Chapter 43 Confrontation

When Brann led the privy knights back to the camp, Sasslarian, waiting at the entrance, failed to notice the figure of his prince.

"Lord Brann, where is His Royal Highness the Prince?" Sasslarian hurriedly asked Brann.

Brann replied with a sullen face, "Don't call me 'Lord'—that troublesome prince of yours has gone off by himself."

"Gone off?"

Sasslarian's expression was utterly bewildered, clearly failing to grasp Brann's meaning; he had no idea what kind of departure Brann was referring to.

"Why are you staring at me? Will staring at me make that boy Arthas come back? I'm telling you, in the time it takes us to speak, your prince has already charged alone into the undead camp!"

Brann's voice raised a notch, but Sasslarian could no longer care about that. His eyes widened. "What?! Alone—you mean His Royal Highness went after the undead and demons by himself?!"

Sasslarian's immediate reaction was to rally the troops and rush to his prince's support. Yet all his movements froze at the sight of the insignia Brann produced and the words that followed.

"Arthas told me to lead you back to Hiltblade Keep—besides, it's too late for you to lead a pursuit now," Brann sighed.

"But isn't this sending His Royal Highness into mortal danger alone? The soldiers of Lordaeron always stand and fall with the Prince, Lord Brann!"

Brann glanced at Sasslarian and said calmly, "Do you take me for a fool? If Arthas were truly in mortal danger, I certainly wouldn't have agreed to such a request—his power has long surpassed the imagination of most of us."

To rout an entire undead force single-handedly was something Brann believed even his own brother, Magni Bronzebeard, could hardly accomplish unless thorough preparations were made beforehand, and even then, the likely outcome would be mutual destruction.

Yet Arthas was different. His power was the absolute bane of the undead; whether it was the searing Holy Light or the deathly energy capable of manipulating the undead, the threat of a few thousand undead soldiers was probably not even half as troublesome to him as Mal'Ganis.

After all, the vast majority of the Scourge consisted of low-tier skeletons and ghouls. While such undead cannon fodder relied on numbers to overwhelm ordinary armies, they would find it difficult even to obstruct Arthas's pace.

"But—"

"Very well, Major. For now, you had better listen to me. I am, after all, a veteran of the Second War. This snowfield is extremely dangerous, and leaving before lingering here too long is the right choice."

Sasslarian fell silent. He had never forgotten his father's teaching: a soldier always holds obedience to orders as the primary principle.

"I understand. I will have everyone prepare for the retreat right away."

Just as the troops broke camp and prepared to conclude this "reconnaissance" mission, Farsong came to Brann's side and whispered, "Mr. Brann, Sasslarian has ridden off alone."

"What?!" Brann's hat almost frightened off his head, and he retorted, "Has that fellow gone mad?"

"My men found this inside his tent." Farsong produced a medal—the rank insignia of a Major of the First Legion of Lordaeron.

Brann picked up the medal with a complex expression, but before long, he hardened his heart. "Notify everyone to prepare for the return journey."

He would not send men to look for Sasslarian; that would simply be too dangerous. Heaven only knew what perilous creatures roamed this Dragonblight, let alone the fact that the time and energy spent searching for a single person would be far more difficult than determining the location of the undead camp.

This was Sasslarian's own choice. He had cast aside his identity as a Major of the First Legion solely to find Arthas.

Thinking of Sasslarian's departure, Brann felt a slight pang of melancholy. "That lad is a warrior indeed, but he is far too reckless. Lacking the power of Arthas, he is likely facing grim prospects this time."

"His Royal Highness the Prince saved him, back at Westfall," Farsong stated concisely.

"You mean that incident at the southern camp of Andorhal?" Brann was startled. He had heard Arthas mention this affair, where three hundred soldiers were brutally slaughtered by Mal'Ganis.

Farsong nodded. "He was the sole survivor, and his father was Kierloren."

"I know of him, a hero of the Second War, though unfortunately, he too perished on the battlefield."

Brann stroked the horns of his ram mount, his expression somewhat bitter. Disliking combat and warfare, he had chosen to become an explorer and journey across all of Azeroth.

"We can only hope he encounters no danger and manages to find Arthas safely."

...

Not long after parting ways with Brann, Arthas, carrying his longsword and warhammer, walked on foot toward the undead camp located near the cave. This time, with Mal'Ganis making no effort to conceal his presence, he sensed the demon's soul from a distance.

"The first prey has been found."

*Frostmourne* vibrated gently, as if responding to Arthas's summons. The runeblade's reaction brought a slight smile to Arthas's lips. The sword had been cursed by the Nathrezim and could not be used to slay them; yet now, that curse had been completely erased by him.

Thus, this greedy demonic blade was eager to taste the soul of its very creator—a delicacy it had never previously had the opportunity to savor.

When Arthas appeared within the detection range of the undead shadow guards, these undead sentries immediately reported his arrival to their evil master.

Mal'Ganis instantly assumed spectral vision through the shadow guards. Seeing Arthas clearly, along with *Frostmourne* at his waist, a bizarre smile spread across the great demon's face.

"Hahaha, the brighter the light, the greater the shadow it casts when it plunges into darkness."

Everything unfolded precisely as Mal'Ganis had anticipated. Having intentionally leaked information to the dwarves beforehand, Arthas had indeed gone in search of *Frostmourne* and come to track his actions.

Logically speaking, his mission ended here. However, the Dreadlord's nature made him yearn to flaunt his might before Arthas. Besides, since *Frostmourne* could not kill a Nathrezim anyway, indulging in some casual play posed no risk, while simultaneously striking a blow at Arthas's psychological defenses.

Furthermore, he could easily fake his death to escape, temporarily shaking off his official duties to seek amusement elsewhere in Azeroth.

Tichondrius had long since begun plotting the Legion's arrival. Once Arthas was controlled by the Lich King to destroy the kingdoms of men and elves, and secured the chance to summon the brute Archimonde, Azeroth would be destroyed, and much of the fun would be lost.

While Mal'Ganis was thus musing, Arthas had already cut down numerous undead with his blade and was marching toward the ziggurat where Mal'Ganis resided.

Deciding to cease hiding, the Dreadlord realized the undead here were merely cannon fodder meant to stall troops. Since Arthas had come alone, these low-tier grunts were entirely useless.

With that thought, Mal'Ganis stopped concealing himself. Spreading his bat-like wings, his towering form transformed into a swirl of black mist and a cloud of bats, rushing to the exterior of the ziggurat.

"Oh, the brave prince has come knocking? Do you truly believe that wielding a powerful weapon enables you to defeat me, Mal'Ganis?"

Arthas withdrew the runeblade from a ghoul's decaying chest. *Frostmourne*'s glow flickered; such low-tier undead, though possessing souls, failed to satisfy its appetite.

Noticing that Arthas was not employing the Holy Light, but instead relying purely on his physical prowess to slaughter the undead, Mal'Ganis felt a twinge of amusement. Had this prince abandoned the embrace of the Holy Light so quickly?

It seemed the plan was proceeding even more smoothly than anyone had imagined.

"Come, let me harvest your soul. That might prove rather amusing." Dark energies surged across Mal'Ganis's dual claws, and the surrounding undead were empowered by the dark magic, growing all the more frenzied.

Observing the ghouls and skeletal soldiers pouncing toward him, Arthas remained unmoved. Grasping the hilt of *Frostmourne* with both hands, he strode into the throngs of the undead with his sword raised.

His exquisite swordsmanship, combined with the unbreakable blade of *Frostmourne*, meant that the rotting armor of the skeletal soldiers and the tattered flesh of the ghouls could not hinder him for even a second. In the mere span of a few breaths, Arthas whipped up a tempest of bone and blood amidst the undead horde.

Mal'Ganis regarded Arthas with a slightly higher degree of seriousness. Unfazed by the "loss" of the Holy Light's protection, the prince still exhibited formidable strength. Even in corruption, he remained a qualified warrior. If he could become a fallen vanguard of the Burning Legion, Mal'Ganis believed there could well be a place for him within the Legion's ranks.