The battle did not slow. It did not pause. It did not end. At first, the elves believed they were winning.
Under Sylvanas' command, the Farstriders advanced with flawless precision. Each arrow found its mark. Each formation shift was executed without hesitation. The magisters maintained their rhythm, cycling destructive spells and defensive barriers in perfect synchronization.
The Scourge fell in droves. Burned. Shattered. Erased. But then, they noticed.
"No… that's not right…"
A young ranger's voice trembled as she lowered her bow for the briefest of moments. Her eyes locked onto the battlefield ahead. On the corpses.
They were… moving. At first, it was subtle. A twitch of a finger. A jerk of a limb. Then they rose. Not all at once. Not in unison. But steadily. Inevitably.
The fallen—those who had been slain moments ago—began to stand again. Eyes hollow. Movements unnatural. Bodies broken, yet functional.
"By the Sunwell…" a magister whispered, his voice cracking. "They're—"
"They're turning," another finished, horror creeping into his tone.
A ranger loosed an arrow into one of the risen figures. It struck true. Pierced the heart. The body collapsed. And then, it rose again. This time, faster. Panic rippled through the formation.
"Hold your positions!" Sylvanas' voice cut through the rising fear like a blade.
But even she had seen it. Her gaze swept across the battlefield. Calculation. Realization. Cold understanding.
"This isn't reinforcement…" she murmured under her breath. Her eyes hardened. "…this is replenishment."
No matter how many they killed, the Scourge did not diminish. Because the battlefield itself had become their source.
A magister stepped forward, staff trembling slightly as he began an incantation.
"Purification sequence—now!"
Blazing light erupted across a section of the battlefield, engulfing both undead and fallen elves alike. The magic surged with intensity, designed to cleanse corruption at its source.
For a moment—It worked. The bodies burned. Reduced to ash. No movement. No resurrection. Hope flickered.
Then—A scream.
One of the wounded, an elven soldier who had fallen moments earlier but had not yet been reached by the flames, suddenly convulsed.
"Help me—!"
His voice broke into a gurgle. Dark veins spread across his skin, pulsing with necrotic energy. A magister rushed forward, hands glowing with restorative magic.
"Hold on! I can—"
He stopped. Because the soldier's eyes went empty. His body stilled. For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then, he rose. Not as himself. But as something else.
The magister staggered back, horror etched across his face.
"No… no, that's not possible… I was right there—"
The undead lunged. An arrow struck it down instantly.
Sylvanas lowered her bow slowly, her expression colder than ever.
"Do not hesitate," she said. Her voice held no trace of emotion. "If they fall—" A pause. "—they are already lost."
The words spread through the ranks like ice.
"No…" the young ranger from before whispered, her hands shaking as she gripped her bow tighter. "There has to be a way… there has to be—"
"There isn't."
The reply came from behind. Calm. Measured. Unyielding. The magisters turned. Leylin stood there.
For a moment, no one understood. Because just seconds ago, he had been above. Fighting Arthas. Holding him back. And yet here he was.
"How—?" one magister began.
Leylin did not answer. His gaze swept across the battlefield, taking in everything—the fallen, the rising undead, the shifting tide. His expression remained unchanged.
"They are bound," he said simply.
Sylvanas' eyes narrowed.
"Explain."
Leylin gestured slightly toward the battlefield.
"Their bodies are no longer independent entities. Upon death, residual necromantic energy infiltrates and overrides the nervous system. Identity, memory, consciousness—irrelevant." He paused. "What rises… is not them."
Silence fell. The truth settled heavily over the elven forces.
"Then why—" a magister's voice faltered. "Why can't we stop it?"
Leylin's gaze shifted upward. To where Arthas stood in the distance, Frostmourne radiating a dark, oppressive aura that blanketed the battlefield.
"Because the source is external," Leylin replied.
As if on cue, a surge of power erupted. Arthas raised Frostmourne. The blade screamed. A wave of necromantic energy spread outward, washing over the battlefield like a tide of darkness.
And the dead responded. Bodies that had been motionless began to stir again. Ashes reformed. Fragments pulled themselves together. Even those completely destroyed began to reconstitute under the overwhelming influence of Arthas' power.
The Scourge rose. Again. And again. And again. Endless. The elven formation wavered.
"This… this isn't a battle…" one ranger muttered, her voice hollow. "It's a losing war."
Sylvanas said nothing. But her grip on her bow tightened. Her gaze shifted to Leylin.
"You knew," she said.
It wasn't a question.
Leylin nodded once.
"Probability of infinite engagement without resolution: ninety-three percent," he stated calmly.
A magister stared at him in disbelief.
"Then why are we still fighting?!"
Leylin's eyes gleamed faintly.
"Because," he said, "the remaining seven percent—"
The air shifted.
"—is enough."
Above them, the arcane circles began to change once more. No longer focused on suppression. No longer maintaining balance. They converged. All of them. Toward a single point. Towards Arthas.
Sylvanas' eyes widened slightly.
"…so that's your plan."
Leylin said nothing.
But for the first time, even the endless tide of the Scourge seemed insignificant. Because this battle was never about killing the undead.
It was about severing the hand that raised them. Behind them, another fallen elf began to rise.
A ranger hesitated, just for a moment. Then she released her arrow. The body fell. And did not rise again. Her hands trembled. But her aim did not falter.
Around her, the others followed. Grief. Horror. Resolve. They fought on. Not to win. Not to survive. But to hold the line, until one man ended it all.
The battlefield had become a graveyard that refused to stay silent. Flames still burned. Spells still tore through the air. Arrows still fell like rain. And yet nothing truly ended.
The Scourge rose. Again. And again. And again. Every fallen elf became a risk. Every wound, a countdown. Every second, a step closer to inevitable collapse.
Sylvanas stood at the front, her arrows loose with unerring precision, each shot claiming another undead. Around her, the Farstriders maintained formation, their discipline holding but barely.
Even the magisters were slowing. Their breathing had grown ragged. Their incantations are less fluid. Mana reserves are dwindling. A barrier flickered then shattered.
"Fall back!" one magister shouted as a surge of ghouls broke through the weakened line.
The elves responded instantly, shifting positions, cutting down the advancing undead but the cost was evident. Too many. Too endless.
And above it all, Leylin saw everything. Not with his eyes alone but through layers of calculation, projections, probabilities unfolding in real time. The outcome was clear.
Unavoidable. A slow loss. Not now. Not immediately. But inevitably. Leylin's gaze shifted. To Sylvanas. Then he made a decision.
In the middle of a clash that shattered the air itself, Leylin disengaged, forcing distance between himself and Arthas with a precise spatial displacement. He appeared beside Sylvanas.
For a brief moment time seemed to still. She turned, eyes narrowing.
"You're leaving your opponent?"
Leylin's voice was calm.
"Retreat."
Silence. Even amidst the chaos, that single word carried weight.
Sylvanas stared at him.
"…what?"
"Retreat," Leylin repeated. "All forces. Immediate withdrawal."
A nearby magister froze.
"Retreat? We're holding them—"
"No," Leylin cut in, his tone unchanged. "You are delaying the collapse."
The words struck harder than any blow.
Sylvanas' expression hardened.
"You think we don't see that?" she said coldly. "If we withdraw now, they will overrun everything behind us."
Leylin met her gaze. Unshaken.
"If you remain," he said, "you will be converted into additional units within seventeen minutes."
A pause.
"No defensive adjustment changes that outcome."
The battlefield roared around them. But for Sylvanas, there was only silence. She searched his eyes. For doubt. For hesitation. For anything. There was none.
"…and you?" she asked quietly.
Leylin glanced upward. Toward Arthas.
"I will remain," he said.
The implication was immediate.
"You intend to hold them all alone while we retreat?" one magister said, disbelief flooding his voice.
Leylin did not answer. Because the answer was obvious.
Sylvanas' grip tightened on her bow.
"You're asking me to abandon this battlefield."
"I am instructing you," Leylin corrected.
A flicker of anger crossed her face.
"Careful, mage—"
"You are a commander," Leylin said, his voice cutting through her words with quiet precision. "Act like one."
Silence. Behind them, another elf fell. Another rose. The line wavered.
Leylin spoke again.
"Your objective is no longer victory," he said. "It is the preservation of the remaining forces." A pause. "Every second you hesitate increases the total loss."
Sylvanas' jaw tightened. Her gaze swept across the battlefield. Her people. Fighting. Dying. Rising again as enemies. Her fingers trembled, just once. Then stilled.
"…all units," she said, her voice carrying across the battlefield, sharp and absolute.
"Prepare to withdraw."
The reaction was immediate. Shock. Disbelief. Reluctance.
"My lady—!" a ranger began.
"Now!" Sylvanas' voice cracked like thunder.
No one argued again. The formation shifted. Magisters began casting large-scale displacement and shielding spells, creating corridors for retreat.
Rangers provided covering fire, their arrows now focused on clearing paths rather than holding ground. The elven forces began to fall back. And in that moment, the Scourge surged.
Freed from pressure, the undead pressed forward with renewed ferocity, their numbers swelling as fallen bodies rose to join them.
Above, Arthas watched. Then he moved. Leylin was already there.
Their clash resumed instantly, intercepting Arthas before he could descend upon the retreating forces. Frostmourne met with Beowulf. The impact split the air.
"You send them away," Arthas said, his voice laced with cold certainty. "And choose to face me alone once again."
Leylin's expression remained unchanged.
"Correct."
Arthas' eyes gleamed faintly.
"Then you have chosen your death."
Leylin tilted his head slightly.
"Unverified."
They vanished. The battle that followed was no longer restrained. Without the need to divide his focus, Leylin changed.
The battlefield warped. Arcane circles that once spread across miles now condensed, layering upon themselves in increasingly complex formations. Space folded repeatedly, overlapping dimensions creating zones of distortion where reality itself became unstable.
Arthas struck—But this time, Leylin did not merely defend. He countered. A precise step. A minimal movement. A perfect strike.
Arthas was forced back. This time not by redirection. But by force. Amidst the battlefield, Sylvanas led the retreat, her gaze flickering upward despite herself.
She saw it. The shift.
"…so this is what you were holding back," she murmured.
Because now, Leylin was no longer fighting to hold. He was fighting to win. Behind her, the last of the elven forces withdrew through the arcane corridors, barriers collapsing one by one as the distance grew.
"Lady Sylvanas!" a ranger called out. "We're clear!"
Sylvanas lingered just for a moment. Her eyes locked onto the distant figure of Leylin. Standing alone. Against everything.
"…don't die," she muttered softly.
Then she turned. And vanished into the retreat. The battlefield fell silent. Not truly. But enough.
Because now, there were only two. Leylin. Arthas. And the endless Scourge. Arthas raised Frostmourne, its blade howling with the voices of countless souls.
"You will fall," he declared, his voice echoing across the empty battlefield.
"You cannot defeat me."
Leylin stood still.
Then he merely smiled. A cold, calculated smile.
"I don't need to defeat you," he said.
The air trembled.
"I only need to prove…"
The arcane formations around him ignited.
"…that you can be defeated."
And as the Scourge surged once more, the final phase of the battle began.