Stormwind Wizard God
Chapter 658: Noblesse Oblige

Chapter 658 - Noblesse Oblige

Uther the Lightbringer!

Unlike his immortal father who treated his family like bothersome furniture, demanded perfection from his son in absolutely everything down to the way he chewed his breakfast, and clung to the throne with the grip of a barnacle on a ship's hull, in Arthas' twisted heart, this paladin was the embodiment of everything noble and infuriating.

Arthas could compile a bloody encyclopedia of complaints against his father, King Terenas - the bastard had practically gift-wrapped his sister Calia for the worthless lands of Alterac, clutched power with white knuckles while rejecting every progressive idea that crossed his path, and committed a thousand other sins that made Arthas' blood boil with righteous fury.

But the only regret he harbored toward Uther was that single, soul-crushing moment when the paladin had failed to support him during the orphanage massacre. That one betrayal cut deeper than any blade.

He could craft ten thousand elaborate justifications for butchering his father - hell, he'd already done it and savored every moment - but finding a reason to kill Uther? That was like trying to find darkness in pure sunlight.

The man was disgustingly honest, stupidly brave, insufferably philanthropic, and so piously devoted it made Arthas want to vomit holy water. Worse yet, Uther had taught him everything he knew with the patience of a saint.

Arthas had convinced himself that after his spectacular fall from grace, raising his cursed blade against Uther would be as easy as swatting a fly.

By the frozen hells, how wrong he had been.

When Frostmourne tore through his father's pathetic, broken carcass and then plunged deep into Uther's sacred armor, piercing the paladin's chest with a wet, final sound, Arthas discovered that his blackened heart could still crack like thin ice.

He burst into tears with the violence of a dam breaking.

The dead don't weep - they can't. What squeezed from his dried-up tear ducts was pure dark power, black as the Lich King's humor and twice as bitter.

The vile essence condensed into liquid corruption and streamed down Arthas's angular face in grotesque rivulets.

Arthas knew his face had become a masterpiece of horror that would make children flee screaming and grown men soil their armor.

He also knew that if he dared glance back, the Dreadlords would mock him until the end of time, their laughter echoing through every corner of the Shadowlands.

He simply couldn't stop himself.

But the initial agony lasted only a heartbeat before being devoured by an intoxicating surge of raw power.

YES!

Deeper corruption meant greater strength! More delicious evil!

Frostmourne sang with malevolent joy, and every twisted soul in the City of the Dead resonated with the cursed blade's hunger, channeling their collective darkness into Arthas until he felt ready to explode with unholy energy.

The stronger, purer corruption made every fiber of his damned soul dance with manic ecstasy.

After delivering a contemptuous kick to Uther's collapsing form, Arthas raised Frostmourne toward the vaulted ceiling and unleashed a scream that shattered windows three kingdoms away.

"HAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Is THIS the sweetness of absolute power?! HAHA! Is THIS the strength to crush Edmund Duke and burn this pathetic world to cinders?!" The intoxicating contrast between his former righteousness and current depravity sent waves of pleasure crashing through his consciousness.

It was euphoria powerful enough to melt brains and dissolve souls into bubbling madness!

But then, cutting through his triumphant howling, came a sound that froze his black blood.

Laughter. Weak, dying laughter.

From Uther.

"Heh... poor, deluded child..."

Arthas snapped his head down, expecting to see terror, rage, despair, or at least some satisfying recognition of defeat in the dying paladin's eyes.

Instead, he found something infinitely worse.

Pity.

Pure, unfiltered pity - the kind reserved for wounded animals and broken minds.

That look obliterated Arthas's euphoria faster than holy water on a demon's face.

"WHAT! ARE! YOU! LAUGHING! AT?!" Without even checking, Arthas knew his expression had twisted into something that would make gargoyles weep.

"It seems... I've failed... to redeem you after all! But when you claimed... you could defeat Duke... I couldn't help myself!" Blood fountained from Uther's wounds as Arthas withdrew the cursed blade, and the paladin's strength ebbed with terrifying speed.

"WHY?! TELL ME WHY!" Arthas seized Uther's breastplate and hauled the dying man upward with desperate fury.

"There are beings in this universe that make Duke look like a mewling kitten... but none have ever defeated him... Orgrim couldn't do it... Ner'zhul failed spectacularly... even Sargeras himself fell short... and you? Heh... hehe... HAHAHA!"

"NO! I AM THE ULTIMATE POWER! I... NO! Damn you, don't you DARE die while laughing at me!" Arthas felt his world crumble as Uther's final breath escaped in a wheeze of amusement.

Sensing that Frostmourne had captured the paladin's soul, Arthas decided to complete his revenge by transforming Uther into a Death Knight.

"CORRUPT! FALL! SERVE YOUR NEW MASTER!" In the fallen prince's twisted mind, this should have been child's play.

Within moments, shock painted itself across Arthas's features once again.

Among the millions of tortured souls writhing within the blade's essence, Arthas easily located the brilliant golden light that belonged solely to Uther.

But no matter how viciously he commanded the cursed sword to corrode and drown that stubborn soul, no matter how he flooded it with the screams and terrors of thousands upon thousands of the damned, Uther's holy essence continued to reject every assault with the immovable certainty of mountains rejecting the sea.

"NOOOOOOO!!" Arthas's scream could have shattered crystal in the next dimension! In his rage, he slaughtered every living paladin remaining in the palace, then poured a thousand times the normal dark energy into converting them all into Death Knights.

These paladins had possessed strong sacred convictions in life, yet their souls eventually succumbed to corruption and bent the knee.

The cursed blade's power remained absolute and undiminished.

BUT!

No matter what profane rituals he performed, no matter what blasphemous energies he channeled, Uther's soul remained as unbreakable as adamantine!

The Holy Light had indeed faded from Uther's cooling corpse. Arthas could certainly animate the body into the most putrid zombie or rattling skeleton imaginable.

But what would be the point?!

A soulless corpse could only become the most pathetic, shambling mockery of undeath.

This would only prove beyond doubt that he had LOST!

Lost to Uther's insufferable stubbornness! Lost to Uther's unbreakable will! Lost to Uther's maddening persistence!

The crushing weight of failure built in Arthas's chest until he felt his sanity teetering on a knife's edge!

For one terrible moment, he almost dismembered Uther's body piece by piece just to feel something other than this consuming frustration.

Finally, FINALLY...

Arthas threw back his head and howled his defeat to the uncaring heavens.

Summoning a trembling cultist from the Cult of the Damned, Arthas snarled his orders: "Take Uther's corpse and throw it out of Lordaeron. I don't care where - just get it OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

This cultist executed the command with religious precision. On his journey back to the Scholomance in Caer Darrow, he unceremoniously dumped Uther's body beside a lonely road.

Later, pilgrims would discover it and create the famous Tomb of Uther...

But in this moment, Arthas continued venting his volcanic rage until two Dreadlords glided into the throne hall wearing grins that could curdle milk.

"While the outcome wasn't exactly what you hoped for, you fulfilled the Lich King's commands admirably! Quite admirably indeed!" Tichondrius's laughter rang through the chamber.

The sound made Arthas want to tear his own ears off.

"When do we assault Dalaran next?" Arthas believed firmly in the principle that where you fall, there you rise again - preferably covered in your enemies' blood.

"Dalaran? Oh, my dear Death Knight, Dalaran is no longer even worth mentioning." Tichondrius's booming laughter filled the air as his massive wings cast writhing shadows across the entire throne room.