its massive, Fel-burning eyes swept over the messy battlefield, finally locking onto the kneeling, weaponless, and broken Grommash. Its gaze was filled with raw, undisguised disappointment, contempt, and the fury of a wasted investment.
"Pathetic! You couldn't even tear apart a withered human Paladin!" Mannoroth bellowed at the old Orc who couldn't even crawl. "You and your filthy clan are unworthy of the power gifted by the Great Mannoroth!"