The fall

While Mal'Ganis was thinking, Arthas had already struck down the last undead. He took the Warhammer off his back and tossed it to the ground.

"It seems I underestimated you." Mal'Ganis was curious now. How had a mere human become so powerful?

Apart from a handful of races, most mortal races had a very limited ceiling on their strength. They might spend their entire lives reaching only the level of an ordinary demon of the Burning Legion.

Of course, exceptional individuals could arise among these mortals, capable of easily handling the Burning Legion's frontline demons.

But aside from their spellcasters, very few could overpower the Burning Legion's high-ranking commanders in close combat.

Demons had far stronger constitutions than any mortal to begin with. Unless a powerful warrior or assassin struck a vital point in a single blow, they were almost the strongest combatants an ordinary physical world could withstand.

Take the Annihilan, commonly known as [Pit Lords]. These terrifying demons, described as "engines of destruction," could even tear dragons apart with their bare hands. Each Pit Lord could rout an army of thousands upon thousands of mortals.

Against the Burning Legion, whose strength far surpassed any mortal civilization, the great deeds of mortal heroes were usually no more than their civilization's final dirge.

Mal'Ganis did sense a hint of danger from Arthas, but that was all the arrogant Dreadlord would admit.

"Come. Unleash your anger. Confront what lies within your heart."

Mal'Ganis's whispers echoed in Arthas's ears, laden with dark magic that sought to lure him further into the abyss of corruption.

Unfortunately, Arthas had never fallen, and the Dreadlord's whispers could not affect him at all. While Mal'Ganis was casting his spell, Arthas lowered his sword tip, and wisps of souls rose from the broken corpses around him.

Soul power lit the runes along Frostmourne's blade. Only with souls as fuel could this runeblade reveal its truly savage nature.

Only when Frostmourne had devoured every last remnant of the undead's souls did Mal'Ganis begin to realize that something seemed... wrong.

This boy already knows how to make Frostmourne devour souls?

That question distracted Mal'Ganis for only a moment, but Arthas had already charged up to him, sword raised.

He's so fast!

The Dreadlord beat his enormous bat wings and recoiled, but Frostmourne's edge had already left a clean score across his Runic Chestplate.

Had he retreated even a little more slowly, that mark might have been a gaping wound that split his chestplate apart.

Arthas was not discouraged by his failed strike. Everything seemed to be going as he had expected. His armored boots clanged against the ground, and before the Dreadlord had fully steadied himself, the next slash was already upon him.

Mal'Ganis had no choice but to raise his right arm, attempting to strengthen it with magic and block Arthas's attack.

Shhk!

Demon blood sprayed as the sharp blade effortlessly sliced through fel magic and runic armor. Those two layers of protection still saved Mal'Ganis's hand, though, leaving him with a freely bleeding wound.

The Dreadlord flew into a rage. Just as he was about to lash out, a rune on Frostmourne suddenly went dark.

At the same moment, Mal'Ganis felt soul-rending pain erupt from within him. His eyes bulged, and he spat a great mouthful of blood onto the ground, where it formed a rune.

"This is... the power of death?"

Mal'Ganis stared at Arthas in disbelief. At last, he understood. This man was no longer a Paladin!

Before Mal'Ganis could do anything else, a second rune went dark. His legs suddenly felt heavy. Looking down, he discovered two chains of condensed shadow locked tightly around them.

The Dreadlord slashed swiftly with his claws, severing the two seemingly fragile chains. But before Mal'Ganis could take a step, he stumbled and fell to one knee.

The Shadow Chains he had torn apart swiftly re-formed within a cloud of black mist. New chains even extended from them, winding around his waist and arms.

With a cold laugh, Arthas raised Frostmourne high. All the soul power he had just gathered erupted at once. Sharp chains shot like lightning from the undead corpses all around them, easily piercing the Dreadlord's wings.

"Roar!"

Mal'Ganis roared in pain, his eyes bloodshot and traces of blood still clinging to his mouth. He could scarcely believe it. A master of necromancy himself, he had actually been caught out by Arthas using the corpses of this lowly cannon fodder!

Those undead remains were precisely where the Shadow Chains erupted from. Under Arthas's control, their tormented souls, denied their rest, rose up to take revenge on their tormentor!

"You... did Ner'zhul teach you this?!"

Mal'Ganis realized that he and the other Nathrezim had all been deceived by that prisoner of a Lich King!

"You'll have plenty of time to think about that inside Frostmourne."

Arthas held Frostmourne at an angle, reversed his grip, and drove it forward. The blade pierced Mal'Ganis's chest without resistance.

Mal'Ganis gave a contemptuous smile. The prince might have defeated him, but he did not know that a weapon forged by the Nathrezim could not harm... wait!

The Dreadlord let out an agonized howl. To his horror, he discovered that the runeblade was greedily tearing at and absorbing his soul. His utterly filthy soul was a supreme delicacy to Frostmourne!

Like the souls of saints, the wicked souls of the fallen were a feast for Frostmourne.

Mal'Ganis's eyes widened in horror. At this rate, never mind escaping by feigning death-he would not even have a chance to return to the Twisting Nether and revive. His soul would become nourishment for Frostmourne!

"No, impossible... this isn't how it should be! This sword, no-!!!"

With a final, piercing scream, Mal'Ganis's body went limp. His bat wings drooped helplessly, and his already pale skin turned even more deathly white, like a statue drained of all life.

Without a soul to sustain it, his flesh became terribly fragile. Coupled with the physical world's rejection of demons, parts of Mal'Ganis's body swiftly turned to ash and scattered into Northrend's north wind.

Even in death, Mal'Ganis never understood why Arthas knew how to wield the power of death and unleash all of Frostmourne's properties, or why a demonic blade that could not harm the Nathrezim had turned on its own creators.

His plan to use Arthas to fake his death had failed. The soul of Mal'Ganis, the mastermind who had sought to lead Arthas down the path of corruption, would remain imprisoned in Frostmourne forever, subjected to endless torment and plunder.

Arthas used a trace of death's essence to preserve Mal'Ganis's head and tossed it into his Space Pouch. Then he walked over to the Warhammer and gripped its handle with one hand. The power of the Holy Light shone forth, purifying everything around him.

Under the impact of the Holy Light, the towering Necropolis soon began to crumble. Pieces of stone and crystal flaked away. Arthas turned without the slightest regret and whistled, as though summoning something.

An ethereal whinny echoed across the frozen plain, seemingly answering Arthas's call. A skeletal warhorse burning with blue soul flames galloped out of a bank of mist.

Its insubstantial body gradually grew solid, leaving blue, long-burning hoofprints on the ground. Arthas stroked the skeletal head as the horse leaned close to him. "It's been a long time, Invincible."

Invincible gave another soft snort, answering his master's words.

"Your form is even more perfect now. Come, let's retrieve something that should have been ours all along."

Arthas returned Frostmourne to his waist, swung into the saddle, and took Invincible's reins. Without needing any further direction, the warhorse reared high and carried his master farther north into Northrend.