The battlefield had long since lost its shape. What was once rolling plains had become a shattered wasteland, craters overlapping craters, the earth torn open as if the world itself had been flayed. Residual magic lingered in the air, colliding currents of frost, necrotic energy, and pure arcane force twisting the atmosphere into a chaotic storm.
At its center—Two figures stood unmoving. Leylin. Arthas.
For a brief, fragile moment, there was silence not because the battle had ended. But because even the war itself seemed to hesitate.
Leylin's chest rose and fell slowly, his breathing controlled despite the strain. Around him, faint distortions rippled in the air, layers of invisible spellwork still active, still calculating, still suppressing. His eyes, glowing faintly with arcane light, remained locked onto Arthas.
Across from him, Arthas stood like an unyielding monument of death. Frostmourne hummed in his grasp, its edge dripping with condensed souls, the blade eager, hungry. Neither moved. Because both understood any movement now would not be probing. It would be decisive.
"You've exceeded expectations," Arthas finally said, his voice cutting through the ruined battlefield like a cold wind.
Leylin tilted his head slightly.
"Of course," he replied. "Anything less would have been inefficient."
A pause.Then—Arthas stepped forward.Leylin did the same. They vanished. The collision that followed did not produce a sound. It erased it.
Space warped as Frostmourne met Leylin's arcane blade once more, the impact bending the air inward before detonating outward in a violent shockwave.
BOOM—
The ground collapsed beneath them. A crater deepened instantly, its edges fracturing further as the two clashed at its center, faster than sight, faster than sound.
Arthas struck. Relentless. Overwhelming. Each swing of Frostmourne carried the weight of death itself, infused with necromantic force that devoured magic on contact.
Leylin responded. Precise. Efficient. Perfect. Every strike was redirected, every movement minimized. His blade shifted angles by millimeters, guiding Arthas' power away rather than resisting it head-on.
Yet even perfection had limits.
CRACK—
A layer of Leylin's defensive barrier shattered. A shallow cut appeared along his shoulder, black frost spreading instantly across the fabric of his robes.
Leylin's expression did not change.
"Output increasing," he murmured.
At the same time, the Scourge surged.
Without Leylin's full focus, the massive suppression field weakened further. Undead creatures began breaking free from their restraints, first dozens, then hundreds, then thousands.
Ghouls shrieked as they rushed forward. Abominations tore themselves loose from spatial bindings. Even skeletal mages resumed their chants, dark spells gathering once more. The tide was returning.
Leylin's gaze flickered briefly. Calculation. Adjustment. Execution.
With a single step backward, he broke the clash. Arthas advanced immediately but stopped. Because the battlefield changed again.
The sky darkened unnaturally. Dozens—no, hundreds—of arcane circles formed in the air, each one rotating slowly, connected by streams of luminous energy. They pulsed in unison, creating a vast network that spanned the entire battlefield.
Leylin raised his hand.
"Recalibration complete."
He clenched his fist. The Scourge froze. Not slowed. Not restrained. Stopped.
Every undead unit within the formation halted mid-motion, their bodies locked in place as if time itself had been severed around them. Even the necromantic energy binding them flickered, disrupted by the overwhelming precision of Leylin's control. The magics at play were no longer simple suppression. This was domination.
Arthas' grip tightened on Frostmourne. For the first time, his expression shifted.
"You…" Arthas said slowly, "are not merely holding them back."
Leylin's eyes glowed brighter.
"I told you," he replied calmly. "I calculate."
Then he moved. What followed was no longer a battle of force. It was an execution.
Leylin appeared before Arthas in an instant, a fist descending with impossible speed. Arthas raised Frostmourne to block but the angle was wrong.
CLANG—
The impact forced Arthas back several meters, his boots carving deep trenches into the ground.
Leylin did not pursue it immediately. Instead, he vanished again.
Arthas turned but was too late. A strike landed from behind. Another from above. Another from the side.
Leylin's movements became erratic—no, unpredictable. Spatial distortions layered over each other, creating false positions, delayed movements, and overlapping trajectories. Even Arthas could not fully track him.
For the first time, Arthas was on the defensive yet he did not fall. With a roar, Frostmourne unleashed a massive wave of death energy, forcing Leylin back and shattering several arcane constructs in the sky.
The frozen Scourge trembled. Cracks began to form in their stasis. Leylin reappeared at a distance, his breathing slightly heavier now.
"Adaptability… high," he noted.
Arthas stepped forward once more. Unstoppable. Unrelenting. And then, everything changed.
A sharp, piercing cry echoed across the battlefield. An arrow of pure shadow streaked through the air, striking a charging abomination and detonating it instantly into fragments of darkened flesh.
Then another. And another. Each shot is precise. Each one lethal. Leylin's eyes flickered. Arthas turned. From the distant horizon, they came.
Like a silver tide cutting through darkness, the elven forces advanced with disciplined precision. Cloaked figures moved swiftly across the battlefield, their arrows raining down in perfect volleys.
At their head—A familiar figure. Sylvanas Windrunner.
Her crimson eyes burned with cold fury as her bow remained drawn, each arrow loosed with deadly intent. Behind her, Ranks of Farstriders. And further back, magisters of Silvermoon.
They stopped. Because what they saw, defied reason. The battlefield… It was already held. Thousands upon thousands of undead stood frozen in place, locked within an intricate web of arcane circles that stretched across the entire warzone.
At its center—One man. Leylin. The magisters stared. Silence fell among them.
"This…" one of them whispered, his voice trembling. "This level of control…"
"Impossible," another muttered. "Even the Grand Magister—"
"No," a third interrupted, eyes wide with disbelief. "Not even he could sustain something like this across such a scale…"
Their gazes fixed on Leylin—Who stood alone. Facing Arthas. Holding back an army. Sylvanas narrowed her eyes.For a brief moment, even she was stunned.
"So…" she murmured softly, lowering her bow slightly. "This is the mage you spoke of…"
Her lips curved faintly.
"Interesting."
At that moment Leylin spoke. Without turning. Without looking.
"You're late."
The elven forces froze. Sylvanas raised an eyebrow. Then she smirked.
"We had to make sure you didn't die before we arrived," she replied coolly.
Leylin's gaze remained fixed on Arthas.
"Unlikely."
Arthas said nothing. But the air around him grew colder. Darker. More dangerous. Because now, this was no longer a duel. It was a war.
The frozen Scourge began to tremble violently as Arthas' power surged once more, pushing against Leylin's control. The arcane circles flickered. Cracks spread.
Leylin exhaled slowly.
"Good timing," he said.
Then, he raised his hand.
"Your turn."
The arcane circles shifted. The battlefield opened. The war resumed. The moment the formation shifted, the battlefield breathed again.
Leylin's arcane circles unraveled with deliberate precision, sections of the frozen Scourge released in controlled intervals rather than all at once. It was not a collapse, it was designed. Pockets of undead regained movement only to be funneled into narrow corridors of engagement, their chaotic numbers forcibly shaped into manageable waves.
And waiting for them were the elves.
"Forward!" Sylvanas' voice cut through the battlefield like a sharpened blade. The Farstriders moved as one. A storm of arrows descended.
Each shaft gleamed faintly with enchantments—arcane, shadow, and flame interwoven into lethal harmony. The first wave of ghouls barely took three steps before they were riddled through, their bodies collapsing under the sheer precision of elven marksmanship.
Sylvanas stood at the forefront, her bow already drawn again before her previous arrow had even struck its mark. Loose. Another abomination fell, its massive frame exploding under the force of a single, perfectly placed shot. Loose.
A skeletal mage shattered, its spell collapsing into harmless wisps of mana. Her movements were fluid. Effortless. Deadly.
Behind her, the magisters raised their staves in unison.
"Stabilize the field!"
Arcane light surged upward as dozens of mages synchronized their casting. Barriers formed instantly, layered shields that intercepted stray necrotic blasts and contained the spread of corruption.
Others began their incantations. Fire cascaded from the heavens. Lightning tore through clustered undead. Spatial distortions crushed entire groups into nothingness. Yet, even with such overwhelming force, the Scourge did not falter.
"They're reforming too quickly!" one magister shouted, sweat forming along his brow as he struggled to maintain his spell.
Indeed, where one undead fell, another rose. Where ten were destroyed, twenty more pushed forward. The tide was endless.
Sylvanas' eyes narrowed.
"Then don't give them time to rise," she said coldly. "Destroy them faster."
At her command, the formation shifted. Rangers advanced. Magisters stepped forward. The pace of destruction increased.
And above it all, Leylin moved.
BOOM—
A shockwave tore across the battlefield as Leylin and Arthas clashed once more, their battle existing on an entirely different scale. The ground shattered beneath them with every exchange.
Frostmourne carved arcs of death through the air, each swing releasing waves of necrotic energy that threatened to overwhelm everything in its path. Leylin answered in kind.
Barriers formed and collapsed in rapid succession. Spatial folds redirected attacks. Arcane Missiles struck with pinpoint accuracy, forcing Arthas back step by step, but never enough.
"You rely on them now?" Arthas said, his voice echoing with cold disdain as he parried another strike. "The hunter fights while the prey delays me."
Leylin's expression remained calm.
"I optimize available resources."
Frostmourne clashed with Beowulf again—
CRACK—
The impact sent fractures racing across the ground. Below, the war intensified.
A massive abomination broke through the front lines, its bulk tearing through barriers as it swung a rusted cleaver the size of a tree trunk.
"Fall back!" a ranger shouted too late.
An arrow pierced through the creature's eye. It froze. Then it exploded.
Sylvanas lowered her bow slowly, her gaze already shifting to the next threat.
"Maintain formation," she ordered. "Do not let them breach the center."
Yet even as she spoke, her eyes flickered upward. To Leylin.
He stood against Arthas alone. Again. And even now, he was holding.
A faint frown appeared on her face.
"…absurd."
Back in the skies above the battlefield, Leylin's breathing had grown slightly heavier. Not from Arthas. But from division.
His mind was split across multiple layers of control. One focused entirely on Arthas. Another maintained the battlefield formations. A third continuously recalculated the flow of undead forces, adjusting release points to support the elven advance.
And yet there was no hesitation. No delay. Arthas swung again. Leylin caught the strike—but this time, he did not deflect.
He stepped forward. Arthas' eyes narrowed.
"You adapt," Arthas said.
Leylin's voice was quiet.
"Counterattack."
Then—the tempo changed.
Leylin's movements accelerated. Not in speed but in efficiency. Every strike he made now carried intent beyond damage. Each clash with Frostmourne disrupted Arthas' rhythm, subtly altering the flow of combat.
Milliseconds gained. Angles improved. Momentum redirected. Arthas retaliated with overwhelming force but something had shifted.
For the first time, he was being read. Below, the Scourge began to falter. With Leylin controlling the battlefield and Sylvanas leading the assault, the endless tide was no longer unmanageable.
It was being dismantled. Piece by piece. Wave by wave. Magisters advanced their lines, pushing their barriers forward. Rangers tightened their formation, eliminating threats with ruthless precision.
Even the larger constructs of the Scourge were being isolated and destroyed before they could cause significant damage.
"Push them back!" Sylvanas commanded.
The elven forces surged forward. For the first time since the battle began, the Scourge retreated. But above, the true battle had yet to be decided.
Arthas unleashed another massive wave of death energy, forcing Leylin back several meters. Frostmourne howled, its hunger intensifying as the blade absorbed the souls of the fallen below.
The battlefield darkened. The Scourge stirred once more.
Leylin steadied himself. His gaze sharpened.
"You're reinforcing them through attrition," he observed.
Arthas said nothing. But his silence was not enough.
Leylin exhaled slowly. Then, he smiled.
"Then I'll simply cut off the source."
Mana surged. But this time, it was different. The air around Leylin began to distort at a deeper level, space folding in ways that defied conventional understanding. The arcane circles in the sky shifted once more, reconfiguring and evolving.
Below, Sylvanas felt it immediately. She looked up, eyes narrowing.
"…what are you doing?" she murmured.
Because whatever Leylin was preparing, it was no longer just about holding the battlefield. It was about ending it.
Arthas raised Frostmourne. For the first time, there was intent. Not of battle. But of interruption.
"You will not complete it," Arthas said coldly.
He moved. Leylin did not retreat. And as their clash erupted once more, the battlefield trembled under the weight of what was about to come.
Above the war. Beyond the tide. Past the endless clash of life and death, two forces collided.
And below, Sylvanas drew another arrow. Her voice rang out, unwavering.
"Hold the line!"
Because she understood now. If Leylin succeeded, the war would end. And if he failed, nothing would remain to fight for. The storm reached its peak. The Scourge roared. The elves advanced. And at the center of it all, Leylin and Arthas prepared to decide everything.