Nearly half an hour of fierce exchange followed, devoid of flashy skills, which were no longer necessary; it was purely a back-and-forth of fists and feet.
Archimonde had exhausted his world soul fragments, and his power was fading; he transferred most of the collision aftermath to the ground, enduring only a tiny fraction himself, and protected by Titan strength, he was still able to hold on.
In contrast, Arthas's armor was cracked, blood was seeping out, and the bright silver, cold-gleaming armor was covered in fine fissures, looking as if it would shatter with the next impact.
But no matter how fierce the clash was, although the cracks on the armor multiplied, it remained unshakable.
Fighting while bathed in blood, chilling bursts of laughter occasionally erupted from him, and the power emanating from the Runeblade only intensified. The aftershocks shattered the walls of Sin'Dorei, and countless Demons were tragically affected, dying instantly.
The Legion Demons could advance triumphantly against Night Elves soldiers, Mantid, and Tauren, showing no fear, as their size provided sufficient intimidation. But standing before Arthas in his Avatar state, they were no different from ants, capable of being crushed with a single stomp.
Furthermore, due to the extremely wide range of Void Siphon, a continuous stream of Demons died every second, turning into pure attribute points that bolstered him.
The more Fel Energy he absorbed, the crazier Arthas became. Initially, he would parry and block, holding back some strength to guard against sudden changes.
Later, the raging negative emotions overwhelmed his sanity; every slash and every punch was delivered with twelve parts of strength, completely disregarding defensive weaknesses, taking on a posture of trading his life for his opponent's.
Archimonde was not afraid of his opponent either; death was merely death. Demons weren't afraid of dying, as they could be resurrected. He felt some apprehension but was not terrified.
However, every time he knocked down Arthas's health, it was instantly replenished before his fist was even withdrawn, making the strikes feel almost meaningless.
Several times, Arthas's health bottomed out, forcing him to use Divine Shield to convert mana into curved defense, yet his attacks remained unrestrained.
Gradually, Archimonde began to doubt himself. Was he truly so weak?
But when he crushed a reinforced city wall inscribed with magical runes with one stomp, that illusion vanished. He was indeed powerful, terrifyingly so!
It was just that his opponent was stronger, growing fiercer with every fight, becoming more formidable. Initially, Arthas was suppressed by him. But as time passed, Arthas's speed further increased, and the power of his slashes grew heavier, making it difficult for Archimonde to endure.
"Damn it, Kil'jaeden, are you done yet?!"
Archimonde couldn't help but call for aid. He was about to collapse, and being defeated in front of so many Demons would be extremely detrimental to his rule.
Moreover, once he was defeated, the indigenous coalition forces would quickly press forward, and their plan to summon Sargeras would be ruined.
This was an unacceptable failure!
If they had been defeated cleanly and swiftly, without even having deployed their formations, it would have been somewhat excusable, leaving at least a shred of hope, or perhaps a fig leaf.
But to fail right when success was imminent—that feeling of falling short at the last hurdle was agonizing and could easily shatter will and conviction.
"It's done. You can retreat now. The master is ready to cross over."
Kil'jaeden's voice was utterly exhausted. Even though he personally presided over the ritual, borrowing the energy of the Well of Eternity to maintain and expand the portal, he was still worn out.
Teleporting across an unknown number of light-years required extremely precise control, where every fluctuation of every rune had to be meticulously planned.
Phew!
Archimonde sighed in relief, finally free from facing this bane. Just as he was thinking of retreating, a sudden change occurred.
Before his world soul power had completely dissipated, he was locked down from behind. A voice that instantly unnerved him rang out, filled with gruesome, terrifying mockery—a feeling he knew well, the cat-and-mouse game played before every kill, where once the fun was over and he was satisfied, the opponent could be slain.
"It seems Sargeras is about to arrive. Ah, I enjoy playing with you so much, why must you be so ungrateful and insist on leaving?"
"Archimonde, you are a respectable opponent. You gave me a satisfying fight, but you also hit me very hard, so hard I felt like I was dying."
"Now you're leaving without a word. Shouldn't you leave a little gift as an apology?"
An apology?
Fuck!
Do you even hear the nonsense you're spouting?
I hit you so hard you nearly died of pain, but that was just pain. Yet you nearly killed me, and that is actual death!
Which is truly more severe?
You can't just twist black and white and slander the innocent out of thin air!
"What do you want?"
Archimonde didn't even notice the subservience in his tone, seemingly admitting that all of this was his fault, and therefore, being beaten to death was only natural.
If you make a mistake, you must admit it. If you get beaten, you must stand still and take it, so you know what it means to repent and be a good demon!
"Nothing much, just a small thing. You wouldn't mind, would you?"
Arthas's eyes turned crimson, reflecting the fleeting moment of sanity and calm amidst the extreme madness. He found that wantonly venting violence was a highly satisfying act—to fight, to strike, to destroy everything, shattering it into nothingness, becoming part of the disorder.
The more understated the request, the more significant the item being demanded.
Archimonde didn't know what he possessed that was worth coveting. Could it be the Argus world soul fragments?
"You want the world soul fragments?"
"No, I want you."
"Me?"
Archimonde shuddered, and a certain area tightened up. Suppressing his nausea, his teeth chattered uncontrollably. This guy looked like a beast in human skin, hypocritical and moralizing, but he turned out to be a homosexual!
Arthas did not notice anything amiss in the tone, instead giving his opponent a sinister look. He only wanted his life!
Homosexual? He was a supremely noble straight man. Homosexuals, scram!
"Yes, I want your life!"
*Pfft!*
The Runeblade pierced Archimonde's body, forcibly tearing him into two parts. One part was absorbed by the Runeblade, while the other half fled back to the Twisting Nether to await resurrection!
"Ah!"
The intense, indescribable pain of having a complete soul split in two—the agonizing, bone-gnawing pain would persist until the two halves merged. Furthermore, due to the incomplete state, he would often suddenly perform bizarre actions.
Things like opening the car door for the boss while he gets in, spinning the table when the boss picks up food, or braking when the boss takes a drink—these are subconscious behaviors, sometimes uncontrollable, as if he had lost control of his own body.
His strength might decline, or perhaps even increase, but the soul deficiency could allow him to focus on a singular task, achieving admirable accomplishments.
With Archimonde's death, his massive body was collected into the backpack, though it continued to shrink rapidly.
The residual Argus world soul power within him was absorbed, transforming into an even more violent tide that threatened to burst his body apart.
Even a tiny bit of world soul power belonged to a higher-level being whose true form was a planet.
A mortal body could not even withstand steel, let alone contend against an entire planet.
The skin beneath the armor cracked inch by inch, and the seeping blood was evaporated by the skin's high temperature, strangely acting as a hemostatic agent. It was just very painful, intensely painful, a sensation ten thousand times stronger than childbirth.
Death!
Arthas shook his head to clear his mind. The attribute points gained after slaying Archimonde were excessive. He felt his sanity being slowly devoured; he would become a beast ruled by negative emotions.
No, he had to find a solution.
In the distance, Azshara already sensed her spouse's abnormality. She was preparing to intervene, knowing that even if he acted crazily, her physique wouldn't allow her to die.
It would be a great pity if the spouse she had finally taken a liking to died just like this.
Moreover, how could a child be without a father?
Her delicate hand subconsciously rested on her lower abdomen, her exquisite red lips slightly parted, a faint smile playing at the corners. She was not pregnant yet, but she could wait until the time was right to have a child. As long as the 'thing' was still around, it wouldn't escape.
At this moment, waves of immense pressure emanated from the portal. Even two hundred kilometers away, everyone was still suppressed and unable to move.
Azshara was horrified to discover that she couldn't move at all. It wasn't just her, but everyone was immobilized, as if the very air had solidified.
She could see the terror on everyone's faces. Such powerful suppression could not be explained by ordinary means. Just what kind of powerful enemy was this?
It was just a hand. From the ruins already shattered by the energy field, they could clearly see that this arm alone exceeded a thousand meters in diameter, completely filling the portal. Sharp claws gripped the edges of the portal and forcefully pulled it open—an act impossible for any mortal creature.
The edge of the portal looked harmless, but it was actually incredibly sharp; any flesh colliding with it would be silently sliced in half.
But the scene that followed made even Azshara feel a profound terror: the portal was actually being forcibly torn open. The surrounding space trembled, seemingly stretched open by force, causing the earth to crack, fissures extending to the very core of the planet.
"Kil'jaeden, you have done well. And Archimonde, both of you have done very well. Haha, Azeroth, I have arrived!"
The vast, ancient voice was filled with the satisfaction of vengeance fulfilled, like the irresistible urge to immediately lay hands on an old lover.
No one could stop him. Not the Chromatic Dragons, not Azshara, not even the surviving Wild God. Every famous peak powerhouse on Azeroth was utterly restrained by the imposing aura, unable to move an inch.
They could only watch helplessly as the portal was torn open bit by bit, allowing the arrival of the Demon God capable of destroying the entire planet.
This feeling of waiting for death was agonizing, inducing a terror so profound it could cause people to instantly rupture their organs and drop dead!
Only one massive figure remained, half-kneeling and gasping. Compared to Sargeras, the latter's single arm was larger than Arthas himself. This physical disparity was beyond what energy could compensate for.
Hearing the grotesque laughter, Arthas raised his blood-red eyes. He still remembered one thing: repel the Burning Legion and save Azeroth.
The world soul was watching him. In the darkness, there was a plea, a resolute desperation—a helpless entreaty that could only place all hope upon him.
He rose amidst the endless tidal pressure. The mere dispersed energy made him feel as if he were submerged in seawater, where every movement required bearing ten thousand pounds of weight, causing his already nearly shattered bones to creak and groan.
"Sargeras!"
Hmm?
Hope flared in Azshara's eyes. This was her spouse. Was he going to step forward and end this farce?
"Hmph, an ant!"
Sargeras dismissed him with contempt. He no longer needed more spokesmen. Even if Arthas was a formidable fighter, it didn't matter.
As long as he corrupted the azeroth world-soul into an entity like Argus, the Titan born from this world soul would be even stronger than him, yet would still be enslaved by him to continue conquering the infinite cosmos until the Void was destroyed!
"You are the ant, the super invincible grand ant whose life is defined by failure! And remember this: I, West Gate Snow Flutist, am the strictest father you, Sargeras, will ever have!"
Releasing all the attributes stored in the heart of darkness, Arthas once again withstood the impact of the endless pressure, flashing directly to the front of the portal, his Runeblade shining with the most dazzling brilliance.
Wherever the sword edge passed, space fractured. This was the qualitative change brought by attributes exceeding ten thousand!
It was blocked by a finger, without even a trace of a white mark appearing. Sargeras laughed disdainfully. Is that all?
Critical Strike! Ten times damage!
*Pfft!*
The sword edge cut into the finger.
Bash!
He pressed the sword edge further down again.
Drunken Fist Critical Hit!
The sword edge was now deep within the flesh, and the overflowing blood carried a palpable aura of chaos.
"What! What are you doing! Ant! Stop it immediately!"
As a Fallen Titan, Sargeras's strength was transcendent. Even though he had a very strong resistance to stun effects, the crowd control lasted less than a second, only causing him to pause momentarily.
But this was already enough—enough for Arthas to initiate his Frenzy mode.
Having unlocked the limit of thirty strikes per second, his attack speed doubled again under the effect of Scourge Frenzy.
One strike, two strikes.
One sword, two swords.
The speed was dazzling, making onlookers dizzy. All they could see was flesh flying through the air and blood gushing like a fountain. A giant, minuscule compared to the finger, was diligently performing a pedicure and scraping treatment. To Sargeras, it felt exactly like scraping—just incredibly painful.
Kil'jaeden, standing nearby, was nearly scared to death. What in the hell was going on?
Who was he? And who was Sargeras?
Whose subordinate was this West Gate Snow Flutist anyway?
Wasn't he a little too goddamn ferocious?
"Stop! West Gate Snow Flutist, is that right? I can grant you the status of Commander Number Four of the Burning Legion! I can give you the primal Fel Energy of the endless Void. You can continue to improve and eventually become as powerful as me."
"Stop now! Stop, ah! Bastard! Ant! Stop immediately!"
Sargeras initially pretended to be calm while recruiting the opponent, fully displaying the prestige of a Fallen Titan.
But soon, he couldn't maintain his composure, because just as he finished speaking, one of his fingers was actually sliced clean off!
It fell off, skin and bone together, and then, under the influence of some unknown power, it vanished completely!
"AOOOWWWW!!"
All ten fingers are connected to the heart, and every one hurts. For the first time, Sargeras felt excruciating agony. He had never experienced such pain, not even when he slaughtered his former brethren of the Pantheon.
Titans are immortal and can be resurrected, but the reconstruction of their physical body is not so simple; reattaching a severed finger would take thousands of years.
Now that an entire finger was severed, it would take tens of thousands of years to recover!