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(A/N: Chapter 99 will soon be on Patreon!)
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(Now back to the story!)
Multiple shockwaves erupted as Arthas and Alastor clashed.
Alastor had already enhanced his body with psionics, and even his movements now created sonic booms.
At first, Alastor completely dominated the battle, suppressing Arthas through sheer power now that he was no longer constrained by battlefield responsibilities.
Using his sacred flames and fighting at full strength, he relentlessly overwhelmed the fallen prince.
But Frostmourne, as if sensing its vessel's peril, flooded Arthas' body with even greater power to close the gap between them, even though the new surge of strength seemed to further erode what remained of Arthas' mind.
In response, Alastor's flames burned even fiercer, almost as though they possessed a will of their own and desired nothing more than to destroy the cursed blade.
Every collision between them unleashed devastating shockwaves that cratered and shattered the ground for dozens—even hundreds—of meters.
Buildings all around them either collapsed or exploded apart as two utterly opposing forces clashed in a brutal struggle not merely of power, but of opposing concepts themselves!
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Two princes from different kingdoms shook hands for the first time within the City of Mages.
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Alastor Wrynn of Stormwind."
"Well met, Alastor. I am Arthas Menethil of Lordaeron."
"Jaina has told me a great deal about you, and by the Light, I have a feeling we'll become the best of friends."
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Arthas roared as he unleashed a massive barrage of frozen spikes toward Alastor.
Alastor answered by releasing a telekinetic shockwave that shattered the attack before charging forward with blazing wings spread wide behind him.
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"Rhonin, you bastard! Who told you to kill the Black Mage!? Now his minions are off the leash!"
Arthas shouted while running beside Alastor, who currently had Rhonin slung over one shoulder.
Behind them surged an enormous horde of Beastkin.
"Hahaha! All I see is that the quest is complete!"
"I WILL SHOVE MY HAMMER WHERE THE LIGHT WON'T SHINE ON YOU, YOU TRIGGER-HAPPY MAGE!"
Alastor yelled at both of them.
"Less arguing, more running!"
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"THIS ERA IS AT ITS END, ALASTOR!"
Alastor dodged a blast of death magic before narrowly avoiding a vicious slash from Frostmourne and countering with a strike of his own.
"I COULDN'T AGREE MORE!"
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The two royals sat together on Alastor's balcony in Dalaran, eating snacks while watching the setting sun cast golden rays over the city, creating a truly picturesque view.
"Alastor, have you ever wondered what the future holds?"
Alastor looked at his friend in confusion while sharpening Dawn.
"Where did that come from? You're not usually this philosophical, Art."
Arthas chuckled softly.
"Consider it one of my flights of fancy. Humor me, old friend."
"...I don't know," Alastor eventually admitted. "And honestly, I'm fine with that. I've always believed that people should write their own destinies and choose how to steer the course of their lives."
"Writing our own destiny, huh?" Arthas laughed. "You always know exactly what to say to inspire people, don't you, Al? I bet you'd make the kind of legendary speeches that end up recorded in history."
Alastor waved a dismissive hand.
"Wrong brother. If anyone here needs to practice speeches, it's you and my elder brother."
"Oh, come now. It's almost like you're saying you'll never hold a leadership position yourself."
Alastor merely shrugged at Arthas' deadpan stare.
"I won't. I lean more toward being a pacifist. Besides, I'm more interested in magical research and science."
"I might inherit my uncle's position one day when Varian becomes king, but unless there's some major crisis, I'll probably spend most of my time locked away in my workshop."
Arthas grinned mischievously.
"I wouldn't be so sure. I'm certain a particular elven maiden will be keeping you very busy."
Arthas burst into laughter as Alastor nearly choked on his own spit, his face turning bright red.
"Very funny, you arse!"
"Haha, sorry, sorry... but I genuinely hope you won't reject the idea of leadership so quickly."
"I'd bet my master's prized warhammer that you'd become the kind of leader worthy of songs and legends no matter what position you held."
"I don't think Uther would appreciate you gambling with his hammer," Alastor muttered before shaking his head. "But enough about me. What about you?"
"Me?" Arthas grinned proudly. "Of course I'll become the greatest king Lordaeron has ever seen in the history of Azeroth!"
"And it would make things even better if my companions remained by my side."
Arthas gave Alastor a proud and sincere smile as he raised his goblet.
"Believe me when I say this: you can deny it all you want, but one day you'll show the world—and perhaps worlds beyond—just how great a leader you truly are, Alastor."
"And I'll consider it one of the greatest honors of my life to witness your own legend unfold."
Alastor looked at him for a moment before an exasperated smile slowly crossed his face.
He raised his own goblet and clinked it gently against Arthas'.
"Then let it be a day worth remembering."
"That's the spirit!"
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Funny, isn't it?
How long ago was it that you and I laughed together, went on adventures, and shared our dreams and ideals during those carefree days...?
Arthas launched a massive wave of frost toward Alastor, only for Alastor to counter it with his own flames.
In a way, what we said back then truly did come to pass.
You became the leader and hero I always knew you would become.
Sadly... it happened in a way I could have never imagined nor hoped for, with the two of us standing on opposite sides.
I was jealous of you once, but much later I realized it was never because of your abilities or talents.
Alastor concentrated as much power as Dawn could withstand into the blade, sacred flames roaring hotter and brighter.
You were always stronger.
Especially your willpower, Alastor.
I should have realized it the moment the Light acknowledged you as a Saint all those years ago... while I instead fell into darkness.
You—who endured tragedy and despair—never allowed yourself to sink into the same abyss that consumed me.
Arthas charged Frostmourne with immense amounts of death magic, the cursed blade shrieking ominously.
I am so sorry, Al.
This is my fault, and no one—especially you—should have had to suffer the consequences of my sins any longer.
So consider this...
...a final gift.
From an old friend.
Alastor and Arthas charged toward each other for one more clash.
Yet the moment they closed the distance and their blades moved—
Something unbelievable happened.
Arthas' eyes suddenly widened in shock as his body froze mid-swing.
Seeing this, Alastor was equally startled, but he could no longer halt his momentum.
Dawn pierced straight through Arthas' armor and erupted from his back in a spray of fire and blood.
Silence fell over the battlefield.
Arthas stared down at the blade protruding from his chest with disbelief, reluctance, hatred, and fury all mixing together on his face before he rasped out,
"...You... damn weakling...!"
Alastor was frozen as well, utterly confused.
Because despite Arthas staring directly at him, it was obvious he was speaking to someone else.
Even though the two of them were supposedly alone.
At the same time, Alastor's sacred flames began rapidly burning away the death magic and traces of Chaos corruption within Arthas' body while also severing the connection between Frostmourne and Arthas' soul.
The cursed rune blade resisted desperately, almost as if it possessed a will of its own, but the sacred flames continued purifying everything in their path.
Finally, when Arthas' soul had been cleansed like the other undead purified by Alastor's flames, the connection to Frostmourne shattered completely.
Arthas' grip loosened.
Frostmourne slipped from his hand and clattered loudly onto the ground.
Slowly, the icy blue glow in Arthas' eyes faded back into their original emerald green.
Even his hair seemed to regain some of its former luster, while his battered armor reverted back to the old paladin colours he had once worn so proudly.
He coughed weakly before letting out a strained yet deeply relieved chuckle as he looked at Alastor with genuine clarity in his eyes for the first time in what felt like decades.
"...Al... Alastor..."
"...Not exactly how I imagined our reunion would go..."
Shock and dawning horror filled Alastor's face as countless possibilities raced through his mind.
But one question overshadowed all the others.
Since Dalaran... who exactly had he been fighting this entire time?
"It wasn't easy..." Arthas coughed painfully. "This damned blade... and the influence of Chaos... gave birth to another persona... one that masqueraded as me after Lordaeron."
After the destruction of Lordaeron and the accidental killing of his mother, Arthas had sunk even deeper into Frostmourne's influence and the corruption of Chaos due to his despair.
In the end, he had retreated deeper and deeper into himself, allowing the newly formed dark persona to gradually take primary control over his body while believing itself to be the true Arthas Menethil.
"...I only had one chance..." Arthas continued weakly. "One moment where I could fight for control... and I had to make it count."
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
"...So I created the perfect opening for you..."
"Al... I deserve this..." he coughed again, blood staining his lips. "I was too weak... All the hatred... the loathing... I deserve every bit of it for my betrayal..."
The last of Arthas' strength finally gave out as his legs buckled beneath him.
Alastor quickly caught him by the shoulder and lowered himself to one knee to keep him steady.
At the same time, he swiftly dispelled the flames surrounding Dawn.
"Alastor..." Arthas rasped. "Listen closely... I don't have much time left..."
"My body is already falling apart without Frostmourne sustaining me... and your flames are purifying the corruption..."
His expression grew grim.
"These beings... the Chaos Gods..."
"They came here mainly because of you."
Alastor felt his stomach churn violently.
Deep down, he'd long since told himself that he was most likely the that this war began, that it was his arrival on this world that had it come within the sights of the Ruinous powers.
But part of him had desperately hoped he was wrong.
But Alastor was pulled back to reality as Arthas continued speaking.
"Also... their leader... Malak... isn't here!"
"What!?"
Alastor's eyes widened in shock.
This was supposed to be the main stronghold of the Chaos forces. If Malak was not here, then where was he?
"North... Quel'Thalas..." Arthas grunted painfully before forcing the words out. "Finish things here... then head north... and end this..."
Alastor quickly committed the information to memory.
Questions could come later.
"Tell my sister... I'm sorry..."
Arthas' eyes filled with regret at the mention of Calia.
If there was one person he truly wished to apologize to, it was his elder sister.
She had not deserved what he had unleashed upon their world.
No one did.
"Al... don't let them win... please..."
With those final words, the last embers of life within Arthas faded away.
His eyes finally lost all light as his body swayed before resting limply against Alastor's shoulder.
Silence followed.
A suffocating silence.
Alastor remained motionless, holding Arthas' body as he slowly looked down at the hand supporting him.
It was covered in crimson blood.
No longer the corrupted black ichor of the undead, but unmistakably human blood.
Arthas' blood.
Alastor suddenly felt bile rise in his throat and barely stopped himself from vomiting as his thoughts spiraled into darker and darker places.
Who had he truly been fighting all this time?
Had he genuinely failed to realize his friend was no longer in control?
By the Light...
He killed his friend in cold blood!
A man who had been just as much a victim of these Warp-spawned monsters as anyone else.
Without realizing it, Alastor's breathing became ragged and uneven while his eyes lost focus.
The current scene bore horrifying similarities to that dreadful day in the throne room when he had seen his dying father.
Worse still, all the tension and stress from the war—the burdens he had forcibly kept under control for so long—now surged back with a vengeance.
For the first time in years, Alastor felt as though even his powerful mind could no longer bear the weight.
But he forced himself to snap out of it when a distant yet powerful dragon's roar echoed through the ruined city.
Alastor's head snapped upward toward the sound.
The mission!
The thought became a lifeline.
He clung to it desperately while turning his gaze toward the distant Warp portal.
Grinding his teeth, he forcibly shoved the invading thoughts back into the depths of his psyche before summoning his flaming wings once more.
Yet he stopped.
Looking down at Arthas' body, Alastor hesitated for several long moments before finally making a decision.
He carefully pulled Dawn from Arthas' chest before casting a body-modification spell similar to the one he used on himself, sealing the wound to prevent further bleeding.
Then he lifted Arthas' body onto his shoulder.
Only the worst of monsters deserved to have such a hellscape as their final resting place.
And if Arthas had truly been manipulated by the Ruinous Powers and whatever fell corruption lingered within Frostmourne, then he did not deserve such an end.
We'll be leaving soon, Art.
Then there was Frostmourne itself.
Alastor was sorely tempted to destroy the cursed blade immediately, but the immense aura of death radiating from it made him hesitate.
Even after repeatedly clashing against his sacred flames, the rune blade had suffered little visible damage.
That alone told him it would require tremendous effort to destroy it—even under ideal conditions.
And his current situation was far from ideal.
He was deep within what was essentially a Chaos-infested pocket dimension crawling with fel-corrupted enemies.
So instead, he tore off a large piece of his cape and wrapped Frostmourne tightly within it.
Then he bit his finger hard enough to draw blood and used it to inscribe several holy symbols and sealing sigils across the cloth in hopes of containing the blade's influence.
I need to thank Turalyon for teaching me those.
Once finished, he secured the sealed blade to his side before taking to the Warp-tainted skies.
This time, he made a direct beeline toward the Warp portal, no longer caring about stealth or subtlety.
At this stage of the mission, speed mattered more than secrecy.
At the same time, Alastor understood something else with terrifying clarity.
After this, he needed to crush the enemy forces quickly, reclaim Lordaeron, and hunt down Malak in Quel'Thalas once and for all.
Because if what had just happened was any indication, then he needed to end this war as soon as possible.
Before anyone else saw him like that again.
He could not afford to let others witness him in a moment of weakness or vulnerability.
Not when the morale and momentum of the Alliance rested so heavily upon his shoulders.
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