The battlefield had become something unnatural. Not war. Not chaos. But a controlled catastrophe. At the center of it all stood Leylin. Unmoving. Unyielding.
The corridor of stone still holds. The towering walls he had raised, though cracked and glowing from the relentless heat, remained intact, channeling the endless tide of the Scourge into a single, suffocating path. A path of death.
Fire raged without pause. Wave after wave. Layer upon layer. Each spell interlocked with the next, forming a seamless cascade of destruction that swallowed everything entering its reach.
The undead burned. They fell. They turned to ash. And still they came. Leylin's eyes moved constantly. Not wildly. But precisely. Every shift in the horde. Every fluctuation in density. Every moment where pressure increased or decreased. He adjusted. Refined. Optimized.
When the front line thickened, the flames intensified, compressing the mass until it imploded under its own numbers. When the flow slowed, he extended the burn, maximizing destruction per unit of mana.
When larger constructs forced their way through, he redirected the terrain, spikes of stone erupting beneath them, locking them in place just long enough for the fire to consume them whole.
This was not mere spellcasting. This was a calculation. And so, time passed. Not measured in minutes. But in waves. Hundreds fell. Then thousands.
And yet the Scourge did not thin. Because they did not need to. At the middle of the formation, Arthas Menethil stood watching. Unmoved.
At first, his army was being destroyed. Systematically. Efficiently. But not fast enough.
"They falter," came the rasping voice from within the urn.
Kel'Thuzad observed with growing clarity, his awareness sharpening as they drew closer to the flowing ley energies of Quel'Thalas.
"No," Arthas said.
His gaze remained fixed on the lone figure ahead.
"They are being contained."
Another wave surged forward. Another wave burned.
Kel'Thuzad's voice lowered.
"There are limits… even to precision."
Arthas did not respond. But something in his posture shifted. Subtle but undeniable. His patience was nearing its limits.
The Scourge surged again. And again. And again. Each time met with annihilation. Each time achieving nothing. The corridor held. The fire endured. And still, Leylin stood.
Far beyond the battlefield, faint movements could now be sensed. Reinforcements approaching. Enough time had been bought.
Arthas took a step forward. Then another. The air changed. A cold that did not belong to the environment spread outward, clashing violently with the inferno ahead. Frost crept along the ground beneath his feet, extinguishing embers as it advanced.
The Scourge parted. Not by command. But by presence. The King had decided to move.
At the end of the corridor, Leylin's eyes shifted. He felt it instantly. The change in pressure. The shift in balance. The fire did not falter. But his focus narrowed.
"…Finally," he murmured.
He raised his hand slightly and the flames adjusted. Not outward. But inward. Condensing. Refining.
The inferno that had once spread wide now compressed into something far more dangerous, its heat intensifying, its structure tightening, its purpose shifting. Not to hold back an army. But to confront a single opponent.
From within the fire, a path formed. Carved not by absence but by control. Through it, Arthas Menethil walked. Unburned. Untouched.
Frostmourne pulsed with dark energy, its cold carving through the flames, splitting heat from existence itself. Each step forward brought winter deeper into the corridor. Each step extinguished part of the inferno.
Fire and frost collided. And neither yielded. Leylin lowered his hand slowly. The bombardment ceased.
For the first time since the battle began, silence returned. Not complete. The distant crackle of dying flames still lingered. The faint movements of the Scourge still echoed beyond the walls.
But between them, there was only stillness. Two figures. Facing each other. Arthas stopped.
The space between them was no longer filled with fire. Nor with death. Only intent.
"You've done well," Arthas said.
It was not praise. Not truly. It was an acknowledgment.
Leylin met his gaze evenly.
"You're slower than I expected."
A faint pause. Then—Arthas raised Frostmourne.
"And you are exactly as he described."
From behind, the faint voice of Kel'Thuzad whispered once more.
"Do not underestimate him…"
Leylin shifted his stance slightly. Not defensive, not aggressive but prepared.
"I wasn't planning to," Arthas replied.
The cold intensified. The ground beneath them cracked as opposing forces clashed—heat against frost, life against death, will against inevitability.
Leylin exhaled slowly. Then—He stepped forward.
"If you want the Sunwell," he said calmly,
"You'll have to go through me."
Arthas's grip tightened.
"I intend to."
And in that moment, the battlefield changed once more. No longer an army against a man.
But a king, against an obstacle he could not ignore. And for the first time since his descent, Arthas Menethil prepared to fight seriously.
The wind howled like a mourning spirit across the broken plains, carrying with it the stench of death and decay. Beneath the dim, ash-choked sky, the battlefield stretched endlessly, littered with shattered armor, broken weapons, and the fallen who would soon rise again.
At the heart of it all stood two figures. One cloaked in cold inevitability, Arthas Menethil, the Lich King's chosen champion, his runeblade humming with a sinister, soul-devouring hunger.
The other, Leylin, calm amidst the storm, his robes fluttering as if untouched by the chaos around him, eyes glowing faintly with calculation and control. Between them, the Scourge surged like an unending tide.
And yet they did not advance.They could not.Because Leylin stood there.
A wave of undead lunged forward—ghouls snarling, abominations dragging their grotesque bulk, skeletal mages chanting in hollow whispers.
Leylin raised a single hand.
"Freeze."
The word was soft. But reality bent. The ground beneath the Scourge rippled, arcane sigils spreading like cracks in glass. In an instant, the charging undead slowed then halted, as if trapped in invisible chains. Frost crept along their limbs, but it was no ordinary ice. It was layered with spatial distortion, temporal drag, and raw mana compression.
A triple-layered restraint. Even the undead, immune to pain, struggled as their movements were suppressed to a crawl.
Leylin exhaled slowly.
"Maintaining pressure on three thousand units… acceptable."
Yet his gaze never left Arthas.Because he knew, this was merely the prelude.
Arthas stepped forward. Each footfall echoed unnaturally, as if the world itself recoiled from his presence. Frostmourne pulsed in his grip, its cursed edge whispering with the voices of the damned.
"You dare stand alone," Arthas said, his voice cold, devoid of life. "You hold back my army… yet face me at the same time?"
Leylin's lips curved faintly.
"I don't dare," he replied calmly. "I calculate."
A flicker of something—amusement?—passed through his eyes.
"You, however… are predictable."
The air exploded. Arthas vanished.
The ground where he stood shattered a heartbeat later as he reappeared before Leylin, Frostmourne cleaving downward with enough force to split both man and earth alike.
CLANG—
A translucent barrier formed instantly, layers of hexagonal mana constructs stacking upon each other. The blade struck, cracking the first, shattering the second but stopped at the third.
Leylin was already gone. A blur of afterimages scattered as he reappeared dozens of meters away, his fingers tracing complex runes in the air.
"Spatial displacement… reaction time within expectations," Leylin murmured.
Arthas turned slowly.Then, he smiled. The ground beneath Leylin erupted.
Black ice speared upward, jagged and merciless, infused with necrotic energy that corroded even mana constructs.
Leylin's expression did not change.
"Delayed trigger. Interesting."
He stepped sideways—and reality folded.
The spikes pierced through an afterimage as Leylin reappeared above, suspended midair. With a downward gesture, dozens of blazing arcane lances formed behind him.
"Let's test your durability."
They rained down like divine punishment.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Explosions tore through the battlefield, incinerating entire clusters of undead. The shockwaves alone pulverized lesser creatures into dust.
Yet from within the smoke—Arthas walked out. Unscathed. A faint barrier of dark frost shimmered around him, absorbing the last remnants of the attack.
"Is that all?" Arthas asked.
Leylin tilted his head slightly.
"Not even close."
Behind him, the restrained Scourge began to move again. Cracks spread across Leylin's control field as the undead struggled under sheer numbers and the necromantic aura radiating from Arthas.
Leylin frowned slightly.
"Expected… but inefficient."
He raised both hands this time. Mana surged. The battlefield changed.
A massive formation ignited beneath the entire area, intricate, layered, and impossibly complex. Circles within circles, each inscribed with ancient runes of suppression, incineration, and spatial isolation.
The air itself grew heavy. Undead units began collapsing as their connection to necromantic energy was forcibly severed. Others burned in pale blue flames that consumed not flesh but existence itself.
Leylin exhaled.
"Now… that should buy me time."
But at that moment, Arthas attacked again. Frostmourne screamed. A wave of pure death energy carved through the air, slicing apart Leylin's formation like paper. The runes destabilized, several collapsing instantly.
Leylin's eyes sharpened.
"So you can disrupt formations directly…"
Arthas was already upon him. This time, Leylin didn't retreat. Their clash shook the battlefield. Frostmourne met a blade of pure condensed mana in Leylin's hand, the two forces grinding against each other—death against calculation, chaos against control.
The ground beneath them shattered. Shockwaves spread outward, annihilating everything nearby, Scourge and terrain alike.
Arthas pushed forward, his strength monstrous, relentless. Leylin held. Not with brute force but precision.
Every movement was minimal. Every shift is perfectly timed. He redirected force instead of opposing it, letting Arthas' overwhelming power slip past him by fractions of an inch. Yet even so cracks began to form in his defense.
"You are strong," Arthas said, pressing harder. "But you divide your focus. Your power is wasted on the weak."
Leylin's eyes flickered briefly toward the battlefield where the Scourge, though suppressed, was still advancing. Then back to Arthas.
"Wasted?" Leylin repeated. A faint smile appeared. "Hardly."
The ground lit up again. But this time, it wasn't a restraint. It was a trap.
Chains of light erupted from beneath Arthas, binding his limbs, anchoring him to space itself. At the same time, dozens of compressed mana spheres appeared around him, each one containing enough energy to level a fortress.
Arthas struggled—The chains held. For a moment.
Leylin raised his hand.
"Checkmate."
He closed his fist. The world turned white.
A deafening explosion consumed everything, swallowing Arthas, the surrounding Scourge, and the very land itself. The shockwave flattened the battlefield for kilometers, leaving nothing but a smoldering crater in its wake.
For a moment, there was silence. Leylin stood at the edge, breathing steadily, his mana reserves noticeably diminished.
"Direct hit…" he murmured. "If that didn't—"
The smoke shifted. Leylin's eyes narrowed.
"…then this will be troublesome."
A figure stepped out. Armor cracked. Cloak torn. But standing. Arthas raised Frostmourne once more. The blade howled. And this time, the entire battlefield responded.
The dead began to rise faster. Stronger. Endless. Arthas' voice echoed like a death knell.
"You cannot win a war of attrition, mage."
Leylin stared at him. Then he smiled, cold, calculated and unshaken.
"Who said anything about a war of attrition?" His eyes gleamed. "I only need to win… once."
The air trembled. Something deeper began to awaken within Leylin's magic. Something even Arthas had yet to see. And as the Scourge surged once more—The true battle… Was only just beginning.