Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 644 - 743

If Duke could have avoided such underhanded tactics, he would have gladly taken the honorable path and dueled Arthas with sword and spell alone.

Arthas's fall from noble prince to death knight was undeniably a tragedy of epic proportions. Unfortunately, Duke had been hurled into the void like a stone from a catapult, arriving far too late to prevent this catastrophe from unfolding.

But making one colossal mistake doesn't give you a free pass to keep making the same bone-headed blunders.

Arthas was already dead, and he was marching further down evil's highway with every passing moment. At this rate, becoming the second Lich King was as inevitable as orcs loving a good fight.

If Arthas wasn't stopped cold, history's darkest nightmare would repeat itself like a curse that refused to break.

Consider the future Eastern and Western Plaguelands—those festering wounds that would consume a full third of the Lordaeron continent. Thousands of square miles of absolute despair stretched like a hellish carpet across what had once been fertile lands.

The earth itself would rot like diseased flesh, plants would wither into twisted abominations, and the entire region would crawl with nightmarish undead creatures and infected, mutated beasts that defied nature's laws.

Duke's memory still burned with images of plague-riddled fawns crying out in anguish, their bodies covered in weeping sores, and squirrels transformed into grotesque monstrosities that would haunt children's nightmares. Perhaps the true puppet master pulling the strings was that mad necromancer Kel'Thuzad, or the Lich King Ner'zhul himself—that broken soul leashed by Kil'jaeden—but without Arthas leading the charge like death's own herald, the Scourge could never have orchestrated such wholesale devastation.

In the original timeline, after Lordaeron's capital fell like a house of cards, countless resistance movements sprouted like mushrooms after rain across the beleaguered kingdom.

Beyond the Knights of the Silver Hand—disbanded before Arthas's spectacular fall from grace—and the most renowned Scarlet Crusade and Silver Dawn, dozens of other organizations had taken up arms. Marshal Garithos would later command the Northern Lordaeron Army, while local forces like the Andorhal Guard, Darrowshire Guard, and Hearthglen Guard fought tooth and nail to protect their homes. Countless civilian resistance groups also rose from the ashes.

These brave souls effectively slowed the Scourge's advance, throwing themselves into the meat grinder to buy precious time for survivors.

Yet when King Daelin of Kul Tiras arrived with his mighty fleet to rescue Lordaeron's people, he discovered to his absolute horror that the entire kingdom had become a writhing mass of walking corpses.

But why? How had it gotten so catastrophically bad?

Because most resistance organizations had been systematically annihilated like wheat before the scythe!

The Scarlet Crusade fell under Dreadlord manipulation, and resistance forces crumbled one by one like dominoes in a windstorm.

Arthas alone had personally butchered his beloved teacher Uther and Gavinrad, one of the legendary Five Silver Saints, in the original timeline.

The death toll included:

Marcos, fearless leader of the Justice Guard resistance group in Lordaeron.

Halak, commander of the Ring of Light resistance fighters in Lordaeron.

Dagran, chief of the Ultimate Force resistance cell in Lordaeron.

And that bloodbath was just within Lordaeron's borders! Beyond the kingdom's boundaries, Arthas had proven utterly unstoppable, leading the Scourge on a rampage across the entire continent like a plague given human form. Countless luminaries fell beneath Frostmourne's cursed edge: Antonidas, the wise Archmage and Speaker of Dalaran's Kirin Tor; Sylvanas Windrunner, the legendary Elf Ranger-General; and Anasterian Sunstrider, the ancient Sun King himself.

More than ten million souls had perished directly or indirectly by Arthas's hand—a mountain of corpses that would make even demons pause in respect.

Now that the Scourge's world-ending performance had begun its opening act, the avalanche effect was gathering momentum like a boulder rolling downhill. The simplest way to prevent Azeroth's most horrific tragedy was to kill Arthas before he could complete his transformation into ultimate evil.

This would definitely not be a walk through Elwynn Forest!

Duke couldn't blow up planets with a casual gesture or unmake universes with a thought. All he possessed were the desperate gambles of a time traveler who'd seen too much and lost too many.

Feeling genuine sorrow for Calia's sacrifice, Duke finally played his most devastating card.

Sure enough, Arthas's face—which had seemed carved from emotionless stone for years—showed the first crack of genuine feeling.

"Impossible! You're lying through your teeth—Calia died thirteen years ago!"

"Wrong!" Duke spoke each word like hammer blows on an anvil: "To escape the shame of being betrothed to Deathwing Neltharion, and to avoid rotting away in palace imprisonment while her youth withered like autumn leaves, she begged me to help her fake her own death." Duke raised his hand with theatrical flair, and a magical mirror materialized in his grasp.

The the Damned's interference made normal magical communication impossible as breathing underwater.

No matter. With his system's artificial intelligence, Duke could perfectly recreate the communication images Calia had broadcast across Lordaeron before teleporting to safety.

"I am Calia Menethil, and I did not perish thirteen years ago as the world believes..."

"I bear the grievous burden of terrible news. My brother Arthas Menethil has been corrupted by the dreadlords and evil liches of the Cult of the Damned, falling so far from grace that he became a death knight. He has abandoned all humanity and murdered our father, His Majesty Terenas, in cold blood..."

"By the sacred authority of the Menethil royal bloodline, I, Calia Menethil, hereby claim the throne of Lordaeron and assume the crown as your rightful queen..."

Though her voice carried a different accent and her face showed the passage of years, the fundamental features remained unmistakable. Blood called to blood, and Arthas recognized his sister instantly despite the changes time had wrought.

"Sister..." After working his jaw soundlessly for what felt like an eternity, Arthas—the most terrifying figure of this dark age, who had walked from blazing light into the deepest abyss—suddenly wept like a lost child.

The undead shed no tears, so all that emerged was a hollow, keening wail that would have made banshees weep in sympathy.

The next moment, just when everyone thought Duke had conquered this nightmare with nothing but words and wit, frost began falling from the clear sky like nature's own curse.

Frost in summer never brought good tidings.

Suddenly, an overwhelmingly powerful will descended upon the battlefield like a mountain crashing down from the heavens.

Describing this soul-crushing sensation proved nearly impossible...

At that moment, it felt as though tens of millions of voices screamed their final death agonies directly into everyone's ears simultaneously.

At that moment, it seemed as if billions of tortured souls appeared in their vision—demons flaying skin from bone, peeling flesh like fruit, tearing out organs while victims screamed, burning bodies alive while souls writhed in agony, then casting those same souls into eternal purgatory to endure ten thousand years of unending torment.

Whether human, orc, or elf, every living creature held their breath involuntarily. It felt like massive boulders had been placed on their chests, and their compressed lungs forgot how to expand and draw air.

It was hopelessness made manifest—pure, crushing despair given form.

In that terrible moment, everyone finally understood with crystal clarity that behind this increasingly powerful Death Knight lurked a terrifying puppet master who watched and orchestrated everything from his icy throne.

"Duke..." An ancient, malevolent voice echoed through every mind like poison: "Edmund Duke!"

The sound struck like thunder, making everyone's skulls ring like struck bells.

"Oh ho? Ner'zhul? How's retirement treating you lately?" Duke remained completely unaffected, his voice dripping with casual mockery: "Oh wait! I forgot—after Kil'jaeden tortured you to death and beyond, you became nothing but a toy trapped in ice for all eternity. You don't even have a body anymore, do you?"

When those words left Duke's lips, everyone else turned to stone with sheer amazement.

Duke was absolutely incredible! While they struggled to draw breath under this crushing psychic assault, Duke still had enough energy left over to mock the terrifying Lich King to his face?

How titanically massive were Duke's steel balls?

Or perhaps more importantly, exactly how devastatingly powerful was Duke himself?

How could anyone remain completely fearless when facing such an existence that could crush souls with its mere presence?