In May of Year 20 of the Dark Portal, upheaval struck the newly stabilized Lordaeron Empire once again. The Undead Plague broke out within its borders, and in just one month, Eastweald, the empire's eastern heartland, fell completely. As many as one million people were affected, spreading panic throughout the empire.
In Tirisfal, a carriage sped along the road from the town of Brill toward Eastweald. The once-bustling trade route was now all but deserted. To ordinary merchants, Eastweald had become nothing short of hell.
Although the carriage was already moving fast, the driver was still dissatisfied. He flicked his whip, sending a sharp crack through the air, and the four fine horses pulling the carriage picked up speed again.
The shield-shaped crest of Lordaeron's royal family was engraved beside the carriage door, marking it as a royal carriage. No one along the way dared stop it, allowing it to hurtle madly down the road.
Inside, a gloomy Jaina sat on Dick's lap. The Young Lady looked awful, not merely from the exhaustion of the long journey, but even more because of the scroll clutched in her hand.
A special envoy from Dalaran had delivered it to Jaina. Although it took the form of a scroll, it was actually a letter. Leaning against the constantly swaying carriage, Dick only had to glance down to see the signature at the end.
The letters danced like flames, like a living creature made of light. They represented a name no one could ignore: Antonidas.
"Ugh, my mentor has lost his mind."
Jaina irritably crumpled the scroll into a ball and tossed it onto the floor. With a long sigh, she buried her head in Dick's chest and said in a muffled voice,
"I already sent him Kel'Thuzad's belongings, but he still hasn't realized how serious this is. He just keeps insisting that I return to Dalaran and let that idiot Rhonin handle the cleanup."
"Lord Antonidas is just worried about you."
Dick reached out and stroked Jaina's back. Their relationship had progressed by leaps and bounds since he woke up that day. Although Jaina's status meant that Dick could only appear in public as her guard, that did nothing to stop their blazing romance.
It had taken Dick only one day to reach second base, but going any further would not be so easy.
By the time they returned to Tirisfal from the ruined Nameless Valley, a day had passed since Kel'Thuzad's death. Jaina wasted no time. She rushed into King Terenas's court as quickly as possible and told the wise old king about the trap Kel'Thuzad had laid for Arthas.
Though King Terenas, who had grown up amid war, was now old, he remained extremely decisive. After hearing Jaina's account, he immediately wrote an order and entrusted her with delivering it to the Order of the Silver Hand, which was operating around Andorhal. It instructed Uther, the "Holy Paladin," to lead a force to Arthas's aid.
That was why Jaina and Dick were now sitting in this speeding carriage.
Jaina did not want to see Arthas fall into a trap, but unlike her earlier affection, this was simply a matter of responsibility. Dick, however, was returning to Stratholme because of a quest.
"Quest triggered: Large Historical Node-Stratholme" "Description: Save Stratholme's fate." "Reward: World Divergence 2%-6%"
If Dick had previously been uncertain how he could accumulate 70% World Divergence, the quest triggered during his audience with King Terenas had given him hope. The Pantheon, which had already been completely wiped out by the Dark Titan, certainly did things on a grand scale. Not only had it identified a historical node, it had issued it as a quest.
For the lost and confused Dick, this was tantamount to
laying out a clear path forward. As long as he kept following it steadfastly, he would complete the main quest sooner or later. "What are you thinking about, you little rascal?"
Jaina looked up at the squinting Dick with alluring eyes. He paused, pressed his lips together, then leaned down, bringing their lips together. Only two minutes later, when the Young Lady felt something amiss beneath her, did she break free of his embrace, her face bright red, and sit huffily on the opposite seat.
Her annoyance lasted only a few seconds, however, before her gaze settled on Dick's black-gloved left hand. Even with her exceptional intelligence, the Young Lady felt somewhat apprehensive when faced with such an unusual hand.
"Have they really... really grown together?"
Under the Young Lady's curious gaze, Dick, whose face was still somewhat pale, shrugged and removed his left glove, revealing the silvery-white fist.
"I don't know what happened either, but it really did grow onto the severed arm in just one night."
Dick flexed his fingers. The exquisite silver left hand, almost like a living thing, moved nimbly under his control, just like a real hand. It even possessed a complete sense of touch, apart from pain.
Aside from its somewhat different color, the silver hand Tyr had left behind had become a true part of Dick's body. Though he could not be certain, Dick suspected that it was another reward for completing "Lingering on in Desperation," in addition to the fifteen-point increase to all attributes.
"Unbelievable. You actually acquired a relic left by a Titan in this way!"
Jaina put on a special pair of rimless glasses and drew Dick's left hand toward her, examining it carefully. She also took out her short staff and gathered arcane power at its tip. But when the speck of purple light touched the silver fist, it vanished instantly, like a drop of ink falling into the ocean.
Dick's entire body abruptly shuddered. He had felt the stimulation of that tiny glimmer of magic. The faint pain made him bare his teeth, and his previously motionless left hand suddenly swept forward, pulling the unsuspecting Young Lady into his arms again.
"You rascal... let me go... mmm... you're awful..."
The Bulwark had now become the Order of the Silver Hand's temporary base. Together with Hearthglen in northern Eastweald and the imperial troops stationed to the west, it formed a triangular battlefield that held Andorhal, where the undead offensive was fiercest, firmly trapped at its center.
The Darrowmere Region was an important grain-producing area for the empire. Farms large and small dotted its flat terrain, and Andorhal was its only large city. This was the one thing that satisfied Uther, the region's current commander.
Working together, the three forces had cleared the other wandering undead from this land by the third day after Prince Arthas reported the situation in Andorhal. Yet against Andorhal, which had become a city of the dead, the three armies had never managed to breach the defensive line.
Ordinary soldiers had little advantage against undead creatures. The only ones who could effectively counter their attacks were the Order of the Silver Hand's paladins. But only fourteen short years had passed since Bishop Alonsus Faol founded the paladin vocation, and the empire had far too few of them.
Three days of continuous fighting had also left these paladins utterly exhausted.
Holding his golden warhammer in both hands, Uther led a squad of paladins in blocking the front of Andorhal's bridge. Holy Light energy filled almost his entire body, making him look like a walking mass of light. Every attack reduced more than a dozen undead to ashes amid their howls.
It was as though an invisible golden line stood before Uther, and no one could cross it without permission.
Even so, against nearly a million undead, the Silver Hand's defensive line was steadily being compressed. This time, Araj, the lich in Andorhal, had even deployed weapons of war-abominations.
Made entirely from fresh flesh and blood, these monsters exuded a dark green aura of plague. Four meters tall and weighing nearly a ton, each had a deformed arm sewn onto its back and carried a bloodstained Meat Cleaver, a Bone Reaper, and a sinister black chain. They were evil creations that seemed to embody every nightmare.
They possessed boundless strength and never tired. Unless burned to ashes by powerful Holy Light, they would keep attacking even after being hacked down. Over the past three days, these monsters had killed at least fifteen paladins.
Now, amid the wild laughter of Araj, who had become a lich, two abominations approached Andorhal's walls, one on either side. Swinging their axes, they hacked breaches into the solid walls with just a few blows, and hordes of ghouls and Skeleton Soldiers poured through.
"Dathrohan, seal that breach! We can't let those monsters reach this side of the defensive line!"
Uther's eyes narrowed at the sight, and he immediately shouted to the burly man fighting alongside him from behind. The man carrying a heavy hammer did not answer. Instead, he turned and charged alone toward the abomination approaching from the left.
Saidan Dathrohan, one of the Silver Hand's five Grand Knights, was more than capable of dealing with the undead coming from the left by himself.
But what about the right?
Watching those frenzied ghouls draw ever closer to the panicking rear line, Uther bitterly regretted listening to that scoundrel Barthilas's slander and agreeing to strip Tirion of his Holy Light. If his old friend were still here, surely he would have nothing to worry about behind him.
And there was Turalyon, who had gone missing during the Second War. What a powerful and wise champion of the Holy Light he had been. Of the five First Paladins, only Uther, Dathrohan, and Gavinrad, who was not skilled in head-on combat, remained.
"Hold on! I'll be right back!"
Uther shouted to the paladins behind him and charged alone toward the undead sea breaking through the line on the right. But halfway there, he heard a furious roar from the rear line.
"Begone, evil!"
A young man-a young man wearing a squire's long black tunic-rushed out from the line with a blue-and-red two-handed sword and plunged straight into the undead tide.
He fought bravely, but after cutting down several ghouls with unstoppable force, he still became surrounded by the undead.
Uther quickened his pace. He could not stand by and watch a champion fall before him. Yet just as he approached the battlefield, a burst of holy power erupted from the undead sea, powerful enough to draw even his attention.
"By the Holy Light!"
Uther watched the young man kneel earnestly on one knee. The sword in his hands had been replaced by a heavy warhammer spilling golden light. Visible radiance formed a burning barrier around him, mercilessly reducing any undead that dared approach the halo to ashes.
Beneath this halo, the swiftest ghouls scattered in all directions, howling. Even the ferocious abomination halted its advance.
"He actually became a paladin at a time like this!"
Uther was instantly bewildered. As a First Paladin, he knew better than anyone how difficult it was to create a paladin. First, one needed sincere faith in the Holy Light, preferably with a background as a priest, followed by a series of rigorous martial training that took at least a year. Then, after a paladin of the preceding generation implanted a seed of Holy Light in them, those who had embarked on the knight's path still needed an archbishop's baptism before they could formally become champions of the Holy Light.
Yet this young man had overturned everything Uther knew. He was certain that the young man had not possessed even a trace of the Holy Light's presence when he charged onto the battlefield. But in the blink of an eye, the Holy Light had bestowed its grace, making him a paladin right there on the battlefield!
How was that possible?!!!