Chapter III: The Weight of Crowns and Consequences
Legend:Thoughts "Normal dialogue" Frostmourne's Whisper / Death Knight's Command
Momonga POV
The door didn't open—it exploded inward like the gates of a besieged fortress finally surrendering to the battering ram.
And through that threshold came not my friend, but rather what appeared to be the unfortunate survivor of a succubus convention.
Arthas stood there, a monument to romantic warfare. Lipstick marks painted his pale cheeks like war paint from multiple campaigns—a crimson constellation of kisses that would make a cartographer weep. Purple hickeys bloomed across his neck like grotesque flowers in a garden of passion. His normally immaculate hair looked as though it had lost a fight with a tornado and several very determined hands. The man appeared as if he'd been dragged through the nine circles of hell, except each circle was staffed entirely by amorous women with questionable boundaries.
His eyes—those glacial, undead orbs that could freeze a man's soul mid-confession—locked onto mine with the intensity of Frostmourne seeking a fresh vessel.
The temperature in the room dropped approximately thirty degrees. I could see my breath. This was not good.
"What?" Each word fell like an executioner's axe. "Did." Another swing. "You." The blade whistled. "Do." And the head rolled.
I arranged my skeletal features into what I desperately hoped passed for innocent confusion. "Um... I don't know what you mean?"
Oh, how I wished that were true.
The confession hung in the air between us like a noose I'd tied myself, and apparently, my delivery had all the conviction of a guilty man claiming the knife simply walked into the victim's back twenty-seven times.
His jaw clenched. If he still possessed a pulse, I imagined it would be thundering like war drums before a massacre.
"OH, I THINK YOU KNOW WHAT I FUCKING MEAN!"
The roar could have resurrected the dead—ironic, given our current predicament.
He crossed the distance between us like Death himself, all purpose and barely restrained violence. His gauntleted hands seized the collar of my robes, lifting me as effortlessly as a lion hoisting a particularly disappointing gazelle. We were eye socket to blazing eye, and I could see each flame of fury dancing in those undead depths.
"You did something with your staff before all of this happened, didn't you?!"
The accusation hung between us, sharp and inevitable.
Fear—that primal thing that transcends even undeath—coiled around my spine like a serpent. I knew, in the way prey knows when the predator's patience has worn gossamer thin, that Arthas, enraged, was dangerous. The man didn't just get angry; he orchestrated his fury like a symphony of suffering, each movement more terrible than the last.
"W-well, u-um..." Words failed me spectacularly, tumbling over themselves like drunken acrobats. "Maybe just tell me what happened, and it might jog my memory?"
The suggestion landed with all the grace of a lead balloon at a helium convention.
His glare could have carved valleys into mountains. "Oh, I think you remember..."
Flashback: One Hour Ago, When Dignity Still Existed,Arthas POV
The teleportation magic released me like a breath expelled from frozen lungs, depositing me unceremoniously on the ninth floor of Nazarick. I materialized, stumbled slightly, and found myself leaning against the wall—less for support and more as a desperate attempt to ground myself in something resembling normalcy.
By the Frozen Throne, acting is exhausting. The thought drifted through my mind like snow on a winter wind. Why—just WHY—do they worship us as gods descended from the heavens themselves? Why does Shalltear gaze at me with eyes that promise either eternal devotion or eternal damnation, and I genuinely cannot determine which prospect terrifies me more?
I pressed my palm against my forehead, as if the physical pressure could somehow organize the chaos within.
Questions for later. Right now, I must be the Lich King they believe me to be. Not Arthas, the confused college student who got isekai'd into his own character. Not the man who's rapidly discovering that ruling an undead empire wasn't covered in any of my classes. No—I must be their superior. Their leader. Their—
"Oh my gosh, Lord Arthas!"
The voice shattered my contemplation like Frostmourne through ice.
I turned toward the source, and there stood Lupusregina Beta—one of the Pleiades battle maids who guard the throne room with the dedication of zealots and the efficiency of well-oiled killing machines.
She was... striking. That was the diplomatic word. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders in crimson waves that seemed to catch and hold light like captured fire. Golden eyes glinted with something I couldn't quite name but deeply distrusted. Atop her head perched a pair of wolf ears—adorable in that dangerous way that predators often are—twitching slightly as she regarded me. A tail swished behind her with barely contained... enthusiasm? Excitement? Predatory interest?
The smile on her face could have powered the sun.
"Welcome to the ninth floor, my lord." She bowed, the gesture somehow managing to be both perfectly respectful and vaguely suggestive.
I cleared my throat, grasping for the lordly demeanor I'd been cultivating. "Thank you, Beta. I apologize for the sudden intrusion."
"Oh, no apology needed, Lord Arthas." Her voice dropped half an octave, sliding into territory that maps labeled 'Here Be Dragons.' "You know I'm always happy to serve you. In more ways than one~."
That last part dripped with enough suggestion to drown a grown man.
My internal alarm bells didn't just ring—they performed a full orchestral arrangement of impending doom.
"Um, anyway..." I pivoted desperately toward safer conversational territory. "Have you seen Momonga by any chance? We teleported together, and it seems we got separated."
"I'll have one of the maids search for him if that would be helpful, my lord."
I nodded, already turning to make my escape. "Yes, that'll do. Thank you, BetAAAAA!?"
The scream burst from my throat unbidden as she launched herself at my arm, latching on with the grip of someone who'd confused 'personal space' with 'personal challenge.'
"Is there... something you need?" I managed, my voice climbing several octaves into territories previously unknown to masculine vocal cords.
Beta gazed up at me, and I swear on every frozen waste in Northrend, there were hearts in her pupils. Actual, visible hearts, as if her eyes had become some sort of romantic cartoon. She pressed my arm against her chest with enough force to crack ribs.
"My lord, I'm unworthy of your praise!" The declaration came with the fervor of religious ecstasy. "Please allow me to repay your kindness with my body!"
Time stopped.
My brain, that supposedly advanced organ responsible for higher reasoning, promptly evacuated the premises, leaving behind only a stammering fool wearing death knight armor.
"Beta! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
"I'm merely thanking you, my lord, ~."
She took my hand—my hand—and pressed it against her breasts with the casual confidence of someone who'd mistaken harassment for hospitality.
This had escalated from zero to catastrophic faster than Arthas could say, "Glad you could make it, Uther."
Back in YGGDRASIL, Beta had been coded as cheerful, enthusiastic, perhaps slightly bloodthirsty in that charming NPC way. Now she seemed to have evolved into something between a devotee and a stalker, with the volume turned up to eleven and the boundaries turned off entirely.
She leaned closer, her face inches from mine, and I could see my panicked reflection in those golden, heart-filled eyes.
"LUPUSREGINA BETA!"
The voice cracked through the air like divine intervention, wearing a maid's outfit.
We both froze—me in terror, Beta in what appeared to be mild annoyance at the interruption of her carefully planned seduction.
Standing at the corridor's end was the rest of the Pleiades battle maids, and they looked like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, if the horsemen were exclusively female, impeccably dressed, and absolutely furious.
Yuri Alpha stood at the vanguard, her position as deputy leader evident in both her bearing and the massive green gauntlets that looked capable of crushing stone. Her headmaid's outfit was immaculate, her expression decidedly not. To her right stood Narberal Gamma, the battle mage whose armor-and-maid-dress combination suggested she believed in being prepared for both tea service and total warfare. CZ2128 Delta, the automaton maid, watched with her characteristic expressionless face that somehow still managed to convey disapproval. And finally, Solution Epsilon—blonde, curvaceous, and dressed in a maid uniform that seemed designed by someone who understood that slimes could change shape and decided to emphasize certain... features... in the default form.
They stared at Beta with expressions ranging from righteous anger to barely concealed jealousy.
Relief crashed over me like a wave over a drowning man.
"A-Alpha! Thank the Frozen Throne! Something's wrong with—"
"Why didn't you wait for us as we planned?"
Alpha's interruption hit me like Frostmourne to the gut.
My eyes widened to dimensions previously thought impossible. "Wait... what?"
The question emerged as barely more than a whisper, the sound of a man watching his understanding of reality crumble like a sandcastle before a tsunami.
Within seconds—seconds—I found myself at the center of what could only be described as a full-scale tactical embrace operation.
Alpha and Beta flanked my left arm, pressing against it with coordinated precision. CZ and Narberal claimed my right with equal efficiency. Solution materialized behind me, her arms wrapping around my waist, her chest pressing against my back.
I was surrounded. Besieged. Conquered without a single sword drawn.
My face burned with heat that seemed impossible for an undead being. In life—in my actual life before this madness—I'd dated a few women. Nice girls, mostly. Coffee shop meetings, awkward conversations about majors and career aspirations, relationships that fizzled out somewhere between the three and six-month mark like sparklers on a rainy night.
None of that had prepared me for this.
Five beautiful women, each stunning enough to make poets weep and warriors stumble, pressed against me from every conceivable angle. Their combined warmth was suffocating. Their combined attention was terrifying. Their combined grip was inescapable.
"What are all of you doing?!" I thrashed like a fish on a hook, achieving approximately the same level of success. "This is too much!"
My protests held all the authority of a wet napkin attempting to hold back a flood.
"Please forgive us, my lord," Solution purred into my ear, her breath warm against my neck. "But we simply cannot hold ourselves back~."
"Yeah, I mean..." Beta's grin could have lit a dark room. "We all have the same amount of affection for you~."
"Yes," Narberal added, her typically stoic voice carrying unexpected heat. "At first, we were all fighting amongst ourselves to determine who would be your head wife~."
"But instead of fighting over you like savages..." Alpha's smile was equal parts sweet and predatory. "We decided we'll just share you instead~."
My gaze desperately sought CZ Delta, the automaton, hoping her mechanical nature might grant her immunity to this madness.
She stared at me with those large, innocent eyes, her expression soft and pure in a way that made everything worse.
"I love you..." Her voice was gentle, sincere, devastating. "You're very kind... and gentle..."
Despite the overwhelming adorableness, I was still attempting to extract myself from this supernatural nightmare masquerading as a harem anime.
"Ladies, please, just let me go." Wow. Truly inspiring rhetoric there, Arthas. Why not follow it up with 'pretty please with sugar on top'?
Alpha's smile transformed into something that belonged in cautionary tales told around campfires. "Sorry, my lord, but not just yet~."
They closed in like a tightening noose, each woman wearing an expression of determination mixed with desire mixed with something I couldn't quite identify but deeply feared.
I had one option remaining. One final defense.
INTERNAL SCREAMING OF SUCH MAGNITUDE THAT EVEN THE LICH KING HIMSELF WOULD HAVE BEEN IMPRESSED.
Flashback End: Where Dignity Went to DieMomonga POV
"Then, after what felt like an eternity of kisses and hickeys that I'm fairly certain violated several Geneva Conventions," Arthas continued, still gripping my collar with the strength of the righteously furious, "I managed to teleport back to my personal floor. And then I came looking for you."
He finished his tale, and the implications settled over me like a burial shroud.
Memory crashed into consciousness like a meteor strike. Oh. Oh no.
"So?" His eyes blazed with frost and fury. "Anything to CONFESS?"
I was sweating—impressive given my skeletal nature. "W-well, remember when we were in the throne room together, and I... may have... slightly... adjusted Albedo's settings? Just a tiny bit?"
"Yeah, but I don't see how that has to do with..." Understanding dawned across his face like a terrible sunrise. "Oh."
The single syllable carried the weight of a thousand doomed realizations.
"So... after I left the throne room, you...?"
"Y-yes..."
"And that means Shalltear is in love with me because...?"
"Yes..."
Silence stretched between us like an executioner's pause.
I twiddled my thumbs—an action that looked absurd on a skeletal lich but somehow felt necessary. "I may have... altered... some of the Pleiades' and Shalltear's character settings to... give you... a small harem?"
The confession emerged as barely more than a whisper.
"Hehe..." The laugh was the sound of a man who knew he was already dead.
Arthas's expression went blank. Completely, utterly blank. The kind of blank that precedes either enlightenment or apocalypse.
"Uh, Arthas?"
The blankness transformed. Like ice cracking before an avalanche, his face shifted into pure, undiluted rage.
He dropped me. I hit the ground with all the dignity of a sack of bones.
"I'm going to give you a five-second head start..."
"E-eh?"
His eyes ignited with unholy light, frost and shadow swirling as his form shifted, becoming more wraith than man, more death than knight.
"R U N."
I ran.
By all the gods, living and dead, benevolent and malevolent, I ran.
My robes billowed behind me like the tail of a comet fleeing the sun. My bones rattled with each desperate step. Fear—primal, absolute, transcendent—propelled me forward faster than any spell could manage.
Five seconds passed with the speed of an execution countdown.
Behind me, I heard the sound of pursuit. Not footsteps—the thundering of inevitability itself.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
"Get over here!"
His voice echoed through the halls of Nazarick, carrying promises of violence and retribution.
I had made a terrible mistake. Possibly the worst mistake in the history of mistakes. A mistake that would be studied by future generations as a cautionary tale about hubris and poor decision-making and why you should never, ever modify your friend's NPC harem without permission.
Arthas POV: The Aftermath
I stood over Momonga's sprawled form, my chest heaving despite no longer requiring breath. The beating I'd delivered was thorough, methodical, and deeply satisfying in the way that only righteous vengeance can be.
He lay there, a pathetic pile of robes and regret.
"I'm sorry..." The whimper could have melted hearts. Unfortunately for him, mine was currently frozen solid with lingering fury.
"DAMN RIGHT YOU SHOULD BE SORRY!" My voice boomed through the chamber like thunder before the storm. "HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO THE CHARACTERS OUR FRIENDS CREATED?!"
"I was just a little salty when you said I'd die alone..." His defense emerged weak, pitiful, and entirely inadequate.
"AND THAT MAKES IT JUSTIFIED HOW?!"
"I thought it would be a harmless prank! I didn't know we'd actually end up here! I didn't know they'd become real!"
The explanation hung in the air like a condemned man's final words.
I glared down at him, my anger still burning hot enough to forge swords. But beneath the fury, beneath the outrage and violation and absolute mortification... I found something else.
Understanding, perhaps. Or at least the beginning of it.
I couldn't blame a man for his faults—not entirely. Everyone made mistakes. Some were just more catastrophically embarrassing than others. And Momonga, despite his numerous flaws and his recent foray into unauthorized character modification, was still my best friend.
The thought cooled my rage like water on hot steel.
Who knows? Perhaps if those women were willing to approach things with something resembling restraint and respect for personal boundaries, having a harem wouldn't be the worst fate imaginable. I could think of worse curses. Not many, but some.
I extended my hand—an offering, a truce, a thread of forgiveness extended across the chasm of my indignation.
Momonga grasped it gratefully, and I pulled him to his feet.
"You're forgiven," I said, each word measured and deliberate, "since I was wrong to mock your romantic prospects. But I am NOT going to forget about this. Ever. This will be brought up at every possible opportunity for the rest of our potentially immortal existences. Got it?"
"Y-yep, g-got it." He nodded with the enthusiasm of a man who'd just been granted a stay of execution.
"So..." He dusted off his robes, attempting to salvage some dignity. "What should we do now?"
I considered the question, letting the strategic part of my mind—the part that had conquered kingdoms and commanded armies—take control.
"For now, we act like proper rulers. We must be what they believe us to be—leaders worthy of their loyalty. We remain vigilant, gather intelligence about this world, and prepare for whatever challenges await. Knowledge is power, and we're currently operating blind in a foreign land."
Momonga nodded, his posture straightening as purpose replaced shame.
Together, we walked back toward the throne room, two isekai'd gamers attempting to rule an empire built on code and now somehow breathing with terrifying reality.
Three Days Later: The Weight of WorshipThird Person POV
The gates of the fortress loomed before Arthas like the entrance to destiny itself, all dark stone and foreboding architecture that screamed "abandon hope, all ye who enter here" in the most aesthetically pleasing way possible.
Three days had crawled by since their arrival in this strange new world. Three days of adaptation, investigation, and the uncomfortable realization that YGGDRASIL wasn't a game anymore—it was home, whether they liked it or not.
Mare's magic had worked wonders, concealing the Great Tomb of Nazarick beneath illusions so powerful that even the gods themselves might walk past without noticing. The dark elf's talent for terraforming and camouflage had created a sanctuary, a hidden fortress from which they could observe this world without immediately revealing themselves.
Kel'Thuzad followed three steps behind Arthas—the perfect distance for a loyal servant and trusted advisor. The archlich moved with the silent grace of death itself, his presence a cold comfort at Arthas's back.
As they approached the keep, the orcs working along the walls began to notice their lord's return. Their conversations drifted through the air like smoke from a campfire:
"Oi, the master returns," one muttered, his voice carrying the reverence typically reserved for prophets and warlords.
"Now I can rest easy," another replied, "knowing the Death Knight protects these walls."
"He is one of the Supreme Beings themselves," a third added with the conviction of religious truth. "They say he can stand against Momonga in single combat without faltering."
"Truly? That's incredible!"
"Of course it's true! How else would he have risen to such heights? The man commands death itself!"
"He is the greatest among the great. I would follow him into the Twisting Nether itself without hesitation."
Arthas heard every word, each syllable of praise settling on his shoulders like snow accumulating into an avalanche. He was flattered—how could he not be? But beneath the gratitude stirred something darker, more insidious.
Doubt.
He pushed open the massive doors to the keep, their weight nothing to his enhanced strength. The throne room beckoned, that seat of power waiting like a judge's bench.
He sat, the cold metal familiar beneath him, and the doubts that had been gathering finally crystallized into coherent thoughts:
Am I truly worthy of this? Of them? In my world—my real world—I was nobody. Just another college student with too much free time and not enough direction. I played video games to escape the mundane reality of classes, part-time jobs, and student loans. I created Arthas as a fantasy, a power trip, a way to feel important in a digital world where importance came cheap.
But now it's real. They're real. Their worship, their loyalty, their willingness to die for me—it's all real.
Can I be the leader they deserve? The Death Knight, they believe me to be?
Kel'Thuzad observed his master with the keen perception of someone who'd spent centuries reading the subtlest shifts in mood and manner. "My lord? Is something the matter?"
Arthas looked at his most trusted advisor, then away, as if the admission itself carried shame. "Kel'Thuzad... am I a good leader?"
The question hung in the air, vulnerable and raw.
Kel'Thuzad's ethereal eyes widened slightly—the equivalent of a dramatic gasp for someone who no longer possessed the lungs for such displays. But he mastered his surprise with practiced ease.
"Why do you ask, my lord?"
"You heard what the orcs are saying about me." Arthas gestured vaguely toward the walls, toward the soldiers beyond. "Their praise knows no bounds. Their loyalty is absolute. But I can't help feeling that I'm a fraud wearing borrowed armor, playing at being something I'm not. I'm not the Death Knight they believe me to be. I'm just... me."
The confession emerged like poison being drawn from a wound—painful, necessary, and ultimately relieving.
Kel'Thuzad moved closer, his skeletal hand coming to rest on Arthas's shoulder with surprising gentleness. The gesture carried the weight of a father comforting a son, of a mentor reassuring a student, of a friend offering solidarity in darkness.
"My lord," he began, his voice carrying the patience of ages, "the Supreme Beings chose YOU to lead the Great Tomb of Nazarick alongside Momonga for a reason. Not a chance. Not an accident. Not some cosmic joke at your expense. You were chosen because you were worthy."
Arthas wanted to protest, but Kel'Thuzad continued before he could speak.
"You lead without tyranny. You command without cruelty. You inspire loyalty not through fear or magical compulsion, but through genuine respect and care for those under your command. The orcs praise you not because they must, but because they want to. Because you are the leader they've always deserved but never thought they'd find."
He squeezed Arthas's shoulder slightly. "You doubt yourself because you still remember being human, being fallible, being real. But that humanity—that ability to question, to doubt, to grow—is precisely what makes you worthy of their devotion. A tyrant never questions his right to rule. A true leader questions it constantly."
The words settled into Arthas's chest like warmth returning to frozen flesh. He stood, decision crystallizing in his mind with the clarity of ice forming on a winter lake.
"Kel'Thuzad, gather all the orcs in the fortress. Assemble the Scourge. I'm going to address them."
Kel'Thuzad bowed, the gesture carrying genuine pride. "As you command, my lord."
He departed with the swift efficiency of someone who'd served great leaders before and knew purpose when he heard it.
Arthas made his way to the top of the keep, each step carrying him higher, closer to the sky, closer to the moment where he would either rise to meet their expectations or crumble beneath them.
The air was cold at this height. Clean. Pure. It filled his lungs with clarity.
Below, the Scourge assembled—orcs, uruks, and ologs gathering like a tide of death itself. Thousands of undead warriors, each one capable of terrible violence, each one looking up at him with something approaching worship.
Before stepping out onto the balcony, Arthas paused. He closed his eyes. Took a breath. Let the doubt wash through him one final time, acknowledged it, and then released it like a bird freed from a cage.
I am Arthas Menethil. Death Knight. Commander of the Scourge. Co-ruler of Nazarick. And whether I feel worthy or not, these soldiers deserve a leader who will fight for them, die for them, and lead them to victory.
I will be that leader. Or I will perish in the attempt.
He stepped forward, allowing his transformation to take hold. Frost and shadow swirled around him as his wraith form emerged—half man, half death itself, a figure of such terrible majesty that even hardened warriors below caught their breath.
His voice boomed across the fortress, amplified by magic and authority and the sheer force of will that comes from finally, fully, accepting your role:
"ORCS! URUKS! OLOGS! HEAR ME NOW AND HEAR ME WELL!"
The assembly fell silent, every eye fixed upon him.
"WE HAVE BEEN TORN FROM OUR WORLD AND CAST INTO ANOTHER—A STRANGE LAND WHERE WE KNOW NOT FRIEND FROM FOE, ALLY FROM ENEMY! THE TERRITORIES WE CONQUERED, THE KINGDOMS WE SUBJUGATED, ALL OF IT HAS VANISHED LIKE MORNING MIST BEFORE THE SUN!"
He paused, letting the reality sink in, letting them feel the weight of displacement.
"BUT DO NOT DESPAIR! DO NOT FALTER! FOR IN THIS NEW WORLD LIE NEW OPPORTUNITIES! NEW KINGDOMS TO CONQUER! NEW ARMIES TO SHATTER! NEW LEGENDS TO FORGE IN BLOOD AND STEEL!"
His voice rose, building like a storm gathering strength.
"YOU HUNGER FOR BATTLE! YOU THIRST FOR GLORY! YOU CRAVE THE VICTORY THAT HAS ALWAYS BEEN YOUR BIRTHRIGHT! AND I PROMISE YOU—I SWEAR TO YOU ON FROSTMOURNE ITSELF—THAT YOU SHALL HAVE IT!"
The orcs began to stir, energy building through the ranks like electricity before lightning.
"BUT I CANNOT ACHIEVE THIS ALONE! I AM BUT ONE WARRIOR, ONE COMMANDER, ONE DEATH KNIGHT! MY STRENGTH, HOWEVER GREAT, IS NOTHING COMPARED TO THE POWER OF AN ARMY UNITED IN PURPOSE!"
He raised Frostmourne high, the cursed blade catching what little light existed and transforming it into something cold and beautiful and terrible.
"SO I ASK YOU NOW—WILL YOU FIGHT WITH ME IN THIS ENDEAVOR? WILL YOU STAND BESIDE ME AS WE CARVE OUR NAMES INTO THE VERY FABRIC OF THIS WORLD? WILL YOU PROVE TO THESE NEW LANDS THAT THE SCOURGE KNOWS NO MERCY, NO RETREAT, NO SURRENDER?!"
"WILL YOU FIGHT FOR ME?!"
"WILL YOU FIGHT FOR NAZARICK?!"
"WILL YOU FIGHT FOR GLORY ETERNAL?!"
Silence fell like a held breath.
Then, like a dam breaking, like thunder following lightning, like the roar of an ocean during a hurricane—they answered.
The fortress erupted. Thousands of voices rose as one, a cacophony of devotion and bloodlust and loyalty that shook the very stones beneath them. They chanted his name, shouted their allegiance, promised their swords and shields, and their very lives to his cause.
"ARTHAS! ARTHAS! ARTHAS!"
The sound rolled across the ninth floor like a tide, crashing against the walls, echoing through the halls, carrying a message to anyone who might hear:
We are here. We are the Scourge. And we will not be denied.
Arthas stood above them all, Frostmourne still raised high, and allowed himself a smile. Not the cruel smirk of a tyrant, but the genuine smile of a leader who had finally accepted his burden and found it bearable.
He didn't know what the future held. Couldn't predict what challenges this world would throw at them. Had no guarantee of victory or survival.
But he knew this: he would face whatever came with the Scourge at his back and fire in his heart.
The shadow of war was rising over this new world, creeping across the land like winter's first frost. And soon—very soon—all would learn to fear the name Arthas Menethil.
Some would kneel. Some would fight. Some would flee.
But all would remember.
End of Chapter III
The Scourge has awakened. The Death Knight has risen. And in the halls of Nazarick, two isekai'd gamers begin to understand that sometimes, the roles we play become the people we are.