The enemy didn’t even remember me; revenge felt petty, like a sulky child clutching a broken toy, smoke thin and pointless.

But if that enemy had truly done me dirty, Ling wouldn’t mind being that small-minded child, thorn-prick and vinegar-bite in her chest.

Yet this Arthas, with eyes like cold blue flames—what did he ever do?

Beat me?

Yeah, he did. A bell struck once, echo fading.

Humiliate me?

No... the sky stayed blank.

Make me lose everything?

No... the ground stayed steady.

...... No...

Right—Arthas never did anything unforgivable to me; the snow never turned red.

Even after he beat me, he left fast. He didn’t linger to spit venom or mock me; no ash kicked in my face.

He said things during the fight, sure. More lecture than insult, like a winter wind correcting a crooked banner.

So... Arthas is my teacher?!

I stared wide-eyed at Arthas. The so-called fire of revenge found no fuel, like a brazier choked with wet wood.

Then I doused it myself—a basin of water over embers; now not even a spark clung like a firefly.

And truth be told, Ling kinda liked Arthas—the silhouette, the frost, the tragedy; a moonlit statue with stories carved deep.

If I could pull him into the team, admire him daily like a sword on a stand, maybe my spirit would get a small refill.

Decision made: slot Arthas as our number two. I started to rise, but his eyes, glowing glacier-blue, flared with... anger? A storm crackled behind that calm lake.

What the heck!

Heat spiked in my chest like steam from a kettle; I put on a show of anger and hauled him up again, puppet strings taut.

"You're totally faking amnesia, right? Totally. You saw I got stronger; now you don't dare fight me, scared you'll lose to me!"

Mm... pretty rough reasoning. A sandcastle of logic on a restless shore. Too subjective. But whatever; you can’t expect a brain only a notch above idiot to spin a perfect excuse.

Yet that offhand, filtered excuse lit a fuse in the dark and blew a powder keg under stone.

Even with Ling gripping him, Arthas kept glaring, eyes like twin comets in a cave.

He wouldn’t say he was the Lich King, but that Lich King pressure rolled out like a cold tide under a black moon.

Rage broke loose, words like shards from a shattered mirror.

"You think I don’t want to?! I was dragged down here for no reason. I don’t even remember how many years.

Down here, nothing moves but skeletons; only ribs clatter in the dark.

Down here, there’s nothing but cold, frost biting like wolves.

Only the dead. Only silence. A sea with no wind.

But I held it in. I didn’t go up.

And now? Why are you all slandering me? Do you want me to go up just so you can kill me in the open?!"

Arthas couldn’t calm down; I could imagine a face twisted behind that helm, like thunder warping a calm mask.

But... this look doesn’t fit the Lich King; the crown feels borrowed, the legend off-key. So he’s not the original Lich King, huh?

I wanted to steady him—this man who’d lost trust in the living, a wolf driven from the fire—but right now, Arthas refused to cool, steam screaming from a sealed pot.

"Enough! One after another... I’ve endured enough, stayed here doing nothing foul, yet you still come knocking like hail at midnight. You think I won’t fight back?!"

His grip on Frostmourne tightened; his metal gauntlet rasped, sparks imagined in the dark.

—Death Sign "Death Coil"!

Arthas’s voice rang, a bell struck in ice.

Answering him, a black mist crawled off the blade, a snake of shadow slinking down my arm.

Even a magic amateur like Ling felt the ominous chill bleeding from it, ink heavy on snow.

Hard to name, thick as smoke. I didn’t care. Simple reason: ominous isn’t danger; thunder without lightning.

The mist coiled like a python, hunting me in slow loops.

It cinched tight, trying to constrict my small frame into five neat chunks, butcher-lines on porcelain.

But it stayed a try. What’s not done is just an attempt; a claw that never draws blood.

The python-mist kept squeezing, only puckering my skin a little, like cold water wrinkling fingers. No meat chunks in sight.

Arthas clicked his tongue, sour as iron; he knew a “strong” skill did nothing to the little one before him.

—Death Sign "Soul Reap"!!

Nothing tangible came, only a pale light licking off the blade, washing over me like moonlight on bone.

My pupils dulled for a heartbeat and cleared, a tide in and out. Still no effect.

—Frost Sign "Cold, Cruel Winter"!!

Ice and snow flooded the room in an instant. The pitch-black chamber turned into a white expanse, a frozen lake without ripples. Still no life stirred.

—Wraith Sign "Endless Agony"!!

Countless souls flashed past, like torn banners in a gale, trying to claw at my mind.

—Death Sign "Frostmourne’s Wrath"!!

—Frost Sign "Relentless Winter"!!

Useless... useless... all useless; arrows falling into water.

His proud skills, his proud Frostmourne—right now, against Ling, they did nothing, blades blunted on a stone heart.

Once a king, a death knight; now completely suppressed by Ling, a mountain on a candle.

He shouted skill names, but the old aura never rose; his roar was just wind through broken rafters. Harsh truth? Arthas was yapping like a stray mutt in rain.

"You're so noob..."

"You!"

Arthas’s eyes widened; his hand clenched harder on the hilt, veins like wire under steel.

—LAST WORD "Distant Lordaeron"!!

His aura surged, a storm wall rising; a shadowy mist loomed behind him like a city of ghosts.

Ling drew one hand up over her head, a quiet blade of intent.

"Shut up."

And brought it down...