Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 634: There are things worth dying for

He could've holed up in Karazhan like a hermit crab in its shell, living high on the hog with the Windrunner sisters by his side. He could've decorated his tower chambers however his heart desired—maybe hang a few demon heads on the walls like hunting trophies. He could've buried himself deeper in magical studies than a dwarf in a gold mine, living the dream of every true spellcaster. And with Alexstrasza's protection wrapped around him tighter than dragon scales, he wouldn't have to lose a wink of sleep over the Burning Legion's lackeys and bootlickers coming to knock down his door.

But he couldn't stomach the thought of watching his battle-brothers and legendary heroes get slaughtered like sheep at market.

This wasn't just some run-of-the-mill friendship or sentimental hogwash anymore.

After nearly five years of scheming and backbreaking effort, plus ten years drifting through the Twisting Nether like a lost soul, his old life on Earth felt about as real as a fever dream. Only with the system's help could he dig up every blessed memory from that distant world. Without even realizing it, Duke had grown roots in Azeroth deeper than the Hyjal's foundations—his fate was bound to this world tighter than a warlock's pact.

Seeing Duke's jaw set harder, Ilucia shook her head with the patience of a saint.

"Duke, by the Light's grace, I'm not trying to clip your wings, you magnificent fool!" Her voice was softer than silk and twice as deadly, naturally calling to mind a devoted wife keeping the home fires burning while her warrior husband rode off to war. Ilucia cocked her head with the subtle grace of a cat stalking prey: "I'm just stopping you from charging off to get yourself killed..."

"Well, I..."

"Take my magic circuits." Ilucia's smile was so gentle it could've melted the Frozen Throne itself, delivered like she was discussing the weather instead of offering up pieces of her very soul.

"What in the name of Elune's silvery backside!?"

Duke's face went whiter than a Death Knight's complexion, horror written across his features like runes on a runeblade.

Use her magic circuits?

That's right—magic circuits could be passed around like a bottle of dwarven ale, though the process was about as pleasant as gargling with molten lava.

Why do you think most mages come from noble bloodlines that stretch back further than Stormwind's family tree, while hedge wizards and first-generation spellslingers rarely amount to more than parlor trick performers?

Simple as dirt—the spawn of wizard families inherit their daddy's magic circuits, and sometimes even their great-great-granddaddy's arcane plumbing if they're lucky enough.

As the years pile up like bodies after a Scourge invasion, the quality and sheer volume of these magical pathways becomes more impressive than Dalaran's floating city.

But this kind of soul surgery came with more strings attached than a puppet show.

First condition: Both parties had to be breathing and kicking. Once someone kicked the bucket, their magic circuits went caput!"

Second condition: The magic circuits had to match up like puzzle pieces. Try jamming Phoenix Fire circuits into someone who channels Frost magic, and you'd end up deader than Arthas's conscience—about as smart as trying to teach an orc table manners.

Third condition: Both souls had to be willing participants in this cosmic dance. Magic and Holy Light spring from the deepest wells of the soul itself, and magic circuits are the sacred channels carved by one's own spirit. If the receiving soul put up even the tiniest fight—even unconscious resistance—the whole operation would fail harder than the Alliance's first attempt at peace talks with the Horde.

Ilucia hit all three requirements like a master archer hitting bullseyes. Sounds sweeter than honey mead, right?

Duke needed combat power yesterday, and Ilucia was offering it up on a silver platter. If her magic circuits got transplanted into Duke's soul, he'd bounce back to full Archmage strength faster than a goblin counts gold pieces.

But...

"Ilucia! Have you lost your ever-loving mind? Do you have any clue how much agony transplantation brings? Magic circuits aren't just fancy soul decorations—they're part of your very essence! Even if my circuits got fried crispier than a dwarfs's beard in a fire elemental's embrace, it'd only block some of my magical flow! But when your circuits get ripped out, it's like tearing chunks of your soul away with rusty hooks!" Duke bellowed like an enraged ogre, grabbing Ilucia's arms tighter than a miser clutches his purse strings, shaking this woman who'd followed him more faithfully than a paladin follows the Light for over ten years.

Duke figured his dramatic outburst would do the trick—he expected to see panic flood that beautiful face that combined razor-sharp intelligence with the mature allure of aged elven wine. Then he could talk sense into her and make her abandon this madness.

Duke's hopes crashed and burned like the Hindenburg.

No, this wasn't just disappointment—this was watching your last hope get trampled by a stampeding kodo.

Gazing into the blazing love burning in Ilucia's crystal-clear eyes, Duke suddenly understood the truth that hit him like Thrall's Doomhammer.

"If sacrificing just a sliver of my soul can keep my beloved from dancing with death, then it's worth more than all the gold in Stormwind's treasury. Besides, doing this will finally give me the strength to stand toe-to-toe with Alleria and Vereesa as an equal!" Her lips—redder than fresh blood on snow—brushed against Duke's mouth like a butterfly's kiss before pulling away. Ilucia locked eyes with Duke like a hunter sighting prey: "Or are you telling me you'd rather die than let my soul become one with yours?"

Three years together.

Ten years apart.

Time hadn't worn down Ilucia's love for Duke one bit. Instead, it had aged like the finest dwarven spirits, growing stronger and more potent with every passing season.

Ten years—the most crucial decade for a young maiden to blossom into a full-grown woman with all the wisdom and grace that comes with it.

A mountain of things could've happened in that time.

How many women would sit around twiddling their thumbs, waiting for a missing lover who'd vanished into thin air for ten years and might've been feeding worms for half that time?

Duke had seen too many so-called "true loves" crumble faster than ancient parchment in his previous life—whether from watching folks around him or reading about relationship disasters on social media—so he hadn't dared pin his hopes too high on finding lasting devotion.

Before his return, Ilucia hadn't abandoned his lands to go to seed. Instead, she'd worked her fingers to the bone, transforming his territory into the most prosperous region in the southern kingdoms, and for that Duke felt grateful enough to kiss a murloc.

He just hadn't expected this woman—who possessed about as much natural magical talent as a brick wall and seemed destined never to enter the realm of legendary heroes or fight by his side—would be willing to sacrifice herself to this degree.

What else could Duke possibly say?

What in Azeroth's name could Duke say!?

He swept Ilucia into his arms faster than a rogue backstabs, one hand wrapping gently around the soft shoulders of this noble-born lady, while his other hand's fingers traced the contours of her intellectual features with the reverence of a priest handling holy relics.

Without any teasing or playful seduction, Duke's right index finger moved slowly downward along Ilucia's delicate facial lines from forehead to chin, pressing lightly. When he lifted his finger, her silky skin and crimson lips bounced back with the graceful elasticity of youth.

It looked like innocent mischief, but Duke was actually memorizing Ilucia all over again. He wanted to burn every smile and frown of that porcelain face, every elegant line and curve, deep into his retinas, carve them into his heart, and brand them into the deepest chambers of his soul like a blacksmith hammers steel.

All the pretty words in the world would be emptier than a demon's promise.

Duke kissed her with the desperate hunger of a man facing his last meal.

Bit by bit, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane, he drank from those fragrant ruby lips, drawing in her sweetness like a man dying of thirst.

The Light only knows how long they stayed locked together before they finally parted, both gasping like they'd just outrun a pack of worgen.

Then Ilucia's barely contained groans of agony began echoing through the forest like a banshee's wail.

One circuit transferred.

Two.

Three.

Ten...

Watching Ilucia's face as she tried to mask her torment for his peace of mind, feeling the tremors wracking her delicate frame like earthquake aftershocks, Duke's heart was drowning in an ocean of tears.

The harder she tried to hide her suffering, the more it tore Duke apart inside.

Duke couldn't fathom what kind of pain transcended mere physical agony. Obviously, it had to be more horrific and excruciating than having limbs ripped off by rampaging ogres while still conscious.

Yet Ilucia endured it all with her fragile mortal body, showing more courage than a thousand knights charging into the Burning Legion's ranks.

Duke didn't know when the tears had started flowing down his cheeks like twin rivers of sorrow...