Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 619: The Fall of Arthas

When someone's chasing their dreams like a dog with a bone, they'll move heaven and earth to get what they want, even if it means throwing their moral compass out the window. History's littered with folks who'd sell their own grandmother to reach the top. Arthas was showing all the warning signs of becoming one of these train wrecks. In situations like this, it only takes one tiny spark to turn a man's soul into a dumpster fire. freёnovelkiss.com

After watching his own soldiers get turned into brain-hungry zombies by the plague with his own two eyes, Arthas went off the deep end faster than a lead balloon. Rage and despair hit him like a freight train, and his self-control went straight to hell in a handbasket.

He torched that orphanage like it owed him money. When his mentor Uther and Jaina came rushing to help, all they found was a church-style building going up in flames like the Fourth of July, with the heart-wrenching screams of dying children echoing through the smoke-filled air.

Arthas had stepped right into the trap like a lamb to slaughter. Face-to-face with this diabolical conspiracy, his pure and noble heart got buried under a mountain of regret and guilt thicker than molasses. Nobody realized this emotional baggage would fester like an infected wound, eating away at his soul from the inside out.

Then those scheming dreadlords, Kel'Thuzad, and the Lich King Ner'zhul played him like a fiddle, sweet-talking the young prince into that godforsaken expedition to Northrend. Poor bastard was walking straight into the lion's den without a clue.

His homecoming meant he'd already crossed the Rubicon into Death Knight territory...

In the carriage, after hearing Ilucia's full report, Duke sat there like a deer in headlights for what felt like an eternity.

If he'd stuck around Azeroth instead of getting blown to kingdom come, Arthas wouldn't have gone off the rails. But no dice—fate had other plans.

Squeezing Ilucia's delicate hand like it was his lifeline, Duke asked with a heavy heart: "When exactly did Arthas make his grand 'triumphant' return?"

"Three days back. But here's the kicker—we've been completely cut off from Lordaeron City ever since. It's like the whole place just vanished into thin air."

Duke's stomach dropped like a stone at her words.

Was he already too late to the party?

Hell yes! Way too late!

Three days ago, when rose petals were raining down on Lordaeron's streets like confetti and a hundred thousand people were cheering loud enough to wake the dead, nobody in their wildest nightmares imagined they were rolling out the red carpet for the Grim Reaper himself.

Arthas had supposedly killed Kel'Thuzad (the sick mastermind behind the plague), chopped off the dreadlord Mal'Ganis's ugly head, and ventured into the frozen wasteland of Northrend to take down the Lich King—the big bad of the undead army. And he came back swinging a cursed rune sword called Frostmourne like some kind of conquering hero!

What a legendary achievement!

What a miracle sent straight from heaven!

The crowd was chanting Arthas's name like he was the second coming. They were practically salivating at the thought of their golden boy taking the throne after the old king bit the dust.

In the freshly rebuilt throne room that gleamed like a new penny, Terenas Menethil sat on his throne, grinning from ear to ear as he watched Arthas kneel before him. The prince was decked out in a black hood and cloak that screamed "bad news."

Sure, this so-called hero wielding a rune-covered longsword with a crescent hilt, skull-shaped gauntlets, and an aura that could curdle milk had some seriously creepy vibes. But Terenas, blinded by his hunger for glory, saw nothing but pure heroism.

Ten long years. A whole damn decade.

Ever since that backstabbing Edmund Duke had stolen Lordaeron's top-dog position in the Alliance and stripped his people of their rightful glory, Terenas had been waiting for someone—anyone—from Lordaeron to step up and become their shining knight.

Not the heroic Abendis—nope.

Not Mograine the Fearless—not a chance.

Not even the saintly Archbishop Faol could cut it.

Only his own flesh and blood, Arthas Menethil, the one and only legitimate heir to the Menethil throne, deserved this moment of triumph.

Terenas was over the moon, so damn pleased with himself that he ignored every red flag waving in his face. He brushed off his advisors' warnings about the prince acting stranger than a three-dollar bill and having way too many soldiers for comfort. Hell, he even shipped out Uther and his Silver Hand knights—the same guys who'd butted heads with Arthas over that whole orphanage barbecue incident.

In the cruelest twist of irony, Terenas had basically signed his own death warrant.

"Ah! My beloved son—" Terenas jumped up from his throne like a jack-in-the-box, grinning like a fool.

But Arthas's response hit him like a bucket of ice water.

"You don't need to sacrifice yourself for your people anymore, father."

"No more carrying the crushing weight of that crown."

"I've got everything handled now."

Wait... what?

Terenas was more confused than a cat in a dog house.

What kind of bizarre speech was this?

Right then, Prince Arthas rose from his kneel like death itself, threw back his hood, and revealed a face whiter than fresh snow.

His features were still the same—still the devastatingly handsome Arthas Menethil—but his bloodless skin and snow-white hair hit King Terenas like a sledgehammer to the gut.

Hold up—wasn't my boy a blonde?

When the hell did he turn whiter than my old ass?

While Terenas stood there with his jaw on the floor, Arthas gripped Frostmourne and started marching up those throne steps like he owned the place.

Walking up to the throne without the king's say-so? That was about as disrespectful as spitting in church.

If anyone else had tried that stunt, the royal guards would've been on them faster than white on rice.

But this was Arthas!

The one and only heir to House Menethil.

With the king looking older than dirt and nobody knowing how much time he had left, Arthas was practically already wearing the crown.

The guards stood there like deer in headlights, paralyzed by indecision.

That split-second hesitation sealed Terenas's fate tighter than a coffin lid.

With his beloved son's hands wrapped around his throat like a vice, Terenas wheezed out: "What in God's name are you doing? My child, what are you doing?"

"Succeding you...father" Arthas hissed, then raised his sword high and brought it down like the hammer of judgment. The notorious Frostmourne—destined to become the most feared blade in history—punched straight through the chest of the noble king who'd ruled the Alliance's greatest kingdom for over thirty years.

Royal Menethil blood ran down that ice-cold blade like water, and the sword's evil humming filled the throne room like a demonic choir. In that moment, the millions of souls trapped in Frostmourne let out the most bone-chilling wail ever heard, while the dreadlords' malevolent will stirred to life.

Across the endless void, every dreadlord in existence witnessed Arthas commit the ultimate act of patricide, and the demons went absolutely berserk with laughter.

They were celebrating the complete corruption of a saint.

They were cackling at justice getting twisted into something obscene.

This day belonged to evil!

This was the opening bell for the Burning Legion's conquest of Azeroth!

Their maniacal laughter, mixed with the Lich King Ner'zhul's triumphant roars, echoed through the throne hall as dark energy sucked all the light out of the room.

Death Knight Arthas stood there completely oblivious to it all, his hollow voice booming throughout the entire city.

"This kingdom's shall fall!"

"From these ashes, a new world order will rise!"

"It's going to shake the very foundations of the world!"

The moment the prince finished his declaration, every magic circle in Lordaeron burst open like floodgates, and hordes of powerful undead from Northrend came pouring out like a nightmare made real...