Chapter 47: The Lich King

Arthas slowed Invincible's pace, circling the spiral ice stairs up along the edge of the Frozen Throne tower. Amidst the vortices of souls and endless cold winds, he caught the faint strains of a song.

To be precise, it was a lament.

A lament sung for the fallen prince and the lost kingdom.

In the cadence of the dirge, howling gales and raging blizzards swept across the glacier, and the sunlight was bleached pale as it filtered through the gloomy clouds.

The light reflected a dazzling glare off the glaciers and deep snow, and everything seemed to grow illusory. In Arthas's sight, a human silhouette began as a blur and gradually grew clear.

The two of them advanced one after the other along the path leading to the summit of the Frozen Throne, the other figure's height and build almost identical to Arthas's own.

Following close behind that figure, Arthas could even see the snowflakes clinging to his warboots and the footprints left behind in the snow.

Yet when Arthas actually walked over the exact spots the other had passed, the snow returned to its pristine state, proving that save for him, this realm of death was entirely devoid of life.

The figure ahead wore black plate armor engraved with skull motifs, and his tattered blue-and-gold cloak had been stained pitch-black by dried blood.

At Arthas's silent cue, Invincible neighed softly and stepped into a shroud of shadow mist, vanishing from the mortal world. The prince dropped to the snowy ground and followed the shadow upward.

Slowly, the figure came to a halt, raised his head to gaze once more at the summit of the Frozen Throne, and slowed his pace slightly. Yet this seemingly hesitant gesture lasted only a few seconds.

The weapon he held in his grasp was none other than the rune blade Arthas wielded: Frostmourne.

Watching the back that was about to ascend the pinnacle of the Frozen Throne, Arthas quickened his pace until he was trailing merely a few meters behind the figure.

Just as he was about to catch up, the other suddenly stopped and turned back to look at Arthas.

Pale skin, unkempt stubble, withered and lifeless gray-white hair, and... a face identical to Arthas's own.

Emotions of considerable complexity surfaced in the eyes of the "Arthas" before him. Was it regret? Was it excitement? Or was it the exhaustion that followed endless slaughter and madness?

"Arthas" locked eyes with Arthas, yet it was as if he did not see him at all. Instead, his gaze passed right through the prince to fix upon the endless, unseen path stretching out behind him.

The road by which he had come was no longer traceable, and as far as the eye could see, there was only profound darkness.

"I have come."

A familiar yet hoarse voice rang in Arthas's ear, though it sounded less like it came from another's lips and more like Arthas speaking to himself.

The moment the words fell, everything about "Arthas," down to the wind and snow swirling around him, froze in place.

Arthas sighed, then slowly stepped forward, raising his hand to strike down upon the "Arthas" who was like his own black-and-white reflection.

His figure rippled like the surface of water broken from its calm. Following the ripples, the shadow dissolved like fine sand blown by the wind, slipping through Arthas's fingertips to dissipate into the blizzard.

This was not some trick of the Lich King, but a true illusion witnessed by mortals upon the threshold where reality and death intersected.

Arthas watched as his other self accepted the fate of corruption, ultimately choosing to ascend the Frozen Throne and merge as one with the Lich King.

Even though he was no longer that "Arthas," witnessing his own phantom take that fateful step still filled his heart with a tumult of mixed emotions.

Fate was the most elusive of scripts; even the Bronze Dragons, acting merely as spectators, would eventually become actors trapped within the play. No one had ever managed to untangle this vast web.

When the phantom of "Arthas" vanished on the wind, Arthas took a deep breath and raised his eyes toward the colossal crystal of ice resting at the summit of the Frozen Throne.

That was shadow ice born of the Twisting Nether, sealing within it a soul steeped in grave sins—the catalyst that had led the orcs to be seduced by the Burning Legion: Ner'zhul.

This former chieftain of the Shadowmoon Clan and elder shaman of the orcs was inextricably linked to the corruption of his race, and the destruction of the orcs' homeworld, Draenor, was entirely of his making.

Before Draenor teetered on the brink of collapse, the old shaman had acquired an artifact known as the Scepter of Sargeras. Its primary function was to tear the space between the Twisting Nether and the material universe, opening semi-permanent portals.

Draenor at that time was already corrupted by fel energy beyond redemption, and Ner'zhul attempted to open interspatial portals to find a new world for the orcs to conquer or inhabit.

Yet his plan ultimately failed, and it was entirely possible that the Scepter of Sargeras falling into his hands had been a trap all along.

Ner'zhul had failed to account for Draenor's capacity to endure; a world on the verge of shattering could never withstand a multitude of interspatial portals. Massive gateways akin to the Dark Portal ultimately triggered a cataclysmic explosion.

The entire planet of Draenor was torn apart in the blast, leaving behind only a few fractured continents drifting aimlessly through the Great Dark Beyond.

Because of this explosion, Ner'zhul was discovered by the leader of the Burning Legion, the Defiler, Kil'jaeden, who was already boiling with fury over the orcs' failed invasion of Azeroth.

Using magic beyond mortal comprehension, Kil'jaeden tore Ner'zhul's physical body apart and preserved his soul, handing it over to the Nathrezim. What awaited Ner'zhul was endless torment.

Living a life worse than death, Ner'zhul begged the demon lord for a chance to redeem his failures. Kil'jaeden obliged, cleanly executing Ner'zhul before resurrecting him in a spectral form.

The Defiler sealed Ner'zhul's soul within a massive crystal of shadow ice, forging it into an eternal prison, and cast it down upon Azeroth, commanding him to raise an army of the dead and dismantle Azeroth from within.

Five Nathrezim descended upon Azeroth alongside him as his wardens, both to oversee Ner'zhul and to prepare for the Legion's eventual reinvasion.

Thus, Ner'zhul proclaimed himself the Lich King and, aided by the dreadlords, began forging an undead army which he named the Scourge—signifying a scourge upon all living things.

Yet Ner'zhul had no genuine desire to serve as a lapdog for the Burning Legion; he merely feigned compliance under the weight of Kil'jaeden's supreme might.

A traitor was always a traitor. Once Ner'zhul attained sufficient power, he began plotting to purge the Legion's spies from within the ranks of the undead.

The dreadlords, preoccupied with executing Kil'jaeden's orders and lulled by Ner'zhul's prior subservience, had lowered their guard entirely.

By now, Ner'zhul had learned to absorb and fuse the consciousness and souls of the dead to augment his own power. Through the radiating power of the shadow ice of the Frozen Throne, he could now cast his consciousness to nearly every corner of Azeroth.

This was precisely why Kel'Thuzad, far away in the Eastern Kingdoms, had been able to hear the Lich King's call.

Standing before the Lich King Ner'zhul, Arthas felt the immense oppressive weight bearing down from the entity.

Ner'zhul's physical form had long since been obliterated, and his soul was imprisoned within the ice, sealed away alongside a suit of pitch-black armor.

No, it could hardly be called pitch-black; rather, the armor seemed to absorb all light and intent. A mere glance from an ordinary mortal would make them feel as though their very soul were being torn asunder.

"Do you truly believe that wielding Frostmourne gives you the courage to confront the might of the Lich King?!"

Ner'zhul's soulful whisper echoed in Arthas's ears, carrying a magical resonance heavy with hatred and resentment, attempting to corrupt Arthas's mind.

Yet Arthas had long anticipated this day of facing the Lich King, having forged his own mind to be as unyielding and indestructible as elementium.

The Lich King's whispers were like a gale howling across mountain peaks, entirely incapable of shaking the mountain by so much as a fraction of an inch.

"Your mind is formidable indeed, but can you face the darkness within your own heart?"

The vision of the Frozen Throne abruptly vanished, and Arthas found himself thrust into the midst of a chaotic battlefield.

It was a scene where Arthas's own kin and dearest friends were slaughtered and desecrated by the Scourge; they had fought valiantly, only to fall beneath an ocean of the undead.

And the butcher wielding Frostmourne was none other than Arthas himself.

"You... have betrayed the Light..."

Uther lay bathed in blood upon the ground. The Light had failed to protect the great paladin, and upon falling, he rose once more as an agent of darkness, turning his warhammer against his former comrades.

Jaina's soul was ripped from her corpse by the liches, transformed through a ritual of pain and torment into a frenzied banshee.

The heads of Muradin and Brann had been severed by Scourge death knights and hoisted upon pikes. The King of Stormwind had taken a fatal blow to the heart from dark magic while defending his son and queen, falling forever, while Queen Tifen and Prince Anduin were ruthlessly slain by the Scourge.

The corpse of Ranger-General Sylvanas hung high upon the outer wall of the floating citadel Naxxramas. As Arthas looked on, he saw the corpses of countless other Alliance heroes displayed there as mere trophies.

And directly before Arthas stood King Terenas, his own biological father, with his chest pierced through by Arthas's blade.

This hellish tableau was enough to shatter the mind of any valiant soldier, yet Arthas stood at the very center of the battlefield, completely unfazed. Even though Frostmourne still dripped with his father's blood, Arthas displayed not a shred of fear or collapse.

"A fine display. It seems you put a good deal of thought into preparing this."

Arthas's expression remained utterly blank. If mere illusions of this sort could cause him to yield to the darkness within, how could he possibly live up to his other identity?

"If I were merely a paladin, seeing everything I love desecrated in such a manner, I would likely have fallen prey to an overwhelming and uncontrollable guilt."

"However, Ner'zhul, what I have experienced and envisioned is far darker than this!"

Arthas's tone was flat and ordinary, yet Ner'zhul, observing from the shadows, sensed an ominous undercurrent.

The Frostmourne in the prince's grasp began to emit a blue radiance, the firefly-like soul glow swirling across its surface, and the edges of the illusion began to collapse.

In its place emerged another scene entirely.

Within the endless void, one half was filled with emerald-green fel flames, while the other was entirely composed of a purple-black, boundless abyss. The Lich King involuntarily reached out with his consciousness to probe this unfamiliar space.

...

"Crack!"

The illusion maintained by the Lich King shattered violently. Arthas reached out to catch a shard of the fractured vision, watching it completely dissipate in his palm.

"Your curiosity remains as insatiable as ever." Arthas put away Frostmourne, unclasped the warhammer from his back, and walked step by step toward the shadow ice.

With every step he took, the oppressive aura of the Lich King intensified, yet none of it could impede Arthas's advance. Instead, Ner'zhul's own mind suffered a backlash from his earlier act of prying.

Because he had dared to stare directly into an existence he had no business gazing upon, that raw frenzy and destructive will had nearly breached his own defenses.

Injured though he was, Ner'zhul's power remained terrifyingly superior to mortal limits. Atop the Frozen Throne, even ordinary demigods would have their souls crushed under his might.

Yet he had the misfortune of encountering Arthas—an anomalous "paladin." Where other paladins possessed a rigidity and brilliance born of their absolute faith in the Holy Light, beneath Arthas's radiant exterior lay a truly pitch-black heart.

Where the Light could not shine, shadows would inevitably gather.

As a convergence of the Holy Light and death, Arthas had commanded death and toyed with souls long before Ner'zhul ever had, rendering the Lich King's assessment of his weaknesses fundamentally mistaken.

Not to mention his comprehension of darkness—Arthas understood the shadowy depths of the world far better than Ner'zhul ever did.

He even understood Ner'zhul's vulnerabilities, chief among them being his insatiable curiosity.

Had it not been for his obsessive fascination with the Void and his frequent use of shamanistic soul-craft to wander the cosmos, the orcs would never have caught the attention of the Burning Legion so swiftly.

Utilizing the superior station of his own power, Arthas had counter-invaded Ner'zhul's illusion, treating him to a glimpse of primordial truth.

Naturally, the Lich King could not restrain himself from casting his soul energy to investigate, thus falling right into Arthas's trap.

"Do not celebrate too soon... mortal, you will belong to me in time!"

Ner'zhul's voice was laden with fury and bitter resentment. Tortured to death only to be resurrected as a ghost imprisoned within armor and ice, his world utterly ruined, Ner'zhul's hatred was the very root of his power.

Accompanying the Lich King's whisper, a massive arm composed of ice and shadow thrust outward from the glacier, followed immediately by the other.

Though his physical form remained firmly locked in place and unable to move, it did not mean the Lich King lacked the means to influence the material world through spiritual might; the Frozen Throne, resting upon the spatial rift of the world, was the very source of his power.

"I am the sole master of this realm!"

Arthas's gaze turned glacial as he gripped Vengeance of the Light in both hands. Against a puppet forged from the extended power of the Lich King, Frostmourne—having yet to consume a vast multitude of souls—would play very little role.

The battles he had just fought had already expended all the collected souls. As for Mal'Ganis's soul, Arthas had other uses for it and had no intention of wasting it on Ner'zhul.

Therefore, he resolved to use the Holy Light to send this solitary ghost off on his final journey.