Arthas's clenched fist was engulfed in pitch-black flames—flames that belonged to him alone. It was the strongest flame among all the varieties possessed by the Dragonar race. The very same flame that was once the core power of one the most terrifying dragon in history. A dragon that required heroes to unite just to defeat it, and now, that flame belonged to one of their own.
That was the reason Arthas became a hero of the Dragonar race.
The figure who would lead them to victory, to a brighter, better future.
A hope now extinguished.
Not only did that flame go out—something that had never happened unless its wielder willed it—but Arthas's right arm was thrown backward with a sickening sound that made everyone around him shudder.
The sound of bones breaking.
"I apologize for this," the figure said, "but I no longer wish to play games. Your elder and I have something important to discuss—regarding the Demon King."
The words shocked everyone present, even the elder, who now found himself wondering—why was that name mentioned?
Could it be... he had returned?
Or... was the figure before them the Demon King himself?
Arthas could only scream in pain, clutching his right arm, struggling to stay conscious. He cast a protection spell, but it didn't do much to help.
The Dragonar race was indeed powerful, reigning at the top of the food chain. But they had one major flaw that kept them from being perfect.
Their healing magic was incredibly weak.
Their bodies also didn't accept external healing very well, even from other races like the elves. Their steel-like skin slowed down regeneration significantly, which is why the Dragonar race avoided serious injury at all costs.
The mysterious man flashed a grin at the elder, and then the surroundings shifted. What had previously been an outdoor location was now once again the room where they had first met.
The other elders were still outside, searching for them along with the soldiers.
The man glanced at the curtain, now drawn shut and forming a barrier of hundreds of glitches—deadly ones that would slice anyone trying to pass through them.
"Finally, we can talk in peace," he said, waving his hand to place the elder back onto his chair. "I ask you to sit quietly and not interrupt, or I will take the lives of your people—one life for every word that escapes your mouth."
Meanwhile, Arthas's comrades, who had been left behind, finally arrived—only to freeze at the sight before them. He was slumped on the ground, covered in wounds, missing an arm, and the fire in his eyes—once burning with passion—was completely gone.
They never imagined someone who could fight off heroes from other races on his own would end up like this.
They rushed forward, casting their own healing spells in an attempt to help him recover.
"Arthas, what in the world did you face to end up like this?" asked one of them, a spear slung across his back.
"I don't know," Arthas replied bitterly.
Both his hands trembled every time he remembered that figure.
"He looked human... but his strength—there's no way he's human," Arthas continued. "That power wasn't like ours, which comes from mana. His power came from something else, something I still can't understand."
And that shocked them.
Arthas wasn't just strong—he was smart. Exceptionally skilled at reading his opponents.
His ability to predict enemy movements, tactics, and attacks was never wrong. They had experienced it firsthand. So to hear that Arthas couldn't even read his opponent was like hearing him admit defeat—and Arthas never did that. He always believed he could win in the next fight.
"Is he really that powerful?" asked the staff-wielder, kneeling beside Arthas, placing a comforting hand on his knee.
That question brought Arthas back to the moment when none of his attacks worked. Every single one was effortlessly blocked, as if a massive wall stood between them—one he could never break through.
A realization dawned on him.
That figure was on a completely different level—and it made him furious. He feared that if the Demon King was just as strong, or even stronger—especially after hearing that cursed name—then they were in serious trouble.
Arthas had once believed he was strong enough to protect the people he cared about—his family, his friends, and the Dragonar race. But now, he had to question everything.
Was he really capable of protecting them? Or had he just been convincing himself all along?
"He... might not be wrong when he says he's stronger than the heroes of the past," Arthas muttered, gritting his teeth, trying to suppress his rage—because he knew just how powerful those legendary heroes were. They could cleave mountains with a single sword strike.
And yet, after that fight, it was hard to imagine even those ancient heroes being able to defeat the man he faced. It seemed... impossible.
"Only the Demon King could do something like that," said the spear-wielder.
"That's what worries me. Is he the Demon King? Or just one of his subordinates?" A long sigh escaped him. "If he's just a subordinate... I can't even imagine how powerful the Demon King must be."
Back inside the tent, the elder was silent after hearing the explanation—that the human race had been stealing power from other races all this time, and that the instruments in the human kingdom's capital were actually used to resurrect the Demon King.
"What you're saying... is all that true?" he asked, still in disbelief at something so absurd—especially something that had its roots back at the dawn of their history, when the first heroes emerged.
"Believe it or not. I only came to deliver the truth," the man replied.
The elder stayed quiet for a moment, thinking, then met his gaze. "Why are you telling me this? You obviously didn't come just to share a massive secret that could destroy the human race. Do you want us to use this information to annihilate them?" He scoffed. "If that's your goal, then you might as well kill me. The ones who did this were heroes of the past, not the humans of today."
Hearing that only made the man's grin grow wider. "Relax. I'm not that cruel," he said, walking over and sitting cross-legged atop a table, facing the elder. "In a few days, a group of human heroes will arrive here. I want you to stall them—use this history, blend it with the facts. The Dragonar race is known for their intelligence, right? Think of a way to delay them as long as possible."
The elder furrowed his brow. "Why should I do that?"
"Because if you don't, your people will die. The Dragonar race will be wiped from this world," he replied, filling the elder with hatred and fury, though he held himself back. "So stall them as long as you can. Give them quests, enlightenment trials—whatever you need to keep them occupied."
"And what will you be doing while that happens?" the elder asked with a growl.
The man leapt back to his feet. "What will I be doing?" he repeated, surprising the elder—because for the first time, he saw a smile so twisted it felt like it pierced his soul.
"I'll be enslaving the human race, just as the Demon King commanded."