Chapter 36: Dust to Dust, Earth to Earth

In flight, Mal'Ganis glanced at his left arm, which had been scorched to a charred black. He still felt a lingering tremor of fear from the explosion of Holy Light Arthas had unleashed moments ago.

He should have tortured that doctor and his daughter further, but when he had raised his arm to block Arthas’s hammer, a searing pain had maddened his nerves. The violent power of the Holy Light had triggered a "curious" reaction with the fel and shadow energies within him; had he not retreated immediately and broken contact with Arthas’s warhammer, his arm might have been blown to pieces.

Demons shared a common trait: a profound contempt for weak, mortal races, born of their immense power and near-immortality. When campaigning on physical worlds, demons did not truly die. Once their physical shells were destroyed, their souls would simply return to the Twisting Nether, the heart of the demonic realm. Unless a demon's soul was bound in advance by specific magic or artifacts, physical damage alone could never truly kill one. While the Holy Light could inflict significant harm, its lethality on the spiritual plane was limited; compared to paladins, most demons feared mages far more. As a high-ranking demon—not mere cannon fodder for the Burning Legion—Mal'Ganis usually ignored human paladins, but Arthas’s Holy Light had truly opened his eyes.

Yet, Mal'Ganis did not flee out of fear. He possessed a deep understanding of the Holy Light—an energy inextricably linked to the emotions of the wielder. A calm, composed individual would never manifest the Light with such savage, wild fury as Arthas had. Arthas’s power had taken the form of nearly physical, gold-red flames. Before this, Mal'Ganis had suspected that Lordaeron’s tight defensive layout might have been influenced by Arthas, but after this confrontation, he became convinced his plan was already a success, prompting his immediate and unhesitating retreat. One who wielded such Light was surely a brute, for the energy itself could not lie.

***

When Jaina arrived at the outpost with ten privy knights and Sassarian, they found Arthas sitting on a boulder outside the camp, cradling a white-haired little girl in his arms.

His blue-and-gold cloak was shredded by blades, and the lacquer of his armor was marred by various weapon strikes. As for his weapon, "The Might of Menethil," only half the handle remained; the hammer’s head had shattered into irregular iron shards scattered on the ground, still emitting faint flickers of Holy Light. Clearly, Arthas had endured a harrowing battle.

"Are you all right?" Jaina hurried to his side, letting out a sigh of relief only when she realized that, despite his disheveled appearance, he was physically unscathed.

"I am fine. It is only that Mal'Ganis escaped."

"And this girl is?"

"She is the only survivor of this disaster, besides Sassarian," Arthas said. "I arrived too late. The other soldiers in the camp had become Mal'Ganis’s puppets, and even Dr. Mait was sacrificed by him. I only managed to save this child."

With their master gone, the undead soldiers controlled by Mal'Ganis had fallen into a state of weakness. While "The Might of Menethil" was still intact, Arthas had granted them all release. Sadly, the souls of the three hundred soldiers had long been devoured by Mal'Ganis; they were nothing more than marionettes manipulated by the dreadlord. Their master’s departure had sapped their strength, reducing them to little more than mindless, low-tier zombies.

The remains of Mait Whitemane had also been recovered from the altar by Arthas and lay quietly in the open space in the center of the camp.

"Is... is it all over?" Sassarian asked, leaning on a makeshift crutch as he limped toward the camp gates. Most of the undead had been purified by Arthas’s Light, but the scattered armor, weapons, and corpses spoke to the tragic fate of the southern outpost.

"They are all dead? All three hundred of them?" Jaina could hardly believe it. A camp garrisoned by regular troops had been destroyed so easily by a demon, without even a chance to resist.

"This is the terror of the Burning Legion. If we do not stand united, we will be picked off one by one." Arthas stood up. "Come, let us give them their final rites—dust to dust, ashes to ashes."

After entrusting Sally Whitemane to Falric, Arthas led the other privy knights into the camp to collect the insignias of the fallen. They had fought to defend Lordaeron, yet their bodies had been corrupted by necromancy; without the purifying grace of the Light, they would have turned to dust rapidly after death, leaving not even a complete corpse behind.

It took over an hour for Arthas and his men to organize the remaining pieces of armor and insignias, piling them in the center of the camp. Jaina’s eyes were filled with sorrow as she sighed, "We have sacrificed so many..."

"Reporting, Your Highness. The First Legion, 13th Battalion, three hundred and twelve men... all accounted for." Sassarian offered a Lordaeron military salute, his eyes rimmed with red.

"Very good, Major Sassarian. From this day forward, you are the new commander of the 13th Battalion. Now, I have a question for you," Arthas said, his expression grave. "Are you willing to follow me and avenge your brothers?"

"I am, Your Highness!" Sassarian’s voice rang out, thunderous and firm, ignoring the pain of his injuries.

"Excellent," Arthas nodded. "Go back and recover. In one week, we depart—for Northrend. And then, we shall make Mal'Ganis pay his blood debt in full."

"Yes!"

***

With the help of arriving reinforcements, Arthas brought the soldiers of the 13th Battalion back to Lordaeron for a proper burial. After delegating the pension arrangements to the privy administration, he began to read the reports on the southern orc conflict.

The orcs in the south had been rampant. Taking advantage of Lordaeron’s stretched manpower and focus on the plague, they had broken out of nearly all their internment camps. Emboldened, they began to believe the humans were as weak as before. It was not until they encountered elite forces led by Uther that they were driven back into the forests, leaving behind mountains of corpses. Led by Warchief Grommash Hellscream of the Warsong Clan and a young shaman named Thrall, they had retreated.

Beyond the military setback, the former warchief of the orcs, Orgrim Doomhammer—who had escaped from an internment camp long ago—was confirmed dead in battle, though his body had mysteriously vanished afterward. Uther believed this had dealt a crushing blow to the orcs, both in spirit and in strength. Exhausted and battered, they were unlikely to pose a threat to Lordaeron for several years, at least until a new leader emerged.

Then, there was the secret letter Vancleef had sent from Kalimdor. They had located the tauren tribe south of the Barrens. Though the tauren had initially been unfriendly, Vancleef’s offer to help resolve the centaur threat had persuaded them to send an envoy to Theramore for further negotiations.

Arthas had already finalized the candidates for the Kalimdor expedition. Originally, he should have represented Lordaeron himself, but with his upcoming departure for Northrend, he could not go. When Jaina heard that Arthas wanted her to go to Theramore while he pursued Mal'Ganis, her initial reaction surprised him.

"You are hiding something from me," Jaina stared at Arthas, feeling that the prince’s recent behavior was strange. "Ever since this plague began, you have changed."

Arthas touched his face. "Is it that obvious?"

"What do you think? Based on your character, you would never charge off alone to face a dangerous demon and three hundred undead in single combat." Jaina paused for half a second before continuing, "And yet, I don’t feel like you’ve been blinded by rage or any other emotion. You have your own plans, don't you?"

As Arthas prepared to speak, Jaina placed a slender finger against his lips and said earnestly, "You don't have to tell me. If you truly feel you must do this, I will support you."

"Jaina... thank you." Arthas felt a complex mix of comfort and melancholy. Jaina was no longer the naive young girl she had once been; she had grown sharper and wiser.

"If you really want to thank me, then come back from Northrend in one piece, hmph!" Jaina murmured, not entirely without resentment. "When I return, I shall settle accounts with you."

Jaina ultimately agreed to join Muradin Bronzebeard and Varian Wrynn as representatives of the Alliance to negotiate with the tauren. Once they departed from the Eastern Kingdoms, Arthas led his fleet north toward Northrend.

In this moment, the trajectory of fate seemed to have returned to its original path, yet everything felt entirely different.