Chapter 52: Death is Rebirth

"Old Jones, aren't you even a bit curious about what we're actually transporting?" asked a Privy Agent guarding a massive, sealed metal crate at a secret rendezvous point in the Dragonblight.

"Agent Smith, it's best not to ask questions about things you aren't meant to know." The older-looking agent glanced at him briefly before staring straight ahead once more.

"I know, I know, operational security protocols."

Agent Smith shrugged. He wasn't exactly a rookie in this line of work, but standing out in the freezing snow guarding a metal crate that looked like an iron coffin was agonizingly boring.

Infiltrating and scouting those greenskin camps was far more exciting—and the pay was better.

Moreover, this mission carried virtually no danger; mages from the Privy Council handled everything from transport to storage. It was only because manpower was stretched thin that the two of them had been assigned to handle the final guard duty before the handover.

"I remember the mission briefing saying the handover was scheduled for five minutes from now, right?" Smith peered through a gap in the secluded cave, seeing no sign of any carriage or transport that could haul this massive iron box away.

"The Privy Council's intelligence has never been wrong."

After saying this, Old Jones frowned almost imperceptibly. Having worked in this field for decades, he felt this mission was, in some ways, truly unusual.

Yet, his exceptional professional ethics dictated that even though his mind was full of questions, as long as no one volunteered the information, he would not ask.

There was a fundamental rule in this trade: the fewer things you shouldn't know, the longer you live.

Smith found a relatively comfortable stone to sit on, patted the large iron crate, and clicked his tongue in wonder. "The material of this box is no joke. It must be an alloy of refined iron mixed with some magical metal, and it's enchanted on top of that. Who knows what's actually inside."

He had a sharp eye and easily identified the general material of the iron box. While he didn't recognize the specific enchantments, the intricate patterns and complex runes told him it was immensely expensive to manufacture.

What Smith failed to notice was that the temperature of the large iron crate remained constantly at an extremely low level. Because the ambient temperature in Northrend was already freezing, it seemed entirely normal for iron objects to be bitterly cold.

"Why do you think the superiors warned us not to stay within five meters of this iron box for too long?"

"I don't know, Smith, and it's better that you don't either." Old Jones sat there like a statue. "But if you're really that bored, you can help me keep watch."

"We only changed shifts less than an hour ago!" Smith blinked, ultimately choosing the latter between keeping watch and zoning out.

Although there was practically no difference between the two activities, if one could slack off and coast, why not?

"Hum..."

While Old Jones was scanning the exterior to prevent any unexpected incidents, he suddenly felt the stone he was sitting on begin to vibrate.

"Smith? What are you messing around with now?"

Old Jones turned his head in exasperation, just about to scold Smith for his restless behavior, only to find Smith looking back at him with a bewildered expression.

"It wasn't me."

The gravel and ice shards on the ground also began to tremble, and loose rocks from the cave ceiling trickled down one by one.

"What's going on? Is there an earthquake?" Smith grimaced, hastily pressing himself against the observation slit to look outside, but he spotted no anomalies, and the tremors didn't seem to be affecting the exterior.

Old Jones stood up, feeling the strange vibration. "No... not an earthquake. Wait... that spot!"

Following Old Jones's pointing finger, Smith saw the bedrock in a large open area inside the cave suddenly collapse with a deafening roar, revealing the frozen earth beneath and a pitch-black void.

Just as Smith intended to step forward and investigate the situation, Old Jones grabbed his arm and whispered, "Don't move. Listen."

That strange humming sound reached the ears of both men once again, but this time, it was accompanied by another noise.

"That sound is... something is approaching?" Smith's expression changed. Just as he reached for his matchlock pistol and short sword, a resounding crash echoed into the cave.

A violent shockwave and violent shaking immediately followed. His and Old Jones's movements were abruptly cut short as they pressed their backs against the cavern wall, staring fixedly at the pitch-black opening.

They now understood that something was about to emerge from that place.

A massive dark silhouette bulged from the depths. After shaking off the dirt and debris clinging to its body, it revealed a purple carapace and blue-and-gold rune decorations. Its joints and sharp claws were bound with blood-stained bandages, and its razor-sharp mandibles were chilling to behold.

"Such a huge bug in a place this cold?!" Smith stood dumbfounded, completely forgetting to draw his weapon.

"I am no mere bug, human." The colossal beetle-like creature actually spoke human language. "My name is Anub'arak, loyal servant of the Lich King."

It could speak? It possessed intelligence? The two agents froze. After exchanging a glance, Old Jones prepared to converse with Anub'arak. "Apologies, we meant no offense. If we have encroached upon your territory, we can leave immediately."

"There is no need. I am simply here to retrieve something." Anub'arak pointed his forelimb at the large iron crate beside the two men.

To retrieve something?! Both agents were well-traveled and knowledgeable—they had even laid eyes on a real dragon—yet facing Anub'arak's oppressive physical presence still made their hearts race.

Their experience and reason told them that if the monster before them wished to kill them, it would likely take mere seconds.

However, Anub'arak did not attack to seize the item. Instead, the wings beneath his carapace vibrated at a peculiar frequency, and a spider-like creature—much smaller than him, yet still larger than a full-grown human—climbed out from the subterranean pit.

Its forelegs gripped a parcel. Under the watchful and cautious gazes of the two agents, this spider-like entity walked up to them, set the parcel down, and nimbly opened it to reveal half an iron emblem resting inside.

"This is?!" Old Jones picked up the emblem and pressed it against the matching half he kept inside his tunic. The two pieces immediately radiated a faint magical glow.

Suppressing his inner astonishment, the veteran agent nodded at Smith, then spoke to Anub'arak, "The token is correct. Do you require our assistance in transporting the cargo?"

"Unnecessary. My subordinates will handle its removal. You have done well." The Crypt Lord replied politely to the two agents.

He summoned more spider-like creatures using the same method. Those creatures worked together to weave a massive web, securely sealed the iron crate, and dragged it down into the earth.

Smith and Jones listened as the muffled scraping sound of the iron box faded into the distance, moving at incredible speed through the subterranean tunnels.

Once the iron crate had descended into the underground passages, Anub'arak lingered no longer and burrowed underground as well. After a series of tremors, the cavern returned to its former stillness.

Smith swallowed hard, still immersed in the surreal experience and unable to snap out of it. After a long while, he spoke, "Do we have trade relations with these bizarre creatures?"

Old Jones replied thoughtfully, "I'm afraid this isn't trade, but our mission is complete. Let's hurry back to the Dragon's Mouth Bay dock and prepare for the return voyage."

"Phew... Once we get back, I'm definitely having a massive mug of dwarven ale at the tavern. This gig was way more thrilling than hunting greenskins."

***

Several hours later, the Frozen Throne.

"Master, this is what the two humans brought," Anub'arak said in a deep voice, placing the massive iron crate onto the ground.

"Very well, Anub'arak. Would you care to witness how a champion of the Scourge is resurrected?" Arthas had already removed the Helm of Domination, setting it beside the throne.

"It would be my honor, my liege."

He lifted Frostmourne, walked slowly down the steps, and halted before the massive crate.

"Magical metal forged in Dalaran possesses exceptional energy-sealing properties. A container built from it can preserve delicate magical items that are prone to decay."

"But the most crucial element is the enchantments upon it—what is on the outside is merely a fraction; the true core lies within the interior of the box, capable of freezing the contents, preventing decomposition, and absorbing necrotic essence to empower the 'object' inside."

Arthas patted the crate, explaining to Anub'arak.

"It seems human magical civilization has advanced to a remarkably high level." Anub'arak's observation was entirely sincere, for the advancement of a magical civilization is measured not merely by the apocalyptic spells it commands, but by its magical framework and the pervasive influence of magic upon its entire societal structure.

Take the elven civilization, for instance: magical tools and instruments were ubiquitous, and even street-cleaning duties were handled by dedicated magical servants—a trait still visible in present-day Quel'Thalas.

To a magical civilization, magic was not merely a means of combat, but a method and tool for exploring the fundamental truths of the world. If magic failed to provide a positive driving force for the civilization as a whole, it could never have flourished so brilliantly across Azeroth.

"This is also the foundation upon which we resist the Burning Legion and all evil forces attempting to lay claim to Azeroth."

Yet, humanity alone could not withstand those ferocious enemies; corrupted by the Legion, the orcs—acting as mere cannon fodder—had nearly eradicated the entire Eastern Kingdoms.

The methods of the Burning Legion were ruthless; they had not directly unleashed a world-ending crisis, for in such a scenario, all races of Azeroth would find themselves bound to the same fate, their destinies inextricably linked.

Azeroth would unite, temporarily setting aside disputes to collectively resist the external foe. But the orcs, highly threatening yet falling short of an apocalyptic threat, allowed the human kingdoms the leisure to squabble endlessly over their respective interests.

Had they not finally realized the severity of the situation in the end, they might truly have capsized in a drainage ditch.

In Arthas's view, uniting every possible faction across Azeroth was the preliminary preparation, but he also needed to command a powerful force capable of turning the tide. The Scourge was an ideal choice.

One must bear in mind that the future Lich King would become an entity even Kil'jaeden found troublesome. While his personal inconvenience in intervening directly was one factor, it also demonstrated that the exponential growth of the undead was perceived by Kil'jaeden as a grave and volatile variable.

After all, within the realm of the undead, the Shadowlands served as a reflection of the material world, intricately tied to the life and death of every living thing in the mortal realm.

Amidst their conversation, Arthas pressed the edge of Frostmourne's blade lightly across the ice. The surrounding snowflakes drifted upward without wind, obediently scattering to the sides under the power of the runeblade to reveal a massive ritual array carved by the restless souls of elven mages.

Undead resurrected utilizing the power of necromantic arrays and the Frozen Throne would unquestionably be far more potent than those raised directly.

Under Arthas's guidance, a massive torrent of death energy flooded the pathways of the ritual array, filling the entire formation. During this energy accumulation phase, he pressed a slot on the iron crate, causing it to spring open with a loud bang, releasing an air of chill far exceeding that of the upper glacier.

As the bone-chilling frost mist gradually dissipated, three pitch-black burial caskets were revealed.

Anub'arak quietly watched the scene. Within one of the caskets, he sensed a familiar aura, and the identity of that individual instantly dawned on him.

As the death energy poured in, the radiance of the array grew increasingly brilliant. Deeming the timing ripe, Arthas channeled dark magic to pry open two of the caskets.

Two bodies, long dead, were levitated by Arthas's power and descended smoothly into the center of the array.

Responding to its master's summons, Frostmourne flickered with runes along its blade, gathering a powerful and pure reservoir of soul energy, preparing to resurrect the pair.

"The darkness shall grant you a new birth."

"You are the shadow blade of Azeroth, the merciless edge of the Scourge."

"Never pity, never fear, never sorrow; frost and blood are your banners."

"Death walks beside you, subjugating all living things."

"You are—Death Knights!"

"Awaken, vanguard of death, blades of slaughter!"

The death whispers, seeping deep into the soul, poured immense power and extensive dark knowledge into the two long-dead corpses. Their bodies gradually ceased to be stiff, growing stronger and more flawless than they had been in life.

While the Crypt Lord bowed in deference to Arthas's capability, he also began to anticipate what kind of consummate warriors such energy and ritual could forge.

Under Arthas's leadership, the Scourge might truly embark on an entirely unprecedented path.

Death, indeed, was rebirth.