When the fragments of that legendary sword fell to the ground, time seemed to freeze.
A look of uncontrollable joy broke across Orgrim's face, he, who had been increasingly anxious from the prolonged stalemate, suddenly saw hope.
His enemy's weapon had shattered. In the very next second, his warhammer would smash into Lothar's head, ending this battle once and for all.
Lothar's expression was one of utter shock. He could never have imagined that Quel'Zaram, the sword that had always led him to victory, would betray him at this moment.
Or perhaps… had the enemy just been judged as a person of noble character?
Not far off, Turalyon, rushing toward Lothar's direction, gasped sharply. Besides Alaric, he was one of the very few who realized Lothar had engaged in a duel with the Doomhammer.
The young paladin pushed himself to the limit to reach his commander, but he was still a step too late.
However, in just a fleeting instant, everything was turned upside down.
Arcane brilliance blazed in Alaric's hands, the spell Wall of Force was cast.
Before the Doomhammer could complete its downward arc and, as in the annals of history, strike Lothar's helm, an invisible wall suddenly manifested between the two combatants.
The wall formed by this magical force field was so strong that even if the Doomhammer's might were several times greater, it would still be unable to break through.
The Doomhammer did not strike the human warrior's head but instead smashed heavily into the wall of force, and was sent flying back with the same brutal strength.
It must be understood: this wall of force could not be penetrated unless confronted with Disintegrate, some powerful artifact, or an overwhelming level disparity.
Otherwise, even a nuclear explosion or an abyssal lord would be equally helpless.
That's the irrational nature of magic.
Though Orgrim had reached the peak of a warrior's strength, by DND standards, he was considered legendary, even he was powerless against such a barrier.
The backlash from the repelled strike was so immense that his wrist nearly dislocated from the recoil.
Next came the "Black Tentacles", pitch-black tendrils of pure energy rose from the ground beneath Orgrim, wrapping tightly around his limbs.
While he tore free from them with brute strength, it still took him a significant amount of time.
Seizing the opportunity, a cascade of debuff spells rained down on the orc chieftain.
Slow, Ray of Enfeeblement, Ray of Exhaustion, Contagion, Feeblemind…
Before long, the orc warchief found his speed, strength, and stamina steadily deteriorating. He could barely even lift his weapon.
The injuries sustained during his duel with Lothar now erupted in full force.
The massive hammer forged of Blackrock slipped from his grasp and thudded onto the ground.
And Orgrim himself collapsed in weakness, needing a long moment just to sit upright again.
By that time, Alaric had already approached him.
Ever cautious, Alaric had only sauntered up after fully weakening Orgrim with an array of spells, much to the speechless astonishment of Onyxia and the others.
For a close-range warrior like Orgrim Doomhammer, capable of devastating destruction, Alaric would never carelessly close the distance, even though the power granted by dragonkind made him no weaker than the orc before him.
Glaring at the human mage before him, Doomhammer was nearly driven mad with rage.
It was him again. This human, once more, had shattered everything just as the tides of battle had started to turn.
He had dragged Orgrim down from the brink of triumph into utter despair.
Could it be that this human truly was the bane of the orcs?
Orgrim tried with all his might to make a furious expression, to scream insults, to show his strength and the honor of the orcs before this formidable enemy.
But the mage simply snapped his fingers, and Orgrim found himself completely unable to speak.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't utter a single word; only rasping, breathy "ha-ha" sounds escaped his throat.
"Orgrim Doomhammer," Alaric looked down at the orc warchief with a calm expression and said in a deep voice.
"As the Warchief of the Horde, you will die here, die on the battlefield against the Alliance. And your remaining kin… the world will finally be freed from your corruption."
Alaric's words filled Orgrim's face with horror. He opened his mouth wide, wanting to roar, to beg, but no sound came out.
In the end, as agony filled his eyes, Alaric drew his Blade of Infinity, and plunged it deep into Orgrim's chest.
Though a warrior of legendary might, Orgrim's skin was as tough as many mighty beasts. His dense muscles could easily clamp down on the swiftest arrows.
Yet before Alaric's blade, it was as if he were completely undefended.
The blade pierced straight through the orc warchief's chest, through his heart.
As Alaric drew the sword out again, blood gushed from the wound.
Orgrim could feel his life force draining away with the flowing blood.
In the moment of death, many thoughts flashed through his mind. He thought of the fate of his people. He thought of the Horde's invasion of this world.
He knew that with Alaric and Lothar standing in their way, the Horde was doomed to gain nothing in this world, perhaps even face complete annihilation.
In this very moment, regret overwhelmed him. He regretted leading the Horde to this world. He regretted letting Gul'dan steer them down the path of ruin all those years ago.
And in that endless remorse, Orgrim's consciousness was swallowed by boundless darkness and silence…
Before the eyes of all, Alaric had slain the Warchief of the Horde, he had destroyed the last glimmer of the Horde's hope.
Desperate cries rang out from many orcs.
"The Warchief… has been slain!"
"Ancestors above, Doomhammer was killed by a human!"
"Run! We've lost!"
As more and more orcs witnessed the death of Doomhammer with their own eyes, they fell into utter chaos.
By contrast, the Alliance's morale soared to new heights.
Many orcs began to flee. The rest threw down their weapons and surrendered to the Alliance, they were rounded up and prepared for imprisonment.
Of course, some orcs continued to resist, but lacking leadership and direction, they were no match for the disciplined soldiers of the Alliance.
Turalyon finally reached Lothar's side, helping the gravely wounded old commander onto a horse so he could continue directing the battle.
Everyone knew that with the death of the Horde's Warchief, the victory in this war was all but secured.
What remained was only the task of chasing down the scattered remnants and capturing as many survivors as possible.
Otherwise, these lingering orcs would become a major threat to all the races of this continent, much like the kobolds and trolls who ruled the deep mountains and forests.
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