The once magnificent city of Lordaeron now festered in the silence of death itself.
Remnants of the horrific butchery from days past still decorated the city in grotesque splendor. The pristine white towers had crumbled into jagged ruins, the once-glorious boulevards now choked with mountains of rubble, and every wall bore the savage scratches of demonic claws.
Black blood painted the stones and streets in abstract masterpieces of slaughter, adorned with a few putrid chunks of rotting flesh for artistic flair.
Most of the undead horde had marched to Dalaran days earlier to participate in the grand massacre that would reduce the mage city to ash and bone. Only a handful of bone-rattling stragglers with missing limbs crawled aimlessly through the ruins, too damaged to be useful cannon fodder.
Thunderous hoofbeats shattered the deathly quiet as a warhorse blazing with sacred radiance crushed a zombie's remaining torso beneath its hooves, finally granting the pathetic creature merciful oblivion.
Along Lordaeron's wide boulevard, eight knights formed the vanguard, followed by a four-horse carriage surrounded by vigilant guards, with another eight knights bringing up the rear.
This funeral procession seemed absolutely ridiculous in the dead horror of the city, yet their wagons groaned under the weight of elaborate funeral ornaments. The decorations were magnificently gaudy, and due to obvious haste, the ornamental styles clashed horribly—but clearly meant for someone of supreme importance.
"Halt! This domain belongs to the mighty Lord of Death, Arthas Menethil! You... AAARGH—" A pathetic lich summoned over a hundred skeleton soldiers and zombies, only to watch them obliterated instantly by a paladin's charge, his golden aura blazing wrathfully.
The brittle skeleton warriors exploded into meaningless bone fragments as the heavy warhorses' steel-plated chests smashed through them at full gallop. The lich himself was split open when the leading knight's blade carved through him with the casual ease of a polo swing, his ribcage bursting apart in spectacular fashion.
The lich's spells proved utterly worthless. His Shadow Arrows dissolved helplessly against the lead paladin's purer golden radiance, and his soul evaporated with a satisfying scream.
With no competent undead to oppose them, this squad of paladins miraculously charged through the eastern gate, obliterated several squads of incompetent lich troops, and stormed directly into the palace whose gates hung in twisted wreckage.
Outside the hollow throne room, twelve paladins dispersed on horseback to clear the surrounding undead filth, while eight knights in gleaming silver armor dismounted and formed precise columns.
They hoisted an enormous coffin with their powerful arms. Soft light caressed the coffin's surface, revealing the golden Menethil royal crest carved with exquisite detail.
These were Tichondrius's so-called 'uninvited vermin.'
Arthas suddenly understood the dreadlord's sadistic excitement.
Standing before the door that connected the throne hall to the side chamber, Arthas could clearly distinguish the lead paladin's distinctive silhouette and his unique golden winged shoulder guards.
Arthas's hands began trembling violently, forcing him to grip Frostmourne with desperate strength. He crushed down his hesitation and terror, commanding his forces to strike.
In that same instant, the corpses littering the throne hall began to stir.
Not the clumsy, shambling rise of common undead, but the fluid, predatory crouch of hunting tigers preparing to pounce.
At every shattered window, low-level liches rose with staffs pulsing ominous light, targeting the paladins with malevolent intent.
Crypt fiends scuttled from beneath the palace grounds, their razor-sharp mandibles clicking with bloodthirsty anticipation.
The team that had ventured into the throne hall consisted almost entirely of exceptional paladins, but their numbers were pitiful, and Arthas's undead forces had positioned themselves perfectly for a devastating ambush.
The paladins lowered the coffin and drew their weapons, yet held their ground, forming a protective circle as they glanced toward a tall, white-haired figure beside the coffin, awaiting his command.
Uther—it could be no other soul. He stared with stone-cold composure at his former student emerging from the side hall, though his face bore far more lines than Arthas remembered.
Gazing at Arthas standing before him, Uther appeared utterly calm, yet the fire of righteous fury blazed in his ancient eyes.
Uther gestured toward the corpse slumped on the throne, its chest bearing a gaping wound and flesh already beginning to putrefy. "I come to grant your father his final rest!"
Arthas raised his runic blade high: "While his soul remains trapped within this sword, he shall never know peace!"
Uther's facial muscles spasmed with raw anguish. His voice erupted suddenly, his words cracking through the air with whip-sharp fury: "Stand aside immediately, or I cannot promise I won't cut you down at your own father's funeral!"
Now it was Arthas's turn to flinch, his cheek twitching as he growled in response: "Fate has twisted us into these shapes. Besides, I've already disbanded your precious Knights' Order. What right do you have to stand in my presence?"
"HAHAHA!" Uther's laughter rang out, bitter yet genuine. "Do you truly believe you can dissolve the Silver Hand with mere political power? Why do I stand here? Because of my sacred oath to Terenas Menethil, and because I remain a paladin! I remember, you were once a paladin too. I mean, in the distant past."
A word once treasured, now alien and distant.
Arthas had not forgotten.
His heart convulsed violently in his chest, and for one terrible moment his sword arm dropped.
But then the insidious whispers returned, reminding him of the intoxicating power now flowing through his veins, emphasizing that the Path of Light could never grant him what he truly craved. Arthas seized Frostmourne with renewed fury.
"From Paladin to Death Knight—quite the theatrical transformation, wouldn't you agree, Uther? While our reunion has been delightfully nostalgic, I have no time for sentimental reminiscence. You must die!"
At these words, Uther's face finally revealed apocalyptic rage.
He fixed Arthas with a blazing stare that could have melted steel, his voice thundering with absolute shock: "By the Holy Light, if battle is what you crave, I shall oblige you! But can you not wait until we've properly interred your father's remains? Arthas! You have already destroyed his kingdom—why must you desecrate him further? You are the most vile and corrupted wretch who ever drew breath!"
Arthas turned to glimpse his father's eyes, still wide open and not yet claimed by rot.
Those unblinking orbs seemed to bore into his very soul with accusation.
A violent tremor wracked Arthas's entire frame.
"Desecration? Corruption?" he whispered, speaking more to himself than in answer.
This explained the dreadlord's sinister glee when issuing his orders. The demon knew precisely who would come. This was clearly another trial from the Lich King, testing whether Arthas could stand against his beloved mentor... and whether he could further defile his father's mortal remains.
Arthas had endured enough of this torment.
He raised Frostmourne toward the vaulted ceiling and shook his head with finality: "No! We end this now!"
"Why did you do this ARTHAS!?" Uther's eyes blazed with righteous wrath.
"For ultimate power!"