Chapter 48: The Choice

"Where... is this place?"

Leading his warhorse by the reins, Thassarian walked through the ruins of a necropolis. The surrounding remnants of armor and weapons indicated that a fierce battle had once taken place here.

The green glow he had seen last night was emitted by the ziggurat crystals scattered across the snow, but now, aside from rubble and snowdrifts, nothing remained.

Other than knowing there were signs of undead activity, Thassarian found nothing useful at all.

Yet he did not give up immediately; instead, he chose to continue searching through the pile of debris for a while longer, hoping to uncover some useful clues.

Just as Thassarian was scouring the ruins, his warhorse suddenly began to pace uneasily, letting out a series of hurried snorts.

Noticing his mount's abnormal behavior, Thassarian instantly stood up from the rubble, drew the longsword at his waist, glanced around, and picked up a still relatively intact shield from the ground.

"Whoa—hey! Quiet down!"

Thassarian tried to soothe his warhorse. Though he had no idea why it was exhibiting such abnormal signs of perceived danger—whether it was a ferocious beast or the undead—its current agitation would inevitably attract danger sooner or time.

However, no matter how hard Thassarian tried, the warhorse grew increasingly restless. Its tail flicked rapidly, and its front hooves scraped incessantly against the snow.

This made Thassarian realize that the crisis might not be underestimated. This was a warhorse specially bred by the First Legion of Lordaeron; ordinary wild beasts would not cause it to be this terrified.

Furthermore, this camp showed signs of undead activity; Thassarian felt there shouldn't be any wild beasts in the vicinity... which meant...

"Are you looking for me, little insect?"

A massive shadow engulfed Thassarian, and an intensely ominous sense of familiarity instantly welled up in his heart—it seemed to be the shadow cast by the wings of some creature.

"!"

Without the slightest hesitation, Thassarian had no intention of lingering. He quickly vaulted onto his horse, pulled a dwarven short pistol from his waist, and fired a shot backward without even looking.

"Bang—clang!"

First came the muffled report of the gunshot, followed by the sound of the projectile striking rune-inscribed armor.

The Dreadlord stood amidst the ruins of the undead camp, watching Thassarian ride away at a gallop, with no intention of giving chase.

"This human is too weak... He's not the one who destroyed this base."

The Dreadlord flexed his claw-like fingers, raised his arms, and attempted to use magic to summon the surrounding restless spirits to find out exactly what had happened here.

Yet this spell failed to summon any souls whatsoever. A trace of puzzlement crossed the Dreadlord's expression—he was not a demon as proficient in necromancy as Mal'Ganis.

Even so, he knew that his magic had failed to find any usable souls, and he had no way of understanding the events that transpired here through this method.

"Mal'Ganis's soul is gone too... Did he fake his death and flee, or was he banished from Azeroth?"

The Dreadlord pinched his chin, pondering the whereabouts of Mal'Ganis, but he felt no sorrow over the fate of his comrade; instead, he felt a somewhat gloating schadenfreude.

If Mal'Ganis had faked his death, that would be one thing; but if his physical form had been destroyed and his soul banished back to the Twisting Nether, his end would certainly be agonizing. The Lord of the Legion would never tolerate failure after failure.

This Dreadlord, who had come to seek the whereabouts of Mal'Ganis, was named Dethrok. He had originally been responsible for monitoring the movements of the Scourge in Northrend, but Mal'Ganis had suddenly lost contact with them yesterday.

Their boss, the leader of the Dreadlords, Tichondrius, was currently plotting something in the Eastern Kingdoms capable of summoning the Legion's arrival, and had no time to deal with Mal'Ganis, so he had sent Dethrok to investigate.

Tichondrius did not care whether Mal'Ganis lived or died; he only wanted Dethrok to find out what had happened, and if it was a powerful enemy, to avoid a direct confrontation for the time being.

Their primary mission was to help the Burning Legion invade Azeroth. If they failed, even if their souls managed to escape back to the Twisting Nether, the Legion would show no mercy to failures.

Dethrok felt that the disappearance of Mal'Ganis was extremely suspicious, and the place where he was last seen didn't even leave behind a lingering soul—this forced the paranoid Dreadlord to frown.

Although he still did not know the specifics of what had happened, Dethrok believed that nine times out of ten, that idiot Mal'Ganis had played himself to death—he had relied far too much on his own useless necromantic spells.

*I must go back and warn them... I wonder if Mal'Ganis's death has anything to do with the powerful entities still lingering in this world.*

Dethrok recalled the human who had been investigating here: a mortal appearing upon the icefields of Northrend was deeply unusual in itself.

*Perhaps I can get some information from him...*

With a powerful flap of his wings, Dethrok soared into the sky. The intense downforce scattered the surrounding accumulated snow. Beneath a large piece of rubble, a fragment of rune-inscribed armor—missed by both Thassarian and Dethrok—was wedged tightly.

The magical runes upon it had long since been completely purged by the Holy Light, and the armor itself had been smashed to pieces, preventing Dethrok from discovering any anomalies.

Thassarian galloped all the way on his warhorse, his heart fraught with doubt and alarm: Mal'Ganis was still alive? His Royal Highness the Prince might be in danger?!

In his haste and anxiety, the young warrior had failed to distinguish between the different Dreadlords, mistaking Dethrok for the supposedly dead Mal'Ganis.

Knowing he was no match for the Dreadlord, he was puzzled as to why he had been let go once again. However, what Thassarian needed to consider now was whether he should return to notify Brien and the First Legion, or continue pursuing the footprints of Arthas.

After a fierce internal struggle, Thassarian clenched his fists, the leather surface of his gauntlets rubbing together to emit a creaking sound.

*I cannot do this alone... I must inform everyone of the situation here.*

Ultimately, he made his decision. Now that he had a lead, if he could not relay the news to everyone, his survival or death would be utterly meaningless.

He had not come out here to play the hero, but to repay Arthas. If he had the opportunity to slay enemies alongside His Royal Highness, he would be willing even to die upon the battlefield.

Yet if he were to push deeper now, the most likely outcome would be a meaningless death. Only by mobilizing the garrison of the First Legion would it be possible to locate the precise whereabouts of Arthas and provide effective assistance.

Having sorted this out, Thassarian immediately spurred his horse toward the edge of the snowfield. He had to return to the Howling Fjord, notify the troops stationed there, and tell them that His Royal Highness the Prince was now in grave danger.

However, what Thassarian did not know was that in the sky above his head, a pair of evil eyes was watching his every move.