Chapter 44: The Fall

During the time Mal'Ganis spent pondering, Arthas had already struck down the final undead minion. He lifted the warhammer from his back and cast it onto the ground.

"It seems I have somewhat underestimated your capabilities." Mal'Ganis was now mildly curious. How had a mere human grown to be this powerful?

Aside from a tiny fraction of lineages, the power ceiling attainable by most mortal races was severely limited; they might spend their entire lives reaching no greater strength than that of a common Legion demon.

Of course, standouts could emerge among these mortals, and they could easily handle the Legion's frontline demons.

Yet, excluding the spellcasters among them, very few could suppress high-ranking Legion commanders in close-quarters combat.

This was because the basic physical constitution of demons vastly surpassed that of any mortal. Unless struck directly in a vital spot by powerful warriors or assassins, they represented virtually the highest combat capacity that any physical world could sustain.

Take the Annihilans, commonly known as Pit Lords, for example. Those terrifying demons, described as engines of destruction, could even tear dragons apart with their bare hands, and a single Pit Lord could rout tens of thousands of mortal troops.

Faced with the Burning Legion—whose might far exceeded any mortal civilization—the heroic feats of mortal champions were, most of the time, merely the swan song of a dying civilization.

Even so, Mal'Ganis did indeed sense a trace of a threat from Arthas, though the arrogant Dreadlord would admit to no more than that.

"Come, unleash your wrath, and face the darkness within your heart."

The whispers of Mal'Ganis echoed in Arthas's ears, laden with dark magic, attempting to further lure Arthas toward the abyss of corruption.

Alas, Arthas had not fallen at all, and the Dreadlord's whispers could not affect him in the slightest. Taking advantage of Mal'Ganis casting his spell, Arthas lowered the tip of his sword, as wisps of souls rose one after another from the surrounding corpses.

The runes upon Frostmourne's blade were illuminated by the power of the souls. Only when fueled by souls could this runeblade reveal its true and gruesome visage.

By the time the lingering souls of the surrounding undead were completely devoured by Frostmourne, Mal'Ganis gradually realized that something seemed… amiss?

*This brat already knows how to compel Frostmourne to devour souls?*

Mal'Ganis was distracted by this thought for only a fleeting moment before Arthas rushed toward him with his sword raised.

*Too fast!*

The Dreadlord's massive bat-like wings beat violently as his body retreated backward, yet the edge of Frostmourne had already left a smooth gash across his rune-engraved breastplate.

Had he retreated even a fraction of a second slower, that scratch might well have become a massive wound tearing through his breastplate.

Arthas was not discouraged by failing to land a decisive blow on the first strike, as if everything were proceeding according to his expectations. His heavy boots struck the earth with a ringing clash, and before the Dreadlord could fully steady his footing, the next strike followed on the heels of the last.

Left with no choice, Mal'Ganis raised his right arm, attempting to reinforce it with magic to block Arthas's onslaught.

"Slash!"

Demonic blood splattered as the razor-sharp blade effortlessly sheared through the fel magic and runic armor. Even so, these two layers of defense managed to save Mal'Ganis's arm from being severed, leaving only a bleeding gash.

The Dreadlord flew into a towering rage and moved to strike back violently, but one of the runes on Frostmourne suddenly extinguished.

At the same time, Mal'Ganis felt a soul-tearing agony erupt from within his chest. His eyes bulged, and a large mouthful of blood spewed onto the ground, forming the shape of a rune.

"This is… the power of death?"

Mal'Ganis stared at Arthas in sheer disbelief. He finally understood—this fellow was no longer a Paladin!

Before Mal'Ganis could make any other move, a second rune went dark as well. This caused his legs to sink heavily; casting his gaze downward, he discovered that two chains forged of shadow had firmly shackled his legs.

The Dreadlord's claws swept out in a blur, and though those chains appeared fragile as they were snapped apart, before Mal'Ganis could take a single step, he staggered and dropped to one knee.

The shadow chains he had just torn apart condensed amidst a swirl of black mist and rapidly reformed, even spawning new extensions that wrapped tightly around his waist and arms.

Arthas sneered as he hoisted Frostmourne high. The gathered soul energy erupted entirely, and sharp chains lashed out like lightning from the corpses of the surrounding undead, piercing effortlessly into the Dreadlord's wings.

"Roar!"

Mal'Ganis let out a cry of agony. His eyes were bloodshot, blood still staining the corners of his mouth. He could scarcely believe that he, an adept practitioner of necromancy, had been outmaneuvered by Arthas using the corpses of these low-level cannon fodder!

Those remains of the undead were the flashpoints of the shadow chains. Tormented and denied eternal rest, their souls surged up under Arthas's command to exact vengeance upon their tormentor!

"Did… Ner'zhul teach you this?!"

Mal'Ganis realized that he and the rest of the Nathrezim had been deceived by that imprisoned Lich King!

"Save that question to ponder slowly within Frostmourne."

Holding Frostmourne at an angle, Arthas reversed his grip on the hilt and thrust forward with a fierce lunge. The blade pierced straight through Mal'Ganis's chest without encountering the slightest resistance.

Mal'Ganis wore a disdainful smile. Although the prince had defeated him, he did not know that weapons crafted by the Nathrezim could not harm—wait!

The Dreadlord let out a agonizing shriek, watching in horror as his soul was greedily torn and absorbed by the runeblade. His filthy, corrupted soul was a delicacy of the highest order in Frostmourne's eyes!

Much like the souls of saints, the wicked souls of the fallen were equally a feast for Frostmourne.

Mal'Ganis's eyes split with fury. At this rate, let alone faking his death to escape, he would not even have the chance to return to the Twisting Nether to reconstitute. His soul would be reduced to mere nourishment for Frostmourne!

"No, impossible… It shouldn't be like this. This sword, no—!"

Accompanied by a piercing shriek, Mal'Ganis's body went limp. His bat-like wings hung down lifelessly, and his already pale skin grew even more ghastly white, resembling a statue drained of all vitality.

Dorn of the sustenance of his soul, his physical vessel became exceedingly fragile. Combined with the physical world's inherent rejection of demons, a portion of Mal'Ganis's form rapidly turned to ash, scattering away on the northern winds of Northrend.

Until his dying breath, Mal'Ganis could not comprehend why Arthas understood how to wield the power of death, nor how he unlocked Frostmourne's full properties. He never understood why the demon blade, incapable of harming the Nathrezim, could turn against its very creators.

His scheme to use Arthas to fake his own death had failed. The soul of Mal'Ganis—the mastermind who had sought to guide Arthas down the path of corruption—would be forever imprisoned within Frostmourne, subjected to endless torment and plundering.

Using a wisp of deathly aura to preserve the head of Mal'Ganis, Arthas tossed it into his spatial pouch. He walked back to his warhammer, grasped the hilt in one hand, and released a surge of Holy Light that purified everything around him.

Under the onslaught of the Holy Light, the tall ziggurat soon began to crumble and collapse, chunks of masonry and crystal shards peeling away piece by piece. Without a single glance back, Arthas turned and whistled, as if summoning something.

An ethereal, echoing neigh reverberated across the ice fields. In response to Arthas's call, a skeletal warhorse, burning with blue soul-flame, came galloping out from amidst a shroud of mist.

Its form shifted from ethereal to solid, leaving behind a trail of lasting blue flame imprinted upon the earth. Arthas stroked the skull of the skeletal steed as it nuzzled close to him. "It's been a while, Invincible."

Invincible let out a soft snort, replying to its master's words.

"Your form has grown even more perfect. Come, let us go claim something that should rightfully belong to us."

Arthas sheathed Frostmourne at his waist, vaulted into the saddle, and took hold of Invincible's reins. Without needing further instruction, the warhorse reared high on its hind legs and bolted toward the deeper north of Northrend, carrying its master onward.