Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 605: The Beatdown of the Century

Like a perfectly choreographed WWE smackdown, the moment Ner'zhul's curse turned one Duke clone into worm food, three fresh Dukes materialized out of thin air and unleashed holy hell with a devastating combo: Great Karate Chop, Great Diamond Fist, and Great Crushing Palm—all delivered faster than you could say "game over."

To everyone watching this supernatural ass-kicking, it looked like Ner'zhul was getting worked over by some mysterious new fighter class that hadn't even been invented yet on the Eastern Kingdoms.

One palm strike sent Ner'zhul reeling like a drunk sailor, giving Gavinrad the perfect opening to launch him into orbit with a hammer blow that could've cracked mountains. Duke Clone #2 snatched the flying orc out of mid-air with a wrestling move that would've made professional grapplers weep with envy, then delivered a haymaker with a fist the size of a beer keg, supercharged with enough magical energy to level a small fortress. The finishing move was a devastating uppercut to the chin—a classic Rising Dragon strike that sent Ner'zhul soaring like a rocket.

The entire combo was executed so flawlessly it looked like bullet time in an action movie. By the time everyone's brains caught up with their eyeballs, they realized Duke's Rising Dragon Palm had been a perfectly calculated setup—launching Ner'zhul straight into the path of Tirion's massive Hammer of Light descending from the heavens like the fist of an angry god!

The Ultimate Divine Judgment!

"BOOM!"

The impact sounded like the world itself was cracking in half.

Even through layers of clothing, skin, and muscle, everyone could see with crystal clarity that Tirion's holy light had skewered Ner'zhul like a kebab—straight through from skull to sole, leaving him looking like the world's most unfortunate lightning rod.

"Ghhhk..." Ner'zhul's maw full of razor-sharp fangs opened wide, but the only thing that came out was the sound of air escaping a punctured tire.

Stick a fork in him—he's done!

Every magical scholar worth their salt knew that mana circuits were the lifeblood of any spellcaster, more vital than a heartbeat.

After the first Dark Portal invasion, Dalaran's finest had been chomping at the bit to get their hands on an orc warlock corpse for research. When they finally scored one and carved it up like a Thanksgiving turkey, they discovered that orc warlocks had the same magical anatomy as humans and elves—same circuits, same vulnerabilities.

Tirion's holy light tearing through Ner'zhul's body was like taking a flamethrower to a computer's motherboard—absolutely catastrophic and completely irreversible.

What happens when you force-feed raw holy energy through magical circuits that were never designed to handle divine power? It's like trying to run jet fuel through a garden hose—everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

The result was magical castration worse than any silencing spell ever invented. Ner'zhul was now about as magically potent as a wet paper bag.

Nobody knew exactly how many backup circuits the old bastard had running through his system, but it was obvious that his main magical highway—the spine—had been turned into magical roadkill by Tirion's pure holy energy.

Maybe he had a few minor circuits still twitching somewhere in his extremities, but his main magical freeway was permanently out of order!

Gavinrad wasn't about to let this golden opportunity slip through his fingers. His follow-up hammer strike wasn't just another holy light tap—this was a thunderous death blow designed to send Ner'zhul straight to the afterlife express. After hanging around Duke's morally flexible company for so long, even the noble paladin had picked up some ruthlessly pragmatic habits. When your enemy's down, you kick 'em while they're there!

Suddenly, several bone ornaments hanging from Ner'zhul's belt exploded like grenades.

Four shadowy projectiles burst forth, streaking toward the two paladins and two rangers like heat-seeking missiles from the depths of hell.

Group Death Coil!

Death Coil was a warlock's ultimate "get out of jail free" card. Anyone unlucky enough to get tagged would be paralyzed with supernatural terror while the dark magic vampirically drained twenty percent of the damage as healing energy back to the caster.

This wasn't just one Death Coil—this was a four-pack of instant death delivered with express shipping.

The kicker? Death Coil couldn't latch onto inanimate objects—it needed living flesh to work its necromantic magic.

If all four heroes got nailed simultaneously and had their life force siphoned away, Ner'zhul would bounce back to full health faster than a rubber ball hitting concrete. freewebnσvel.cøm

At this make-or-break moment, all four warriors moved with the synchronization of a Swiss watch. Their free hands dove to their belt pouches and hurled small, white, fuzzy objects directly into the path of the skull-shaped Death Coils.

"SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK!" The agonized death squeals of tiny animals rang out like a twisted symphony, and every drop of blood drained from Ner'zhul's face, leaving him paler than a ghost in a snowstorm.

The Death Coils hit their targets alright—unfortunately for Ner'zhul, they hit the sacrificial guinea pigs that had been prepped for exactly this scenario.

The poor little scapegoats were instantly reduced to four tiny legs and a puff of fur, tumbling sadly through the air like the world's most depressing confetti.

Just like those doomed rodents, Ner'zhul's hopes plummeted from cloud nine straight into the deepest pits of despair.

Even this contingency had been planned for!?

The frustration was eating him alive!

The unfairness of it all was driving him mad!

This was supposed to be his moment of glory!

Ner'zhul couldn't wrap his rotting brain around how his surefire victory had turned into marching straight into his own grave like the world's biggest sucker.

What the hell was going on here?

Had Nefarian been playing him from the very beginning, sending him here to die like a lamb to slaughter?

How could the black dragon possibly know that Karazhan's defenders would be too much for him to handle?

Or had that scheming wyrm somehow predicted the Red Dragon Queen's involvement?

Nothing made sense! His mind was spinning like a broken compass!

But understanding the plot didn't matter anymore—it was too damn late!

There was no rabbit left to pull out of this hat!

The Windrunner sisters' precision arrows arrived like a biblical plague.

They threaded the needle perfectly, avoiding the two paladins standing right next to Ner'zhul and finding every gap in his defenses with surgical precision.

"THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!" Ner'zhul looked like a human pincushion at a sadistic carnival game. In the span of a heartbeat, more than thirty arrows had turned him into a walking archery target.

The final steel-tipped arrow—over half a meter of pure punishment—pinned him to the granite floor like a bug in a collector's display case.

But the sisters weren't done with their masterpiece yet. The two paladins stepped up to deliver the coup de grâce with their warhammers.

"CRACK!" Two devastating hammer blows landed simultaneously, creating a sound like a single bone-crushing thunderclap.

After the initial shock wore off, Ner'zhul felt with crystal clarity that his right shoulder and lung had been turned into hamburger meat. The hammer blow to his abdomen had opened a gaping wound in his left side, and his intestines were trying to make a break for freedom through the hole!

"Noooo—" Blood and lung tissue erupted from his throat like a geyser, drowning out any words he might have managed.

But true mystics didn't need spoken words to work their darkest magic.

In the depths of his rapidly failing consciousness, Ner'zhul managed to form one last desperate thought:

Dark Portal... save me!

The one thing Duke had been dreading finally happened. Ner'zhul's final mental scream transformed into a supernatural howl that wasn't quite human, wasn't quite animal—it was the desperate shriek of a soul facing oblivion.

But that soul-deep roar somehow reached across the vast distance to the Dark Portal in the Blasted Lands.

"RUMBLE! RUMBLE!"

In the Blasted Lands, every orc warrior camped around the Dark Portal's southern perimeter came scrambling out of their tents like their asses were on fire, because they could feel the massive stone archway trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.

The orc chieftains stared in slack-jawed amazement as the colossal wizard statues flanking the Dark Portal—guardians that had stood motionless for years—began shaking like they were having seizures.

The ground beneath their feet rippled and flowed like crimson ocean waves.

Everything screamed that something monumentally bad was about to go down.

Suddenly, the Dark Portal in the Blasted Lands slammed shut like a cosmic door, instantly cutting off the Horde's lifeline to Draenor and leaving them stranded like castaways on a desert island.

The orcs' screams of despair could probably be heard in Stormwind.

But nobody was more horrified than Duke himself. His eyes went wide as dinner plates, bloodshot with fury and disbelief, as he watched a massive cone-shaped object the size of a small mountain punch through the fabric of reality above Karazhan's floating platform.

A yawning void opened in space itself—a black hole portal that made the original Dark Portal look like a keyhole.

The Dark Portal was answering Ner'zhul's dying call, using its reality-bending power to try and yank the broken orc out of Karazhan's dimensional space like the world's most violent extraction operation.