Chapter I: When Death Itself Kneels
Telepathic communication noted in italics.
Internal thoughts in italics.
Special abilities in bold.
Normal dialogue unmarked.
Arthas's P.O.V.
Questions cascaded through my consciousness like a frozen waterfall—each thought sharper than Frostmourne's edge, each realization colder than Northrend's heart.
Why were my Death Knights speaking?
Speaking.
How were they speaking when their tongues should lie as silent as tombstones?
Why weren't my commands—the commands that had once bent kingdoms—functioning properly?
And what in the Frozen Throne's name was transpiring?
"Why isn't the rally function responding?" The words escaped my lips, tinged with the frost that perpetually clung to my vocal cords.
"My lord?" The generals exchanged glances—confusion dancing across faces that shouldn't possess the capacity for such nuanced expression.
Baron Rivendare stepped forward, his death-touched armor clinking softly as he knelt with a deference that seemed... genuine. Too genuine. "Forgive me, Lich King, but none among us comprehend this 'rally function' of which you speak. We are... inadequate to assist you in this matter."
Calm yourself, Ezekiel. The Lich King does not panic. Death does not falter. Think.
I rose from my throne—the Frozen Throne that was and was not the one I remembered—and began my assessment with the methodical precision of a tactician who'd conquered Lordaeron.
First: the game—YGGDRASIL, that digital prison I'd willingly entered—had not terminated as scheduled.
Second: my NPCs, my Death Knights, my Scourge... they moved with autonomy, spoke with intention, breathed (metaphorically) with life.
Third: if they addressed me as Lich King, perhaps they would obey as they had in Warcraft, as they had when I'd ruled...
Only one way to verify such a hypothesis.
"Thassarian." My voice cut through the air like black ice. "Reconnoiter the perimeter beyond Icecrown. Report any anomalies."
The Death Knight's eyes—those hollow sockets that somehow conveyed eagerness—blazed with unholy light. "At once, my king! You shall have eyes beyond the veil! None scouts better than Thassarian of the Ebon Blade!"
He vanished in a swirl of frost and shadow, leaving only the echo of clattering armor.
Fascinating. They respond precisely as they did in Warcraft III. As they did when...
I turned toward Koltira Deathweaver, the Unholy twins Acherus and Razuvious. "You three—descend to the ninth ring. Should any intruders manifest, demonstrate why the Scourge is eternal. Show them that death is merely the beginning of their service to me."
"By your undying will, Lich King!" The oath reverberated through the throne room as they departed, their synchronized footfalls like a funeral march played backwards.
My gaze shifted to the Lich Instructor. "Ensure every ward, every rune, every necromantic defense throughout Icecrown operates at optimal capacity. I want this citadel to be impregnable. Understood?"
"Your command is our gospel, dread majesty. These defenses shall hold until the stars themselves grow cold!" He swept away, robes billowing like grave shrouds caught in a phantom wind.
Power.
Real power.
Not the hollow authority of pixels and programming, but something tangible, something that resonated in my very essence. For the first time since... since before Frostmourne, since before Stratholme, since before everything... I felt like a king again.
Finally, I addressed Baron Rivendare and Highlord Darion Mograine.
"You two—convene at the sixth ring in precisely one hour. I must verify whether Momonga endures in this... transition."
Darion stepped forward, the Corrupted Ashbringer humming softly at his hip. "My king, permit me to accompany you as honor guard."
I raised one gauntleted hand—the gesture absolute, brooking no argument. "Unnecessary, Baron. I shall not be walking."
Reality bent around me like fabric pulled taut, and I teleported in a corona of frost and shadow, materializing outside Nazarick's primary throne chamber.
Please let Momonga remain. I cannot navigate this madness alone.
I pushed open doors forged from materials that shouldn't exist, doors that weighed more than siege engines yet swung silently on their impossible hinges.
"Momonga? Are you present? Something profoundly disturbing is occurring, and I require—"
The words died.
Froze.
Shattered like glass sculptures beneath a warhammer.
There, enthroned upon the seat of Nazarick's supreme authority, Momonga—the Overlord himself—had his skeletal hands firmly planted on Albedo's chest, while the succubus produced sounds that would make a Goldshire innkeeper blush.
Several seconds crawled by like wounded soldiers.
Eventually, Momonga noticed my presence.
"Ezekiel! I swear to God that this appears far more compromising than—"
I stared.
Blinked once.
Stared at Albedo, whose expression somehow managed to convey both mortification and lingering pleasure.
Then I pivoted with military precision and exited the throne room, my cape billowing dramatically behind me—because if I was going to witness that, I was at least going to exit with dignity intact.
I waited in the corridor, studying the intricate carvings that adorned Nazarick's walls, trying desperately to unsee what I'd just seen.
Minutes dripped past like blood from a fresh wound.
Finally, Momonga emerged, adjusting his robes with the frantic energy of a teenager caught by parents.
"You may want to explain yourself," I said, my voice flatter than the frozen wastes of Icebrand Glacier.
"Merely conducting an empirical test! Verifying the reality of our circumstances! Nothing lascivious, I assure you!"
"Well, your test appears conclusively successful. Now—do you possess any hypothesis regarding what in the Twisting Nether is transpiring?"
"None whatsoever. However, evidence suggests we've been displaced to an entirely new reality."
"You're suggesting we've been... isekai'd? Like some absurd light novel premise?"
"Precisely. Furthermore, all NPCs appear to have achieved genuine sentience—autonomous thought, independent action, authentic consciousness."
"Yes, my Death Knights demonstrate identical anomalies."
"I've summoned all Floor Guardians to the sixth ring. We should convene there and formulate our response to this... situation."
"Agreed. I've ordered Rivendare and Mograine to the same location. I trust that's acceptable?"
"Entirely. Let's proceed."
We both teleported simultaneously, reality folding around us like origami constructed from frozen shadows and eldritch energies.
The sixth floor materialized—a gladiatorial colosseum wrapped in primordial forest, all of it impossibly underground yet possessing a sky so convincingly artificial it put actual atmospheres to shame. I'd always appreciated this floor's commitment to theatrical aesthetics.
As we approached the arena's heart, someone launched themselves from the commentator's platform.
"HAHAHAHA!"
This was Aura Bella Fiora—dark elf guardian, creature of contradictions, dressed in white pants and crimson sleeves that screamed 'tomboyish energy.'
"Nailed it!" She threw up victory signs, celebrating her perfect three-point landing.
"Aura?" Momonga and I spoke in unison, our voices creating an odd harmony—death and undeath synchronized.
She sprinted over with puppy-like enthusiasm, then immediately dropped into a formal bow. "Lords Momonga and Arthas! We're honored beyond measure by your presence on the sixth floor! Welcome, welcome, welcome!!"
"We're merely exploring," I said. "Apologies if we're intruding upon your domain."
"Intruding? You're the Supreme Beings! The literal architects of Nazarick! My brother and I would sooner call the sun an intruder for rising!"
"Ah, speaking of your brother..." Momonga began.
Aura's eyes widened to saucer proportions. She whirled toward the commentator booth with the fury of a drill sergeant. "MARE! DESCEND IMMEDIATELY! YOU'RE DISRESPECTING OUR LORDS! CEASE YOUR COWARDICE!"
A trembling voice drifted down: "B-but sister, I'm frightened..."
Wrong answer.
"MARE!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming!"
A figure plummeted from the booth, nearly face-planting upon landing. Mare Bello Fiore—Aura's fraternal twin, clothed in a white dress and emerald cape that screamed 'shy mage boy.'
He shuffled toward us with the speed of continental drift while Aura's foot tapped an impatient staccato. "We'll be ancient history at this rate!"
"I'm hurrying!"
An eternity condensed into moments, and finally, Mare arrived, executing a curtsy so delicate it might've been crafted from spun sugar.
"Forgive my tardiness, Supreme Ones."
"No offense taken," Momonga assured. "Actually, we were hoping you might assist us with certain... experiments."
The twins' gazes locked onto Momonga's staff with the intensity of moths discovering flame.
"Is that..." Aura breathed. "Is that the legendary Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown?"
"Indeed. This artifact represents our guild's apex achievement. Each sphere contains a World-Class item of incalculable—"
I interrupted before Momonga could launch into a forty-minute dissertation. "Fascinating history aside, we're hoping you two might participate in some practical demonstrations."
The dark elves practically vibrated with excitement.
"Absolutely! We won't disappoint!" Aura exclaimed.
"Additionally," I added, "the remaining Floor Guardians plus my Death Knights will be convening here shortly."
Aura's expression curdled slightly, like milk left in summer heat. "Does 'remaining guardians' include Shalltear?"
"Yes," Momonga confirmed. "Shall we commence?"
Minutes later, the twins stood in the center of the arena, preparing to spar against whatever monstrosity Momonga would conjure. I observed from a comfortable distance while testing whether YGGDRASIL's communication magic remained functional.
Thassarian, confirm receipt of this message.
Yes, my king... er... Lich King? Death Lord? Frozen King? ...Blast it, you've accumulated too many titles! What did you require?
At minimum, the message spell remains operational, I thought. Thassarian, describe the terrain beyond Icecrown.
Well, sire, I've got favorable news and... less favorable news. Your preference?
Report to the sixth ring. You can brief me when the other Guardians arrive.
By your undying will, my king.
I redirected my attention toward the sparring match. To my genuine surprise, the twins battled a massive magma colossus—Aura engaging in brutal melee with her enchanted whip while Mare provided protective barriers and support magic from range.
Bukubukuchagama had truly outdone herself in creating these characters. The attention to detail was...
Wait.
These weren't characters anymore.
These were people.
After the twins systematically demolished the elemental, they rushed toward Momonga, and I joined them, offering measured applause.
"Exceptional performance. Truly. That demonstration of coordinated combat was textbook perfection."
"Your praise humbles us, Lord Arthas," they chorused.
"Hm. You both appear parched," Momonga observed with the perception of someone who'd probably never experienced thirst.
He conjured a portal—casual dimensional manipulation, as one does—and extracted a crystal pitcher plus two goblets. I accepted the pitcher, poured both glasses with the careful precision of someone who'd once hosted royal banquets, and presented them to the twins.
They seemed confused by the gesture but drank gratefully.
"I must confess, my lords," Aura began, "I imagined you'd be far more... terrifying in person."
I offered her a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes—because my eyes were currently glowing with unholy frost-fire. "Terrifying? Oh, we can absolutely be terrifying if you'd prefer a demonstration."
"Nah! We like you exactly as you are! It's perfect!" Mare nodded enthusiastic agreement.
Suddenly, reality tore itself open—a dimensional rupture bleeding violet shadows—and a diminutive woman emerged carrying a parasol like she was attending a funeral tea party.
Shalltear Bloodfallen, Guardian of floors one through three, vampire aristocrat, walking apocalypse in a pretty dress.
"My, my. It appears I've arrived fashionably early," she purred, gliding toward us with predatory grace.
I don't understand what's happening to us, I thought, watching her approach. I don't comprehend how NPCs achieved consciousness. We should probably focus on discovering a method home...
But then again...
Do I even want to return?
What awaits me there? Another day of corporate servitude? Another night of hollow gaming to forget the hollow days?
What kind of existence is that?
I glanced at Momonga, who seemed lost in parallel contemplation.
He's thinking the same thing. I'd wager Frostmourne on it.
The remaining Floor Guardians arrived in a procession that felt almost ceremonial—Darion and Rivendare flanking them like death incarnate.
They all knelt in perfect synchronization.
"Supreme Lords, we Guardians pledge our eternal fidelity," Albedo declared, her voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction.
Shalltear executed a curtsy that somehow conveyed both reverence and seduction. "Guardian of the first, second, and third floors—Shalltear Bloodfallen. I serve and obey."
A massive insectoid warrior spoke next, his voice like glaciers grinding against bedrock. "Guardian of the fifth floor—Cocytus. I. Serve. And. Obey."
"Guardian of the sixth floor, Aura Bella Fiora!" Aura announced with characteristic energy.
"And... and I'm her brother, also guardian of the sixth floor, Mare Bello Fiore," Mare added quietly, like he was apologizing for existing.
"We serve and obey!" they harmonized.
A man in an immaculately tailored crimson suit stepped forward—Demiurge, whose smile suggested he knew secrets that would break mortal minds. "Guardian of the seventh floor, Demiurge. I serve and obey."
Darion and Rivendare spoke next, their voices carrying the chill of opened graves.
"Highlord Darion Mograine, right hand of Lord Arthas."
"Baron Rivendare, Death Knight Commander of Lord Arthas."
"We serve and obey."
"Though we currently lack the guardians of the fourth and eighth floors," Albedo continued with administrative precision, "we are assembled here to—"
"Well, well! Looks like death himself couldn't make me tardy for a pledge of allegiance!"
Every head turned toward that familiar, arrogant voice.
A Death Knight I'd genuinely forgotten existed strode forward with the confidence of someone who'd never encountered consequences.
He dropped into a bow that was almost mocking. "Instructor Razuvious, Guardian of Lord Arthas's personal training grounds. I serve and obey."
Albedo cleared her throat with the pointed irritation of someone whose dramatic moment had been hijacked. "As I was articulating before being rudely interrupted—we Guardians pledge our absolute, unwavering, eternal fidelity to you both. Please bestow your commands upon us, for we exist solely to enact your will. This we vow."
"THIS WE VOW!"
The declaration thundered through the arena, shaking dust from ancient stone, resonating in frequencies that mortal ears couldn't process.
And I stood there, the Lich King without his Frozen Throne, watching an army of digital creations pledge themselves to me with genuine conviction.
What fresh madness have we stumbled into?
[End of Chapter I]