Chapter 42: Frostmourne

"Who am I?"

Arthas wore a smile that sent a chill through Bran's heart. He spoke deliberately, articulating every single word with chilling clarity.

"I am Arthas, the crown prince of Lordaeron, and your future king."

"I am also a paladin of the Silver Hand, a student of the Lightbringer and Archbishop Faol. I am the executor who guards the Holy Light, upholds justice, and eradicates evil."

"The founder of the Privy Council, the Grand Lord of the Privy Knights, the creator of Theramore, the troll slayer, and the ally of the elves."

His words seemed to echo directly within the minds of listeners, and Bran could clearly feel Arthas's voice resonating in the depths of his soul.

Yet, in such a situation, Bran felt remarkably less fearful than before. He frowned, staring hard at Arthas for a long moment. "...You are Arthas. Wait, why have you become like this? This is too bizarre, this kind of power is no joke!"

The overwhelming pressure emanating from Arthas receded slightly. He looked at Bran with a profound gaze and said calmly, "So the very first thing that came to your mind when you saw me was that I must have been bewitched or fallen to corruption?"

Bran was still holding his warhammer, though he was no longer tense. He pondered the meaning behind Arthas's words, and after a few seconds, it dawned on him. "You've possessed this kind of power all along?! But, this is unbelievable... If that's the case..."

"Then the Holy Light wouldn't protect me, right, Bran?" The expression on Arthas's face finally returned to normal, and he once again seemed the gentle and cultured prince.

Bran paused, not knowing how to respond, because Arthas had simply spoken the very words he was about to say.

"The powers in this world may indeed be divided into good and evil, but the key is how we wield and control them."

Arthas waved his hand, guiding the specters that barred his path to the [Frostmourne] to disperse. The passage leading to the Frozen Throne, where the demonic blade was concealed, instantly became clear and unobstructed.

"Bran, you are not a stubborn fool. That is why I am telling you this today." Arthas sighed, placing his palm against the ice, his gaze complex as he stared at the rune-etched longsword locked within the frost.

"Arthas... this... this is something the world will never accept—it's too dangerous. Have you forgotten the fate of Kel'Thuzad and those mages who used to play with souls?" Bran did not directly refute Arthas's words, but he still believed that the power Arthas had revealed would never be tolerated by society.

Kel'Thuzad's magical experiments had begun merely on creatures like rats; once discovered, the Kirin Tor Council of Dalaran had stripped him of all titles and exiled him. Yet the power Arthas now displayed was far more exaggerated than anything Kel'Thuzad had ever achieved.

Shaking his head helplessly, Arthas's expression turned resolute. "Of course I know what you are saying. That is why I spent over a decade waiting and preparing for an opportunity just like this."

This was no longer the time to continue hiding his power. The vanguard of the Burning Legion had already woven a web of deceit across this world; a single misstep, and Azeroth could be plunged into irredeemable ruin.

Arthas was unwilling to place his hopes upon the stubborn Kaldorei. Their race could hardly be described as tolerant—otherwise, Illidan Stormrage and his demon hunters would not have suffered such a tragic fate. Yet now, it seemed he was destined to play a role much like Illidan's.

Unlike Illidan, however, he would not wait for others to judge and condemn him. Arthas's resolve was to protect the entire kingdom and the world. Mere prejudice and misunderstanding could not shake his stride, which was why he had spent over a decade operating within the mortal world.

Taking a deep breath, Arthas clenched his right fist, frost and shadow entwined with the power of death swirling around his arm.

"Bang!"

A punch charged with concentrated energy slammed fiercely into the Frozen Throne. Blue cracks instantly spread across the ice surface, and the long-suppressed power of [Frostmourne] began to release from the inside out. Accompanied by a sharp snap, the pedestal carved from shadow-frost of the Twisting Nether violently exploded.

Bran was driven back a few steps by the shockwave of the explosion, countless sharp ice shards flying toward the dwarf. Before he could even begin to evade, a robust barrier of the Holy Light rose before him, instantly melting the ice shards carrying the powers of death and shadow upon impact.

Arthas reached out his right hand and steadily grasped the exposed hilt of [Frostmourne]. With a pull amidst the shards of ice, the demonic sword forged with the painstaking efforts of countless Nathrezim was finally in his grip.

The moment he picked up the longsword, a strange voice rang in Arthas's ears. But before it could introduce itself, Arthas already knew its identity.

"Now, go take your revenge upon Mal'Ganis. He waits within the undead base north of your camp, though you had best hurry, or else..."

Invading Arthas's mind simultaneously with the voice was a massive, bone-chilling, and evil consciousness—a curse left upon [Frostmourne] by the Nathrezim, and a seed planted by the Lich King designed to drive Arthas to corruption.

Unfortunately, filtered through Arthas's nearly pure power of death, these nascent evil intents and influences were completely snuffed out, leaving not a trace behind.

[Frostmourne] seemed to realize something. The blade began to hum violently, and the fire within the hollow eye sockets of the demonic skull carved into the crossguard flared instantly as it sought to fight Arthas for dominance over his own will.

"Obey, or be destroyed." Like an aloof sovereign, vast torrents of death energy surged into [Frostmourne], thoroughly eradicating the traces left behind by the dreadlords and the Lich King.

Had Arthas only known how to wield the Holy Light, he would have been utterly incapable of this feat. But the path he had chosen encompassed both light and darkness.

Although his knowledge of dark and necromantic magic paled in comparison to the demon lords of the Twisting Nether, the purity of the energy Arthas could wield was tiers higher than that of the demons. Had his physical body not been limited in what it could endure, his mastery over the Holy Light and death could have posed a direct threat even to the Titan Pantheon.

The Titans were not mere Loa or Wild Gods born upon a planet; their immense might truly matched the title of "Creators," and they themselves were cosmic beings infinitely close to the primal source of all existence.

Were it not for Sargeras's rebellion, even all the demons of the universe combined could never have posed a threat to the Titans.

In mere seconds, Arthas's power completely inverted the master-servant dynamic of [Frostmourne]. No longer would the sword control the man; now, the man wielded the sword.

Yet, at present, [Frostmourne] had not yet tasted sweet souls, and its power was only slightly superior to an epic weapon. Moreover, in a sense, although [Frostmourne] was a two-handed sword, it was far better suited as a ceremonial blade than a combat weapon.

Its true might lay in manipulating souls, devouring them to grow stronger, and feeding that power back to its wielder. In the original timeline, Arthas had used this blade to slaughter nearly the entire population of Lordaeron and trampled the elven kingdom of Quel'Thalas with the Scourge, thereby cementing the infamous legacy of the demonic runeblade and the invincible Death Knight.

However, no matter how many ordinary souls were harvested, the enhancement to the runeblade was quite limited given the mundane nature of mortal lives. Arthas had no desire to turn [Frostmourne] into a burdened vessel weighed down by devouring an excess of weak souls.

Furthermore, owing to his own high-purity death energy, Arthas could easily convert reaped souls directly into pure energy to fuel himself or empower [Frostmourne], rendering crude consumption entirely unnecessary.

Slaughtering the living at random was not his style either, but that did not mean the maximum utility of [Frostmourne] was curtailed. On the contrary, it would serve as his ultimate weapon to strike down all enemies.

After all, humans, trolls, orcs, and elves were not the only beings possessing souls. Demons, demigods, dragons, and even Titans possessed souls as well.

Unlike the Lich King's mindless harvesting of lingering spirits, Arthas's targets had long been set upon far higher entities.

Under Arthas's control, [Frostmourne], which had shown signs of a violent backlash, quickly quieted down. The runes along the blade dimmed one by one, and the blue flames within the skull's eye sockets gradually faded away.

[Frostmourne] acknowledged this master and would henceforth serve him. It sensed Arthas's insatiable thirst for power; the demonic sword was endlessly greedy, and as long as it was fed souls, it would gladly serve as his servant.

Bran cautiously stepped out from behind the barrier of the Holy Light. Confirming that there was no longer any danger, he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and asked Arthas, "Hey, are you alright?"

Having said that, Bran swallowed hard, his grip tightening instinctively on his warhammer by a fraction.

"There's no need to be so nervous, Bran. I haven't been controlled by any demonic curse. I am still myself, Arthas." Arthas hung the dimmed runeblade onto the strap of his belt, his hair returning to its normal golden hue.

Unless he was channeling massive amounts of death and shadow magic, Arthas's physical appearance would not undergo corresponding changes. And that theatrical warning earlier, aside from his own dark sense of humor, was actually meant to help him rapidly switch between his powers in combat—functioning as a form of self-suggestion.

This small trick derived from the magical arts proved exceptionally useful. With such psychological priming, Arthas had successfully concealed his mastery over the powers of death for over a decade without a trace, remaining undetected even right under the noses of the Kirin Tor.

Bran eyed Arthas suspiciously, and upon finding no discernible difference in him, he handed the warhammer back.

"Well, seeing as you were still able to protect me with the Holy Light earlier, I knew you were going to be fine," Bran said, pretending to sound confident, completely shedding his earlier panicked demeanor.

Arthas caught [Light's Vengeance] and weighed it in his hand. He realized that compared to a demonic sword like [Frostmourne] that was practically on the verge of developing self-awareness, this warhammer had no other virtues besides being heavy and comfortable to grip.

He even believed that if he were to duel a paladin holding this hammer while wielding his runeblade, it would take him no more than two or three clashes to cleave both the hammer and its wielder in half.

The gap in weaponry was vividly demonstrated at this moment. Aside from artifacts of the same tier as [Frostmourne], other weapons and armor were as fragile as paper in front of the runic demonic blade.

Yet Arthas also felt that [Frostmourne] was, after all, merely a tool forged by the Nathrezim under the orders of Kil'jaeden, the leader of the Burning Legion, specifically designed to shackle the Lich King. While immense effort had been poured into its forging techniques and materials, there was still room for growth.

Slinging the warhammer onto his back, Arthas spoke to Bran in a solemn tone, "Bran, there is something I must ask of you."

"Ha! The way you say that makes it sound like I would ever refuse!"

The enthusiastic dwarf would never allow a friend to doubt him like that, even though Bran harbored mixed feelings about Arthas's mastery of such potent dark magic. He understood deeply the principle that power had no inherent morality—it all depended on the user—yet forces leaning toward darkness demanded an immensely formidable inner resolve from their wielder.

He was glad that Arthas undoubtedly belonged to the category of individuals possessing a powerful mind; yet, what worried him was that, in his view, the power Arthas had just displayed was perhaps a bit too staggering. He had never felt that kind of pressure from any human before.

Standing face-to-face with Arthas's deathly persona, Bran had briefly felt as though he were truly about to die. That icy oppression and sense of suffocation could not be faked, and the experienced explorer rarely encountered such a sensation.

"Take my Privy Knights and head back to the camp immediately. Lead the lads back to Dagger Ridge." Arthas rolled his neck, producing a crisp sound of bone friction.

"What? Why would they listen to me..."

Before Bran could finish his sentence, Arthas tossed an emblem to him—the royal seal of Lordaeron. To behold this emblem was to behold a member of the royal family.

The seal was even engraved with Arthas's name. Bran stared at it in a daze and asked, "Then where are you going?"

"To put an end to this trouble once and for all."