I've been through too much blood and tears.
Witnessed countless killings.
They suffered greatly.
Witnessing the destruction of their own country.
The cruel enemy danced over the corpses.
Deep sorrow.
You,
Arthas,
We need to carry the entire nation forward on our shoulders.
Searching for new life amidst a field littered with Corpses.
Seeking light amidst depravity.
To win Redemption.
"Scourge has struck."
An indescribable power erupted from Arthas's body, swirling with golden Holy Light, but mostly filled with the darkness of death.
Above Stratholme, black, leaden clouds obscured the sky, plunging it into darkness and forming a constantly swirling Maelstrom. The clouds pressed down slowly, almost within reach, as if they could devour one's soul.
Countless Restless Souls chanted in my ears, worshipping their king.
Sylvanas held the bowstring, already aimed at Arthas, but she dared not release the arrow. She gazed at the dark sky, Windrunner sensed the terrifying power about to erupt, his eyes filled with fear.
The Dreadlord Mal'Ganis was both envious and fearful; he craved this ultimate and pure power, yet sensed the immense danger lurking within it.
He knew very well that this was not a power he could control, so he quietly retreated, vowing to find out the secret within.
Thrall, Archmage Antonidas, Jaina were all astonished by the power of the heavens and earth.
"Stratholme harbors an extremely Evil power, yet why do I feel only endless sorrow and pain?"
Archmage Antonidas clutched his head, and said to Jaina in anguish, "Perhaps, revenge is truly coming, and we will all pay the price."
"Rise, my warriors!"
Arthas roared at the top of his lungs.
At the main gate of Stratholme, on the blood-stained walls littered with severed limbs, countless broken bones and limbs writhe in the knee-deep blood from the breaches in the walls. The skeletons come together, flesh and blood regenerate, and skeletons stand up, their eye sockets glowing red, roaring and howling in terrifying cries.
A warhorse's neigh echoed in his ears. The resurrected Baron Rivendare leaped onto his beloved steed, forcefully pulled the barbed arrow from his chest, looked at the bloody heart that had been pulled out, and devoured it.
Ten crippled Rivendares rose to their feet, shakily picking up their weapons. Their resolve Steadfast; the Maelstrom in the sky infused them with power, their bodies were being repaired, and their strength was increasing.
The power of the dead is like the ocean; fallen soldiers are reborn, adapting to their new bodies. Uther's daughter, Lady Deathwhisper, floats in the air, beginning to gather dark magic, sensing the reborn body of the dead.
Robbie sat resting atop a mountain of Orcs, the Justice of the Holy Light. Gazing at Arthas's awakening and the unleashing of his Power of the Dead, a wave of desolation washed over him.
Sorrow, pain, but also relief, and relief.
History remained unchanged; Arthas ultimately followed his Destiny. But that didn't matter. It wasn't a path of Evil that would destroy everything; it was a path of Justice rebirth.
Robbie had realized that although he and Arthas practiced the same technique, Arthas leaned towards the power of the dead, while he leaned towards the direction of the Holy Light, which probably stemmed from the difference in their bloodlines.
Power has no inherent good or evil; it is only the human heart that matters.
"Kill!"
Baron Rivendare brandished his broken sword, his commands as concise and clear as ever.
The resurrected Warriors surged towards the Orcs Legion at the breach like a tidal wave, abandoning all emotions and everything else, fearless and driven only by revenge.
The Orcs fell like wheat being harvested; the newly born Undead terrified them. Even Orcs could feel fear when faced with an unknown enemy.
Thrall was dumbfounded, feeling a chill run down his spine as an endless horde of Undead swept across the land. He immediately ordered a retreat.
Sylvanas sounded the retreat cry.
"It's terrible, Stratholme is a city of the dead."
Experiment 335 stared in disbelief at all of this, finally understanding how cruel and ruthless true history was.
Baron Rivendare walked up to Arthas, proud of his newborn body.
"Prince Highness, Stratholme will never fall, I assure you."
Arthas gazed at the dark sky. The Orcs had been driven out of Stratholme, Thrall had fled in Liuliu, and the mages of Dalaran had retreated in dejection. Sylvanas looked at the dead Elf ranger, her face contorted with rage.
Despite paying a heavy price, Stratholme was finally held.
Lordaeron upheld its last vestige of dignity.
But instead of feeling the thrill of victory, a sense of despair welled up inside him.
"I'm afraid this is my limit." Arthas looked at the swirling Rune in his hand, a bitter expression on his face.
"Lordaeron needs my salvation, I need greater power, but..."
Looking at the hordes of Ghouls and the densely packed new Undead Warriors, Arthas felt no sense of accomplishment; he was not satisfied with what he was seeing.
"My father's soul is being interrogated by the Restless Souls, his soul is filled with remorse, and only my path of Redemption can bring him peace, but I cannot do it, I can only do this much, just one Stratholme."
Even with the help of the World of the Dead, Arthas did not fully understand the meaning of the fifth Runes of the Dead, and he was even more unfamiliar with the fifth Holy Light Rune, barely able to exert a small amount of power.
Human strength is ultimately limited; he has encountered a bottleneck, and his power is probably limited to this.
"Yes, this is far from being a powerful Undead Scourge."
Robbie was equally moved, gazing at the resurrected Undead in Stratholme. This was certainly not the Scourge he remembered, the Undead that could sweep across the Azeroth Continent and threaten all life.
Arthas's power was far from sufficient.
Stratholme, a city of the Undead.
As the allied forces withdrew, the city gradually returned to normal, following the path of the Undead.
The few survivors gathered around Arthas and Robbie; this was a small contingent that the Baron had specially reserved for His Highness the Prince.
Whether alive or dead, everyone has their own responsibilities and obligations.
The Undead were busy cutting down trees in the Plaguewood, trees infected with Plague that the living avoided, but the dead had ways of using them.
Arthas was not idle; he was busy everywhere, using his knowledge to empower the Undead of Stratholme.
One after another, Necropolis were built, and large cemeteries and graveyards replaced the original houses. Stratholme, shrouded in leaden clouds, quickly became a gloomy and ghostly place.
Robbie sensed Arthas's despair and despair, and he did everything he could to do something for the Undead completely as his own people.
Robbie discovers that Arthas is secretly studying Kel'Thuzad's notes, paying particular attention to the section on transformation into Lich.
"Prince Highness wouldn't want to turn yourself into Lich, would he? Even though he is the future Lich King."
Inside the church in Stratholme, the only remaining building inhabited by living people.
Arthas gritted his teeth and finally couldn't help but say to Robbie, "Robbie, I must confess to you, your axe can communicate with the world of the dead, and they have been imparting knowledge to me."
Robbie wasn't surprised; he had already sensed something was amiss.
"The true name of the Axe of Tyranny is..."
"Shadowmourne, is that right?" Robbie asked tentatively.
Arthas looked at Robbie in surprise and nodded.
In an instant, Robbie's thoughts came together, and he finally understood some things.
"Prince Highness, the revenge is not over yet. In the Northrend, there lies a sword, its name is:"
Frostmourne.