"Mal'Ganis, stop! You Imp, you wimp!" Arthas roared, Frostmourne, his voice carrying the howling wind, majestic and full of confidence.
Not far ahead, Mal'Ganis was running for his life, his wings flapping rapidly, but unfortunately, they couldn't carry him into the air. The Dreadlord was terrified; he was now in a sorry state, like a stray dog.
"You're running away, where do you think you're going?"
Robbie, carrying the Justice of the Holy Light in one hand and a small Frostmourne in the other, blocked the Dreadlord's path, staring at the hideous Demons with ill intent.
"What's the point of you killing me? We Dreadlords are not afraid of death." Mal'Ganis retorted defiantly for a few moments, but realizing he couldn't stop his opponent's determination to kill him, he had no choice but to change his strategy.
"We can negotiate."
"Mal'Ganis screamed," he thought, trying to figure out what information he could use to impress Arthas.
"Thrall is about to ascend the throne in Lordaeron and receive the homage of envoys from all nations. I have an invitation. Oh, and Jaina has a deal with me; she sold human souls. No! No! Listen to me, you don't need to keep bothering me."
Robbie knew perfectly well that the Dreadlords were cunning and always had all sorts of schemes and tricks up their sleeves, making them impossible to guard against.
Guardian 'Aegwynn obsessive pursuit of power may very well have led her to fall into the Burning Legion's trap.
The best approach is to ignore their explanations and just kill them.
The Justice of the Holy Light, wielding immense power, crashed down upon the Dreadlord Thunder. The Dreadlord hastily dodged, but Arthas's sword slashed from behind, its massive Rune blade flashing and striking his vitals. In the mirror-like Rune of the sword, the Dreadlord saw his own distorted and terrified face.
"I will come back."
The Dreadlord fell unwillingly, his massive body collapsing onto the snow-covered ground. Robbie and Arthas stepped forward and used Holy Light to completely vaporize his corpse.
Frostmourne let out a joyful hum. Ever since Robbie learned of its communication with the World of the Dead, and Robbie did not object, Frostmourne has been contacting Robbie at any time without Arthas's knowledge.
"Prince Arthas, it's time to head to Lordaeron. We will infuse the Power of the Dead, accumulated over a thousand years in Undercity, into Frostmourne, so that it may become a true artifact. Prince Highness, remember this well: use your power cautiously, and do not let hatred blind you."
"I will."
Arthas closed his eyes, the wind and snow howling in his ears, his heart at Tranquility.
He knew the long-awaited moment of revenge was approaching, but this was the most crucial test. He had to exert all his strength to control his desire for revenge, lest he fall into the Abyss of darkness.
Robbie found an invitation among Mal'Ganis's belongings, sent by Thrall, inviting the Dreadlord to his coronation ceremony in Lordaeron.
Robbie delivered the invitation to Arthas, solemnly warning him. "Deception and rumors cannot destroy a person; only you can destroy yourself, Prince Highness."
"I'm ready for everything."
Arthas's voice was deep. He stood with his hand on his sword, gazing into the depths of the snowstorm, his eyes blazing with confidence.
This is the day Thrall, the Savior, ascends to the throne, and Lordaeron is filled with a festive atmosphere.
Drunken Orcs can be seen everywhere on the streets of Lordaeron, along with Orcs patrols that rumble past.
Things have changed. The ambassadors from the various races of the Eastern Kingdoms sadly discovered that the ancient Lordaeron, a shining jewel of Azeroth, had been reduced to a barbaric Orcs city-state.
The once bustling, lively, Order, and civilized human capital city is gone. The Orcs have done a poor job of Lordaeron, bringing with them bad customs such as littering and urinating indiscriminately. Even with rose petals scattered everywhere, the streets still reek.
Envoys from various tribes and countries of the Eastern Kingdoms had to cover their mouths and noses tightly with towels and enter the city with furrowed brows.
Thrall didn't care about any of that; he had already prepared the crown.
As the Savior of Azeroth and the King who ruled over all races, Thrall felt that his crown must also be extraordinary. In the end, he decided on a design: a detachable crown that was a full nineteen meters tall.
To ensure that the crown, crafted from Arcanite and inlaid with gems, wouldn't crush Thrall into a pulp, the mages of Dalaran went to great lengths, employing a clever levitation Magic Circle that made the towering crown as light as a feather.
It was foreseeable that when Thrall wore this crown, half of the Orcs in Lordaeron would be able to witness the glory of the great Savior, which gave Thrall a sense of satisfaction and comfort.
The ancient bells of Lordaeron rang out; they only tolled on important national occasions.
A royal wedding, the birth of an heir, or, as it is today, the ascension of a new king to the throne.
The bells tolled exceptionally loudly today, yet with a melancholic tone, as if mourning the fall of the Kingdom of Lordaeron.
Thrall was about to ascend the throne. Wearing a nineteen-meter-high crown, surrounded by numerous Orcs, he walked across a sturdy drawbridge, through a long Passageway, and headed towards the golden throne.
Below them was a sea of cheering people, not just ordinary Orcs, but also diplomats from Elves, Dwarves, Gnomes, Dragonkin, lower-ranking orc Orcs, and other dignitaries.
They crowded into every corner, cheering for Thrall, whether genuinely or feigning it.
Thrall, with a dignified expression, walked to the open-air throne and sat firmly upon it.
The 19-meter-tall crown is like a towering spire, with countless gems gleaming in the sunlight, enough to dazzle anyone.
First, the Orcs nobles and the most decorated generals knelt before Thrall and swore allegiance.
Then came the offerings from the foreign tribes and the signing of alliances. Jaina was the first to kneel before Thrall, kissing Thrall feet, representing the remaining humans of Lordaeron, swearing allegiance to the great Savior Thrall.
Next was Windrunner Sylvanas, who knelt on the ground and read Prince Kael'thas's blessing to Thrall upon his ascension to the Thrall, and presented the alliance treaty, declaring that the High Elves of Quel'Thalas would stand with the Orcs through thick and thin, forever bound by an alliance.
Then came the representative of Dalaran, a disciple of the Archmage Antonidas, who arrogantly read out the Archmage's decree: the Dalaran Kingdom would form an alliance with the Orcs, but the Orcs must also fulfill the treaty, such as paying part of their taxes, ceding territory in Tirisfal Glades, and sending noble children to Dalaran for further studies, etc.
This step was not planned.
After becoming chieftain of the Orcs, Thrall's temper grew more and more volatile. Now that he had ascended the throne, he had even less reason to suppress his nature. Thrall roared and kicked Jaina was kneeling on the ground, away.
People watched as the tiny figure flew up and crashed violently into a high wall, leaving him a bloody mess, without even having time to let out a cry of pain.
Silence reigned.
Only Thrall's roars echoed.
Thrall brandished his fist at the mage who was reading the command, shouting as he punched:
"Antonidas, do you want to die? One day I'll eat you alive."
The moment when one gains power and strength is also the moment when one is most prone to corruption.