Light and Shadow

Arthas pondered atop Invincible's back. How ironic, he had killed Kel'Thuzad, and now he was to resurrect him himself, and in Andorhal no less.

Frostmourne whispered to him, urging him to obey. In truth, there was no need to remind him; he had no intention of turning back.

After the fall of Lordaeron, Arthas embarked on a dark crusade. He led his new army across the land, sweeping through Lordaeron after town. As the whispers had said, "The Scourge" was indeed a fitting name. The purification of the land was unexpected, as if it had fallen from the sky. And the Scourge would wipe out all life. Frostmourne called him the Death Knight, and his hair, skin, and eyes had all lost their color, seemingly indicating that the title was more than just a name. Arthas neither knew nor cared what this meant. The Scourge was at his command.

The only unpleasant thing was that he was now working for a Demon Lord named Tichondrius, who looked almost exactly like Mal'Ganis. It was ironic, though, but it no longer affected Arthas.

"Like Mal'Ganis, I am a Demon Lord. But I am not your enemy." Tichondrius twisted his lips into a smile, but it looked more like sarcasm. "Actually, I'm here to congratulate you. You killed your own father and gave this land to the Scourge; you've passed your first test. The Lich King is... quite pleased with your enthusiasm."

Arthas was overjoyed.

"Yes," he replied, maintaining a calm and powerful tone before this demon, "I destroyed all the people and everything I had ever protected, and I feel no remorse whatsoever."

Tichondrius flapped his wings but did not take off. Instead, he pointed at Frostmourne and said to Arthas, "This Rune Sword you are holding was forged by the Nathrezim. The Lich King endowed it with the ability to steal souls. The first soul it obtained was you."

A multitude of emotions clashed within Arthas. He stared at Frostmourne, Tichondrius's words etched into his memory. If the Lich King demanded his soul as the price for saving his people, he would give it without hesitation.

That no longer matters!

"I don't need any souls," Arthas replied nonchalantly. "What are the Lich King's instructions?"

The answer to this question is to rally the Cult of the Damned. Arthas slaughtered a village and gathered most of his hidden followers. Then he went on to accomplish an even more important task—to resurrect Kel'Thuzad.

Arthas remembered the corpse lying in Andorhal —the birthplace of the Plaguegrain. He seemed to feel again the rage he had felt rushing towards the necromancer, but that feeling didn't last long. A mocking smile curled at the corners of the Prince's pale lips.

The buildings that had once burned fiercely were now charred wood. There should be no living people here anymore, only the Undead ... But... Arthas tightened the reins. Invincible stopped immediately; even in death, it remained obedient. Arthas could glimpse some figures moving about in an orderly fashion ahead.

"Living people?" he asked, puzzled. Armed humans were stationed near the cemetery, one of them even close to a small grave. After squinting for a moment, his eyes widened. These weren't just living people, not just soldiers, but Paladin. Clearly, Kel'Thuzad's corpse had attracted considerable attention.

But hadn't he already disbanded the Knights? There shouldn't be any Paladin left, and yet they were openly gathering here without anyone stopping them. Frostmourne stirred; it was hungry. Arthas drew his Rune Sword, raised it to signal a small group of Undead behind him, and then launched his attack. Arthas swiftly closed in on the graveyard guards; he could clearly see the shock on their faces. The knights fought valiantly, but ultimately it proved futile. They seemed to already know what the outcome would be.

Frostmourne was devouring soul after soul when suddenly an angry shout rang out, "Arthas!"

He recognized the voice, but couldn't immediately place it, so he turned to the speaker.

The man was tall and imposing, with a thick beard and wrinkles that spoke of a life well-lived. His eyes stirred memories in Arthas. "Gavinrad?" he exclaimed in surprise. "It's been a long time."

"Not long ago, and where is the warhammer Uther gave you?" Gavinrad said through gritted teeth, staring at the Rune Sword in Arthas's hand, stained with the blood of Terenas. "Where is the weapon that belongs to Paladin, the weapon that represents honor?"

"I have something better now." Arthas raised Frostmourne. It seemed to pulsate in his hand, thirsting for more. "Get out of my way, I'm just here to collect some rotten bones."

Gavinrad's thick eyebrows furrowed, and he spat at Arthas. "I can't believe we ever worked together for the Silver Hand! I don't understand why Uther would recommend you. Your betrayal has shattered his heart. Letting a spoiled Prince join was a mistake! You've disgraced the Silver Hand!"

"No, Paladin!" Arthas said softly, "After I kill you, I will resurrect your corpse and make you my servant. That would be a mockery of the Silver Hand." He smiled slyly. Gavinrad did not rush in, but instead focused his mind and prayed to the Holy Light. But the Holy Light could not save him. Arthas let him finish his prayer; once upon a time, the Prince himself had prepared for battle in the same way. However, at this moment, Frostmourne was tightly gripped in his hand, the Lich King's power surging within his undead body. He knew that Gavinrad had no chance of winning.

Indeed, that was the case. The Paladin had exhausted all his strength, but it wasn't enough. Arthas toyed with him, soothing the sting of the knight's words with the thrill of victory. But he quickly grew tired of the game, ending his former comrade's life with a single strike. Frostmourne had once again claimed a soul. But as Gavinrad's lifeless body fell to the ground, Arthas felt a chill for some reason. He did not resurrect him.

The Death Knight briefly gestured to his servants to begin searching for the remains. They moved swiftly, undoubtedly the necromancer's devoted followers placing the body in a small grave. Arthas was quite relieved that Uther, Nathanos, and Jaina hadn't intended to completely destroy Kel'Thuzad's corpse. The cultists found the grave and, with considerable effort, pushed open the lid. Inside was a coffin, which was quickly hoisted out. Arthas lightly touched it with his foot, a slight grin spreading across his face.

"Come, Kel'Thuzad," he said sarcastically as the coffin was loaded onto the so-called "Meat Wagon," "your former master now needs you again."

"Yes. But I seem to recall telling you that my death is meaningless."

Arthas was startled. He was used to hearing certain voices; the Lich King whispered to him almost constantly through Frostmourne. But this time was different; he recognized the voice!

Kel'Thuzad.

"What... am I listening to a ghost?"

He not only heard him, he also saw him. Kel'Thuzad's form gradually took shape before his eyes, transparent and ethereal, with pale green flames flickering where his eyes should be. Although he looked very different from when he was alive, it was definitely him.

"I am right beside you, Prince Arthas."

"You've wasted too much time." A deep, angry roar came from somewhere. Tichondrius vanished. Kel'Thuzad Arthas bewildered. Was it an illusion?

Tichondrius, completely oblivious to Arthas's strange behavior, stared with disgust at the decaying corpse inside the coffin. Arthas found the stench of the corpse more bearable than expected, though still horrifying. He had struck the wizard with his warhammer and witnessed the gruesome process of rotting.

"This is very bad; I'm afraid he won't make it to Quel'Thalas."

Arthas snapped out of his daze. "Quel'Thalas?"

"Yes. Only the Sunwell of the High Elf can resurrect Kel'Thuzad, or rather, make him even more powerful than before." The Demon Lord's brow furrowed even more. "He decays more severely with every second. There's a Paladin here in Andorhal carrying a special urn of ashes; you must retrieve it. Then place Kel'Thuzad's remains inside, and that will ensure his survival on the long journey."

Having said that, the Demon Lord laughed smugly. Things were definitely not as simple as they sounded. Arthas opened his mouth to ask, but then swallowed his words. Tichondrius wouldn't tell him. He shrugged and began his mission.

He heard the devil's sinister laughter behind him.

Tichondrius was right. A small funeral procession slowly approached along the road, without riders. Arthas recognized the funerary ornaments; it could be a soldier's funeral, or perhaps that of a high-ranking official. Several armored men stood in a single file, the one in the middle carrying something in his strong arms, the dim sunlight shimmering on his armor and the object in his hands—an urn of ashes. Arthas suddenly understood why the Demon Lord had been so excited.

The Paladin's figure was extraordinary, and his armor was unique. Arthas's hands suddenly trembled, and he had to grip Frostmourne even tighter. Suppressing the myriad confusions and anxieties in his heart, he ordered his men to advance.

Although the funeral procession was almost entirely composed of Knights of the Silver Hand, their numbers were small, and surrounding them was easy. People drew their weapons but didn't attack, instead turning to await instructions from the person carrying the urn of ashes. Uther stared expressionlessly at his former student, but the wrinkles on his face were noticeably more numerous than Arthas remembered. He appeared remarkably calm, yet a fire of justice burned in his eyes.

"I pray you'd better get out of the way," Arthas called out tentatively, but the Paladin remained calm, which made Arthas even more nervous than before. After a twitch of his face, he changed his approach, "I've noticed that even though I've disbanded the Silver Hand, you still call yourself Paladin."

Uther laughed, though the laughter was bitter, it wasn't feigned. "You really think you can dismantle it all by yourself? We only heed the call of the Holy Light."

The Holy Light. Arthas hadn't forgotten; his heart pounded in his chest. But then the whispered voice came again, reminding him of the immense power he now possessed, emphasizing that the path of the Holy Light could not give him what he craved.

"I've done a lot," he retorted. "But I won't do it anymore."

"Your father ruled this kingdom for over fifty years, and you turned it to dust in a matter of days. Destruction is easier than construction, isn't it?"

"That's certainly dramatic, Uther. And Nathanos? Wasn't he with you?"

"How dare you mention that name, Arthas! Have you forgotten what you've done? You've betrayed Nathanos, you've betrayed your father and your kingdom!" Uther roared at the unrepentant Prince before him, clutching the urn of ashes at his waist, listing his crimes.

"This is delightful! But I have no time for reminiscing. I'm here to take what's in your hand. Give it to me, and I'll make your death less painful."

At this moment, Uther's emotions outweighed his anger. He stared at Arthas, utterly shocked. "This contains your father's ashes, Arthas! You've already destroyed his kingdom, are you going to add fuel to the fire?"

A tremor ran through Arthas's entire body.

Father...

"I don't know what's inside," he muttered, more to himself than in response to Uther. This seemed to be yet another reason for the Demon Lord's sinister laugh when announcing the command; it at least knew what was in the urn. One trial after another. Could Arthas face his mentor... could he desecrate his father's remains? But he had had enough.

"It doesn't matter. I'll get what I want."

Arthas adopted an offensive stance. Uther watched him for a moment, then slowly raised his gleaming warhammer.

"I deeply regret it," the Paladin said hoarsely. Arthas shuddered to find tears welling in Uther's eyes. "Neither your father, nor even Nathanos, realized you had embarked on a path of no return. Until your stubborn recklessness led you to betray others in Hearthglen! And to sacrifice others in Stratholme. I was so foolish; Nathanos and I even prayed that you would realize your mistakes afterward."

Arthas forced a smile, and the two began to confront each other. "Is that so? That's quite unexpected."

"This is a promise I made to your father, the man I serve. Even though his own son killed him when he was defenseless and unarmed, I will ensure that his body is treated with respect."

"You will die because of your promise."

"Possibly." Uther seemed unconcerned. "I'm willing to die for my oath. I'm so glad Nathanos isn't here, so glad he won't see what you've become."

These words caused Arthas ...heartache. He hadn't anticipated this reaction. The Prince stood there, his emotions churning fiercely. Uther capitalized on his hesitation, striking first.

"For the Holy Light!" he roared, slamming his warhammer down on Arthas with all his might. The golden weapon hurtled towards them with such speed that the sound of it tearing through the air could be heard.

Arthas was nearly hit; he barely dodged, feeling the shockwave from the warhammer striking his face. Uther's expression was calm and focused... and radiated a murderous aura; stopping the spread of evil was his duty.

Arthas roared and swung his sword down.

Uther's warhammer blocked the sword's edge. The two began to exert force, their faces almost touching, the muscles in their arms trembling with the strain, until Uther let out a low growl and pushed Arthas back. The young Prince staggered a few steps, Uther pressing forward relentlessly. His face was calm, but his eyes were fierce and resolute, as if he believed in his inevitable victory. This absolute confidence shook Arthas. His attacks were also powerful, but hesitant and flustered.

"That's enough, boy!" Uther's voice boomed. In an instant, Arthas saw in horror as a brilliant light outlined the Paladin's silhouette. Not only his warhammer, but his entire being was glowing, as if he himself were the Holy Light. "For the Holy Light!"

The warhammer crashed down, striking Arthas squarely in the abdomen. For a moment, he felt as if the air inside his internal organs had been forced out. His armor saved him, but the armor itself was dented by the blazing Paladin. Frostmourne flew off, and he struggled to his feet.

The light surrounding Uther burned even more intensely, searing Arthas's eyes and even his soul, contorting his face in agony. Crisis struck, Frostmourne, by its own Will, returned to his hands. Arthas's mind churned in chaos, unable to discern anything. He only knew that suddenly his hands gripped the hilt of Frostmourne.

In that instant, Arthas saw the Holy Light enveloping Uther dim. But then Uther raised his warhammer once more, preparing to deliver the final blow.

But Arthas dodged, advancing again without hesitation, this time filled with the fervor of battle. His attacks were relentless, giving the Paladin no chance to catch his breath or adjust his momentum to launch a powerful counterattack. Uther's eyes widened in surprise; Arthas seemed to know exactly how to deal with him.

'How do I defeat Uther, Nathanos?'

'Without the Holy Light, Uther is a powerful Warrior. Warrior's most basic advantage is strength, followed by his heavy armor. While this increases defense, it also significantly sacrifices agility. To defeat him, you must be as nimble, agile, and swift as a wolf.'

"But Uther is not Warrior, he is a Paladin."

'There's not much difference. The Holy Light doesn't make a person perfect; on the contrary, it only amplifies their strengths and makes their weaknesses more apparent. Even infused with the power of the Holy Light, Uther's fighting style simply relies on overwhelming his opponents with sheer force.'

Yes! Arthas, while desperately attacking, frantically affirmed the point Nathanos had once told him. If Uther were a bear, he couldn't compete with a bear in strength; he should be as cunning as a wolf. Frostmourne, though a two-handed Greatsword, was so agile it seemed to know how to fight on its own, as if it had suddenly returned to his hand just now.

The blade struck Uther's shoulder, piercing the narrow gap between his bracers and shoulder armor, sinking deep inside.

Uther groaned and staggered back a few steps. Blood gushed from his wound. But Frostmourne craved more. Another strike followed, and Uther's breastplate offered no further protection. With another, the blade sliced through his flesh. Lightbringer Uther fell heavily to his knees, his tattered robes billowing wildly—the blue-gold robes symbolizing the Alliance for which he had served. Blood flowed from his mouth, wetting his beard, but his face showed no sign of surrender.

"I will reserve a place for you in... Hell, Arthas." He coughed a few times.

"Then I tell you, Uther," Arthas said coldly, raising Frostmourne in preparation for the final blow. "I intend to live forever."

The Rune Sword plunged straight down, piercing Uther's chest and penetrating his luminous heart. The Paladin didn't let out the agonizing howl Arthas expected; his wide eyes trembled, and he fell calmly and silently to the ground...

"Hiss~" Nathanos hissed, staring in shock at his finger where the arrow had pierced its skin. Why was such pain making him nervous? What had happened? He looked up at the Ranger training below Windrunner Tower, led by their Ranger-Captain, Veronalara. Alleria had gone to Silvermoon City to report to the Elf King about a possible impending war. He hadn't accompanied her, staying behind to forge a bow he was adept at.

Before him lay a map of Eversong Forest, and Nathanos wondered how long the forest's former glory could endure. He hoped Arthas wouldn't come, but Lordaeron and Quel'Thalas weren't far apart.

He will definitely come! How should I face him?