Chapter 1: Azeroth Awakening Glow
In the vast world of Azeroth, twin continents: Kalimdor, wild and ancient, and the Eastern Kingdoms, cradle of human empires. At its heart lies Lordaeron's gleaming capital, a bustling jewel of towers and markets, where fate weaves its twisted threads.
The capital of Lordaeron is still buzzing, as if nothing's wrong. Four years after the start of the invasion, the streets are a vibrant tapestry of life that makes you forget the shadows creeping from the south. Merchants line the grand boulevards with colorful stalls overflowing with silks from Quel'Thalas, spices from distant Troll lands, and gleaming trinkets forged in Ironforge's fires, their voices a lively cacophony of haggling and laughter. Kids chase each other through the cobblestone alleys, dodging carts laden with fresh bread and cheeses, their giggles mingling with the strum of bards' lutes in every square. Vendors hawk roasted chestnuts and honeyed pastries, the sweet aroma wafting on a gentle breeze, while couples stroll arm in arm under the towering spires, whispering sweet nothings as if the world beyond the walls is a distant fairy tale. Families gather in the parks, picnicking by the crystal-clear fountains where holy light-infused waters sparkle like diamonds, the people smiling, carefree, trading stories of bountiful harvests and upcoming festivals. It's a prosperous paradise, the kingdom's wealth on full display—golden banners fluttering from every balcony, the markets teeming with traders from all races, even a few goblin tinkerers peddling their quirky gadgets. Lordaeron thrives, a jewel of the Alliance, its citizens underestimating the Horde's rumble as mere bedtime tales, too busy in their happy routines to see the storm brewing. The taverns overflow with ale and song, the nobles' carriages rolling by in splendor, the whole city a bubble of denial, bursting with life that makes the orc threat feel like yesterday's news.
Savage green-skinned Orcs have wrecked the Stormwind Kingdom down south, exploding onto our lands, burning and slashing everything in their path. They didn't even pause to catch their breath before gearing up for more chaos, charging at the six human kingdoms up north. Their army is pushing at least more or less a million strong—that's a whole lot of ugly green muscle. Orcs are built like tanks, twice as tough as your average guy. It takes three battle-hardened soldiers to drop one, and that's if they're on their A-game. No slacking allowed against these monsters that poured out of that Dark Portal mess that popped open, the rift a scar on the world that still bleeds fel energy.
But humans? We've been chilling in peace way too long. The army's gone soft, all corrupt and lazy—fighting them now's like trying to punch through a brick wall with wet noodles. And get this, right in the middle of this do-or-die situation, the nobles are throwing a party? Like, they're sipping wine and laughing it up as if those orcs aren't knocking on the door. Are they just super chill or straight-up clueless? Beats me, but it smells like arrogance with a side of stupidity, the kind that gets kingdoms toppled in a single night, the feast's merriment a blindfold to the gathering storm.
At least in my eyes—Arthas's eyes, that is—they're a bunch of termites gnawing away at the foundation, undermining the kingdom's strength from within, their petty feuds and gold-hoarding a cancer that spreads unseen. The lord's power ain't mine to command. The king's authority gets divvied up among the nobles like pie at a picnic, slices handed out based on favors and bloodlines, the court a web of whispers and backroom deals that stifle true progress. What I've got is just the biggest slice, making me the top dog noble with a crown slapped on top. It's all show, no real bite, a facade that fools the masses but not me, the weight of it pressing like an invisible chain around my neck.
I'm sitting on this comfy sofa in the hall, dressed to the nines in embroidered silk and polished boots that gleam under the chandeliers, eyes calm as a pond but boiling inside like a volcano ready to blow, the pressure building with every passing second, the air heavy with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine from the long tables. From the day I popped into this world—a soul from Earth, mind you—I was confused as hell, the shift from modern life to medieval fantasy hitting like a truck, the first cry echoing in a royal nursery lined with gold-threaded banners. Reincarnation's real? Sick, but why am I a royal diaper disaster? Back on Earth, I was 'researching' *wink* Sylvanas' banshee bangers—prime Banshee Queen ASMR, baby! Ahem, not flexing, but I obliterated a world record: 47 grueling rounds in one night. My last stroke? A super blast of love so legendary—KABOOM!—I blacked out. Now I'm bawling in Lordaeron, doomed to yeet Frostmourne. Talk about a Lich King-level plot twist from the Nether, the palace's opulence a cruel joke on my trapped soul!
World of Warcraft, yeah, I remember the game. Sucked me in big time, addictive as heck, hours lost in raids and quests, the thrill of a perfect pull making me forget real life. But it hit hard too, the lore a rabbit hole of tragedy and betrayal. What really got me was becoming Arthas! Prince of Lordaeron, the beefiest human kingdom, the only legit heir with a silver spoon and a destiny heavier than a full plate armor set, the throne room's tapestries depicting ancient heroes, a mocking reminder. Born with the weight of expectations on my shoulders, plus a ton of pressure and duty that could crush a lesser man, the palace was a gilded prison from day one, the servants' bows a constant weight. Being king ain't a walk in the park, that's for sure, the crown a symbol of power but also a target on my back, nobles circling like vultures in the shadows.
Days were packed: martial arts with Muradin, the dwarf king's bro, in the morning, his gruff voice barking orders as we sparred in the courtyard under the crisp dawn air, the clash of wooden swords a daily ritual; holy light lessons from the priest bishop in the afternoon, the warm glow of spells filling the chapel with ethereal light, my hands tingling with nascent power; noble etiquette at night, learning to bow and smile like it's second nature in stuffy drawing rooms filled with scheming lords. Schedule's tighter than a drum, the days blending into a grind of sweat and study, the palace's clocks ticking like a countdown. More like a puppet than a prince—gotta learn whether I like it or not, strings pulled by tutors and tradition, the weight of the future pressing down like an unyielding hand. Born royal, joy's often out of reach. I used to think that line was just drama, but now? I get it, bone-deep, the palace walls feeling like a gilded cage, the laughter from the hall a hollow echo that masks the coming storm.
Not all bad, though. I dig the young maid's massages during baths—feels like heaven, her hands working out the knots from training with skilled fingers, the steam rising in lazy curls from the scented water, lavender and rose petals floating like dreams. Fine clothes, killer food, everything handed to me on a silver platter, the feasts a riot of flavors from across the kingdoms—venison roasted with herbs and wine-sauced pheasant that melts in your mouth. Material life? Ten thousand times better than my old gig on Earth, where ramen was a staple and bills piled up like a bad raid queue, the palace's luxury a stark upgrade.
Those perks are small potatoes. Real issue's my fate—it's crap. Folks are gunning for me: nobles scheming to chip away at my power as crown prince, the future Lich King plotting to turn me into a sexless death knight, and ladies eyeing me for seduction, their smiles hiding daggers in the courtly dance, the whispers in the halls a constant threat. Pressure's crushing, and in a world where might makes right, bigger fist equals truth. Gotta build mine up, forge alliances, and stack power like gold in a vault, the system's promise a light in the dark, a cheat code to rewrite this doomed script.
"Ding, the system has been corrected and is starting to reactivate."
A voice, the sweetest sound I've ever heard, echoes in my head, sparking excitement in my calm eyes, a jolt that cuts through the banquet's noise like a blade through silk. As reincarnated/Isekai'd, I'd be embarrassed without a system—it's like showing up to a gunfight with a knife. With a cheat, you can smack folks with cash and laugh off revenge; without, you just take hits, the game's rules bending in my favor, the hall's chatter fading as the glow builds within me.
"Ding, activation completed, scanning host information, starting to generate templates, template application. Ding, application successful."
"Ding, initial task released, Free Crown Prince."
"Free Crown Prince: What's the difference between a prince without freedom and cattle in a pen? Fight for your liberty. Join the orc war, lead a team, earn merits. Reward: language proficiency."
I tap the system panel—it shows my stats and tasks, a blue glow illuminating my mind like a secret map, the interface crisp and glowing in my vision.
"Arthas: Race: Human. Age: 14. Identity: Crown Prince of Lordaeron (mobilizes <500 troops). Occupation: Warrior/Paladin. Spouse: None. Reputation: 100."
Chin in hand, I check reputation—a tooltip pops up, the text scrolling like a game HUD, explaining the mechanics in simple terms.
"Reputation reflects popularity. Higher levels mean better deals in trades and chats with races. Some require thresholds to engage. Boosting it's always smart."
Eyeing my profession, Paladin's the pick. Warriors are beasts, but Paladins boost status and fool folks more easily. As a prince, using holy light to shine? Totally fair game, the glow is a tool for influence and deception, a perfect cover for my schemes.
To battle, pick a profession and spec. Each has three: output, defense, healing. After a beat, I go safest: Paladin-Guardian, the choice feeling right in my gut, a tank's resilience my shield against fate's cruel hand.
"Ding, confirm Guardian spec. Can't change after. Confirm?"
"Can't swap specs? Tricky!" I mutter under my breath. Unlike the game, reality diverges—there, women were eye candy; here, they're conquests, their smiles and curves a battlefield of their own, the maids' glances a subtle tease that lingers. Thinking of women pumps me up. World peace or crushing evil? Boring. But a war for women? I'm all in—a harem dream that gets my blood pumping, visions of captured elf rangers with lithe bodies, dragonesses with scales and fire, all kneeling in submission!
"Confirmed!"
Buzz! A powerful holy light erupts from me, dazzling brilliance flooding the banquet hall, spilling beyond the castle walls like a divine wave, the chandeliers swaying as the light dances across every surface. Guests, nobles, guards gape at their prince in awe, the light warming their skin like a divine embrace, gasps rippling through the crowd like a wave, the air humming with energy, the scent of incense and wine mixing with ozone!
His white, tender skin glows with healthy luster, a radiant aura that draws every eye, the air shimmering around me. The young girl with pink cheeks, almond eyes, light brows, and red lips pursed in a smile stares at her friend in surprise. Isn't this Jaina Proudmoore, the filial daughter who betrayed her father? A perfect match for the original Arthas—him slaying his father, her selling hers. But her beauty's undeniable, a radiant vision that promises to entwine their destinies in a web of power and passion, the system's whisper urging me toward a future of conquest and desire, her wide eyes locking on mine, a spark of curiosity in the glow, her mage robe hugging her budding figure, a tease of the woman she'll become!
The hall erupts in murmurs, the light fading but its impact lingering, my body buzzing with power like I've leveled up in a raid. The system's activation a game-changer, the war a stage for my rise—harem, essence, empire. But whispers of the Lich King's crown echo, a shadow on the horizon, the nobles' applause a first taste of glory, the crowd's cheers a roar that drowns the distant orc drums. What path will I forge? Stay tuned, 'cause this prince is just getting started, the light's afterglow a promise of the chaos to come!