As hundreds of wide-eyed, slack-jawed fishmen and nearly a hundred utterly aghast Nagas looked on, their battle-hardened minds struggling to process the unfolding horror, Duke, with the casual grace of a sommelier presenting a vintage wine, slowly, deliberately, strolled up to the now utterly helpless Naga leader. He paused, a beat of dramatic silence hanging heavy in the salt-laced air, then gently, almost tenderly, raised his right hand. His voice, cutting through the stunned silence, was delivered in the clearest, most impeccably enunciated Fishman dialect imaginable: "As the exorbitant price for daring to offend me... I shall now punish you! Prepare to catch these hands!"
The very next second, as if on cue from some unseen, macabre orchestra conductor, nearly a hundred of those ethereal Wizard's Hands lunged forward.
A grotesque transformation rippled through them. The nails, once merely the blunt, rounded tips of human-like palms, elongated with a sickening shink, sharpening into wickedly curved, obsidian-black devil's claws. Each finger became a deadly, gleaming iron hook, poised for maximum dismemberment.
A symphony of tearing flesh and splintering bone began. The Naga leader's dark grey scales, thick and resilient enough to shrug off a casual human dagger, were not merely "dug out." Oh no. They were flung away, piece by agonizing piece, like discarded popcorn kernels, scattering across the blood-soaked beach. His thick, taut skin, a natural armor against the crushing pressures of the deep, was not merely "torn off." It was peeled away, revealing the raw, glistening scarlet muscles and tendons beneath, a sight that would make a butcher wince.
The true, soul-shredding torture had only just begun. Every single muscle, every taut tendon, was not just "torn off." They were ripped from their moorings, shredded from his living frame, unraveled like old parchment, each excruciating separation accompanied by a fresh, guttural shriek of agony.
The Naga leader's howls, a never-ending, ear-splitting crescendo of despair, echoed across the cove. Both the fishmen and the remaining Nagas, their own skirmishes forgotten, stood frozen, their eyes wide with a mixture of horror, confusion, and a dawning, primal terror. They watched the massacre unfold, a silent, unwilling audience to a performance of pure, unadulterated brutality.
Even Duke himself, lost in the strange, detached focus of the moment, failed to notice the chilling indifference etched upon his own face. It was as if the colossal, humanoid creature he was systematically flaying alive was not a being twice his size, but merely a particularly stubborn, oversized fish in need of filleting.
Naga, as a species, possessed a truly astonishing vitality, a stubborn refusal to die. And as the male leader, this particular brute boasted the strongest physique in his entire clan, a dubious honor that now granted him the exquisite privilege of suffering extra, prolonged pain.
He wailed. He shrieked. He gargled. He screamed for five full, agonizing minutes before the sweet release of death finally claimed him.
During this impromptu, bloody spectacle, the group of Nagas who had initially fled had, with the stealth of startled jellyfish, silently retreated into the murky depths of the sea, their scales probably still tingling with phantom pain.
Only the hundreds of fishmen remained, still crawling around Duke in a state of profound, almost religious, awe.
When Duke finally snapped back to full awareness, blinking like an owl caught in daylight, he was genuinely shocked to find the mangled, flayed corpse of the most majestic Naga leader lying before him.
"Uh, did I do all this?" Duke mumbled, genuinely surprised, as if he'd just woken up from a particularly vivid dream involving a lot of flaying.
"Host," the system wizard's voice chimed in, calm and clinical, "to be precise, you entered what I term 'cold mode' just moments ago, and in that state, yes, you did indeed accomplish this rather thorough dismemberment."
"This... is this the complication after losing my moral integrity?" Duke mused, rubbing his chin, a faint, unsettling thrill running down his spine.
"When one's humanity is compromised to a certain extent, it is indeed common to develop various mental conditions," the system wizard continued, utterly devoid of judgment. "However, in the 'cold mode' you just exhibited, your casting speed increased by 45%, and your spell strength surged by 32%. Should you encounter a formidable enemy in the future, I would pragmatically suggest you consider forcing yourself back into this state."
"Are there any... unpleasant sequelae?" Duke asked, a flicker of concern.
"Nothing has been detected yet," the system replied, its tone suggesting it was merely waiting for the shoe to drop.
"Okay! I'll... think about it," Duke said, though the thought of willingly becoming a flaying machine gave him a moment's pause.
After the adrenaline-fueled, scale-peeling fight, Duke felt a distinct, rather embarrassing rumble in his stomach. It growled shamelessly, demanding sustenance. And then, as if by divine intervention (or perhaps just impeccable comedic timing), the fishman leader, a particularly enthusiastic individual named Fishspear, presented his most prized treasure: a magnificent, glistening, and very much alive fish.
A system prompt materialized before Duke's eyes:
"Murloc leader Fishspear wishes for you to publicly partake of the Fresh Silverhead Salmon! Should you indulge in this culinary display, it will significantly increase the loyalty of both Murloc tribes under your burgeoning command."
Duke felt a blush creep up his neck. Fresh Silverhead Salmon? If his memory served him correctly, that was a prized specialty of Stranglethorn Vale. Well, Stranglethorn Vale was just south of the Westfall, so it wasn't entirely implausible for a murloc leader to have snagged one. Still, the thought of eating raw fish, right now, was a bit much.
But then he looked at the murlocs, their pitifully large, expectant eyes fixed on him, practically begging him to devour their offering. Duke sighed, a wave of resignation washing over him. He gave in.
"Fine," he muttered. "Salmon's salmon. And it's not like this is the first time I've eaten raw fish." A sudden, devastating realization hit him. "It's just a crying shame there's no soy sauce and mustard!"
Wait! Hold on! Mustard!
Not far from where Duke stood, he spotted a haphazard pile of weeds that the fishman had apparently scavenged from somewhere. And nestled amongst them, unmistakable in its pungent glory, was a clump of wild wasabi. Wasabi, he knew, was the raw form of mustard, typically found growing in damp valleys and alongside rivers.
Duke, ever the pragmatist (and slightly unhinged), skipped the tedious step of drying and grinding it into powder. He simply pulled out a knife, sliced off a chunk of the raw wasabi root, and, with a grimace of anticipation, took a bite of the fresh salmon, followed by a chaser of the fiery green root.
Duke, blissfully unaware, had no idea that this entire, grotesque scene was being observed by the group of Nagas who had just fled to the river.
Because of the considerable distance, all they could discern was Duke making a few strange, ritualistic gestures over the bloody, flayed male Naga, followed by him casually eating sashimi...
"Ugh!" A Naga, unable to contain her revulsion, promptly emptied her stomach into the river.
Devil! This human was unequivocally a devil!
Not only did he possess magic power so immense it could flay a Naga alive, not only did he calculate every move with terrifying precision, but he was also a monstrous entity who dared to eat Naga flesh raw!
Avis, their leader, a picture of regal composure moments ago, now trembled from the tip of her snakelike tail to the crown of her head.
"Oh la oh la!" Suddenly, the unmistakable, gurgling cry of a fishman pierced the air, startling Avis. It was coming from perilously close by.
Oh no! They'd been discovered!
It was too late to silence the lone murloc. The entire Murloc tribe, now whipped into a frenzy of loyalty and eager to curry favor with their new, multi-handed master, had already gathered their crude weapons and were swarming, encircling the Nagas with terrifying efficiency.
Unlike their previous encounter, this time there was no other target to divert the fishmen's attention. Moreover, they had personally, horrifyingly, proved that the stream they had sought refuge in was a dead end.
Duke smiled, a slow, knowing smirk. It was absolutely, hilariously, tragically normal that these Nagas couldn't escape. In the entire sprawling expanse of the Westfall, with the sole exception of the massive river that served as the natural boundary between Elwynn Forest and the Westfall, every single river that snaked its way to the sea was a mere trickle. Not far from the shore, they inevitably dwindled into narrow, impassable underground rivers.
Nagas and murlocs, being aquatic creatures, were utterly dependent on water. They simply couldn't venture too far from the life-giving shore. Beyond the river's meager embrace lay the vast, monster-infested wastelands of the Western Plaguelands. Already, numerous corpse-smashing birds and opportunistic vultures were circling ominously in the sky, their shadows dancing like harbingers of doom.
It was, in essence, a perfectly executed trap. This group of Nagas had, with their desperate dash, run directly into a dead end.
"Naga Avis," Duke's voice boomed, now switching to the common tongue of humans, a language he knew the Nagas, with their high-elven heritage, would perfectly understand, "either you put down your weapons and come over here, or I shall instruct my... enthusiastic fishmen to carry your mangled bodies here instead!"
Avis bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. The situation was undeniable, overwhelming. The tide of fate had turned against her. With a heavy sigh of defeat, she finally let the scepter clatter from her grasp, allowing the rebellious fishmen to surge forward and disarm both her and her terrified subordinates.
Most of the wounded Nagas were left a few dozen steps away, a pathetic, disarmed huddle. Only Avis herself was escorted, her four crystal-clear arms bound, to Duke, who sat with infuriating nonchalance on a massive, sun-warmed rock on the beach.
Not daring to meet Duke's gaze, Avis instead cast a terrified glance at the flayed, still-twitching corpse of the male Naga not far away. She quickly averted her eyes, as if burned, then crossed her four arms, rubbing her shoulders nervously, and bowed low.
"Respected human warrior," she began, her voice a strained whisper, "Avis Zjara of the Angry Scale salutes you."
"Oh? Angry Scale?" Duke mused, a casual, almost bored tone in his voice. "Why would the Angry Scale Naga from Bloodmyst Island find themselves all the way here in the Westfall?" He had merely asked out of idle curiosity, but his words struck Avis like a bolt of lightning, sending a seismic shockwave through her very being.
Bloodmyst Island! It was a place so shrouded in secrecy, so utterly obscure, that even many human historians were completely unaware of its existence. How, by the very gods of the deep, did this human wizard know about it?!
All of a sudden, Avis was gripped by the terrifying, suffocating illusion that Duke had seen through every single one of her deepest, most guarded secrets.
"I... we are the exiles," she stammered, defeat heavy in her voice.
"Oh, the exiles!" Duke repeated, a flicker of understanding in his eyes.
Exiles. Cast out by their own tribes, left to rot, to fend for themselves in a hostile world. Some, like the high elves of Quel'Thalas, had managed to carve out new empires, forging legends from their misfortune. Others, like the pathetic remnants of Avis clan before him, were simply hunted, harried, and left to wither.
"May I inquire your name, and... how exactly do you intend to deal with us?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
"Me?" Duke began, about to give his actual name, but then a mischievous glint entered his eyes. He was just a human, a relatively unknown wizard. Having a horde of alien followers trailing him might be a bit... much. So, with a flourish of internal theatricality, he conjured a name on the spot: "I am the 'Thousand Hand Death God Hashirama.' You may simply call me Lord Hashirama."