Resurrection Magic

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-25

Arthas knew he would remember those bells forever. They only rang for important national events—royal weddings, the birth of an heir, the king's funeral—all the momentous occasions that marked the course of a kingdom. But today, they rang for celebration. He, Arthas Menethil, was home.

He had sent word before his triumphant return, recounting how he had discovered the mastermind behind the plague, how he had found and killed it, and informing him of this day, the day of his triumphant homecoming. As he strode toward the capital, not on horseback, he was greeted with cheers and applause, gratitude for their ardent prince who had saved the entire nation from peril. He accepted it all as a matter of course, but his heart was set on seeing his long-unseen father.

"I wish to speak with you alone, Father, to tell you what I have seen and heard," he wrote in his letter. “I’m sure you’ve spoken with Jaina and Uther. I can imagine what they’ll say—to sow discord between you and me. I assure you, everything I’ve done is for the best interests of the people of Lordaeron. Finally, I have vanquished the villains who brought the plague to our people, and returned victorious, eager to bring a new era to our kingdom.”

Those following him wore visors and remained silent, just as he was. No one seemed to expect a response to this enthusiastic welcome. The sturdy drawbridge lowered, and Arthas strode across. There was a welcoming crowd here, but no longer ordinary citizens; instead, diplomats, lower-ranking nobles, and other dignitaries from the elves, dwarves, and gnomes. They filled not only the courtyard but also the watchtowers high above. Pink, white, and red rose petals rained down on the returning hero.

Arthas suddenly remembered imagining Jaina standing before him on their wedding day, petals falling on her radiant smile, her lips lifting to kiss him.

Jaina…

Arthas was moved by the image and caught a red petal with his gloved hand. He stroked it thoughtfully, then a scar appeared, and he frowned. The scar spread before his eyes, dried up, the entire petal was destroyed, and finally turned brown in his palm. He quickly and disdainfully tossed the lifeless object aside and continued on his way.

Arthas pushed open the familiar massive doors of the throne room and strode forward. He glanced quickly at Terenas, gave his father a smile almost entirely hidden by his hood, then knelt obediently, holding Frostmourne before him, its sharp point touching the emblem etched into the stone floor.

"Ah, my son. It makes me so glad to see you back safe and sound," said Terenas, rising unsteadily.

Terenas looked unwell, Arthas thought. The events of the past few months had taken their toll. His hair was grayer, and his eyes were filled with weariness.

But soon it would be alright.

You would no longer have to sacrifice for your people, no longer have to bear the weight of the crown. I will take care of everything.

Arthas rose, his armor clanging. He pulled back his hood, observing his father's reaction. Terenas's eyes widened when he saw the change in his only son.

Arthas's hair, once golden, the same color as the wheat that nourished his people, was now a ghastly white. He knew his face was just as pale, as if
it were time to drain all his blood, Frostmourne whispered in his heart. Arthas moved toward his father, who stood hesitantly on the steps. Several guards stood in the hall, but they were clearly no match for him, the cursed sword, and two attendants. Arthas strode boldly up the carpeted steps and seized his father's arm.

He drew his sword. The runes on Frostmourne blazed with impatient heat, and in an instant, the sword was piercing Terenas's chest.

"What is this? What are you doing, my son?"

"To inherit your... father."

The old king's lifeless body fell to the ground, his soul drained by Frostmourne, becoming the first victim.

Arthas nonchalantly picked up the crown stained with his father's blood from the ground and slowly placed it on his head. As he smugly raised his head, a pair of gentle yet panicked eyes entered his vision.

Calia could hardly believe her eyes. "Arthas, what happened? Who killed Father? Was it you?"

Arthas smiled gently. "Sister, Father demanded you marry Duke Prestor. You must have been very unwilling, right? But now it's different. I am the new king, and the order of the entire kingdom will be rebuilt. Respected sister, would you be willing to rebuild this order with me?"

Calia hadn't recovered from the shock. "Order? What order? You want… Ah!…"

Arthas's movements were lightning fast. By the time Calia reacted, Frostmourne had already pierced her delicate chest. She felt her life force rapidly draining away.

Arthas ignored his dying sister; he knew he still had much to do.

The revelry turned into madness, the unbridled celebration into a desperate struggle for survival. Those who had waited for hours to welcome the prince's return now lay mostly on the ground, few escaping. Blood congealed on their gruesome wounds, limbs broken, torsos shattered. Ambassadors and commoners, men and women, young and old, were all equal before this horrific death.

Arthas didn't care about their ultimate fate—whether they would be food for ravens or become his new subordinates. He left that to his lieutenants, Falric and Marvin, who were as pale as Arthas, and several times more ruthless. Arthas returned to the palace, hoping to reunite with his sister.

His loyal men had already brought Calia's body and then quietly withdrew. Arthas gently waved Frostmourne, and Calia struggled to her feet, her once beautiful eyes staring blankly at Arthas.

"My dear sister, now no one can separate you and me. Your beautiful body will replace Jaina's, and stay with me forever."

A pang of pain shot through him at the thought of Jaina, but the feeling vanished in an instant. He shook his head vigorously, as if trying to banish the discomfort Jaina had caused him. To distract himself, he stood up and began tearing at his sister's clothes.

Calia's thin dress was already tattered in the disaster, so Arthas easily ripped it off. A perfect body was revealed before Arthas. Calia's breasts were round and full, practically bursting, and the wound pierced by Frostmourne was now just a thin, dark red line. Her skin was fair and translucent, and her pubic hair was thick beneath her flat stomach. This made Arthas's blood boil, and he couldn't help but pull his sister into his arms, frantically caressing her. Before, he would have only thought about it, but never dared to do it. But with the Lich King's help, he actually did it!

Arthas felt the pressure of her perfectly large breasts, a faint, intoxicating fragrance wafting into his nostrils. His gaze was fixed on her chest; the deep cleavage between her two full, round breasts was clearly visible, shimmering with a captivating, snow-white sheen in the sunlight.

Calia's large breasts were full and exuded a unique, sensual fragrance. Arthas grabbed her large breasts and squeezed them hard. As the buttons of her nightgown unbuttoned one by one, her full, plump breasts sprang out, still so large and full, their rich elasticity and smooth skin proclaiming their beauty to Arthas. Arthas couldn't help but gently suckle his sister's breasts while slowly unbuckling his own belt.

Calia's beauty and fullness had long captivated Arthas; he couldn't resist lifting her long, snow-white legs, and his erect penis plunged violently into her wetness.

Calia's body undulated with the rhythm of Arthas's thrusts, her jade-like buttocks swaying up and down with each impact. Her tender labia, piled on her mons pubis, were forced open and closed by Arthas's penis, the tight vulva making a "sizzling" sound. Arthas's pubic bone pressed tightly against her mons pubis and clitoris, his large glans incredibly hard. The two labia of her plump vulva were pulled in and out with each thrust, Calia weakly opened her mouth, her jaw trembling slightly. Although she had lost her life, she had clearly been given the sense of touch after being resurrected, able to feel pain and pleasure, though she could not express it. Her whole body stiffened, her pink face tilted back, her sweat-drenched breasts trembling incessantly. Arthas's large penis thrust faster and harder into her opening and closing vulva, each thrust deeper and heavier than the last, the "slap slap..." of genital intercourse echoing from time to time. Calia cried out hoarsely, her only way of expressing pleasure. "Ah..." With a long groan, she came. Her whole body tensed up as if in a spasm, lasting five or six seconds before going limp as if paralyzed. Arthas

felt Calia's vagina contract violently, the tender flesh of the vaginal walls squeezing his penis. Arthas could no longer endure it, feeling his thick penis begin to convulse violently. His penis throbbed a few times, and finally, hot, thick semen erupted like a torrent, shooting into the deepest part of her vagina.

After resting for a moment, Arthas climbed off Calia's body and began to put on his clothes and armor. Calia remained in her position, lying on the ground, her plump breasts trembling occasionally, her two white thighs shamelessly spread apart, thick streams of semen flowing continuously from her ravaged vagina. This once noble princess of Lordaeron had become a walking corpse, a tool for sexual gratification. The glory of the past vanished on her naked body.

Arthas glanced at her again, then dressed and went out. Clearing away the corpses, some still, some moving, he galloped away. No horses wanted to carry him now; the scent of him and his followers terrified them. But he found himself tireless; as long as Frostmourne or the Lich King whispered to him, he had boundless energy. He ran swiftly, and before he knew it, he had reached a place he hadn't been to in years.

Arriving at the pasture, Arthas slowed his pace. His men had already been there; now only stiff corpses remained. Arthas recognized them—a man, a woman, and a young man about his age. They had died quickly, which was fortunate. But a strange pain surged within him, and he had to suppress it.

And those snapdragons… they seemed to have grown wildly this year. Arthas stepped closer, reaching out to touch the beautiful, pale blue-purple flower with its slender, dry stem. He hesitated, remembering the rose petals.

He hadn't come to see the flowers.

Arthas turned and strode towards a grave, seven years old now. Weeds covered it, but the inscription on the tombstone was still clearly legible. He knew without looking who was buried there.

The prince stood there for a long time, the death of the man in the grave moving him more than the death of his own father, whom he had killed with his own hands. "

This power is yours," a whisper came. "Do what you want."

Arthas stretched out one hand, the other clutching Frostmourne. A ghostly light swirled around his outstretched hand, growing brighter and brighter. It emanated from his fingers like a serpent, rhythmically undulating, twisting, and spreading into the earth.

Arthas felt the light connect to the skeleton beneath. Overwhelmed by joy, tears stung his eyes. He raised his hand and pulled the resurrected steed from its seven-year slumber beneath the cold, dark earth.

"Rise!" he commanded, the words seeming to burst from his throat.

The grave erupted, sending dirt flying. Legs, now only bones, clung to the earth, hooves searching for footholds in the slippery mud, then the skull thrust upwards, bursting through the grave. Arthas gasped for breath, a smile spreading across his deathly pale face. "

I witnessed your birth," he thought, recalling the wet new life wrapped in the amniotic sac. "I brought you into this world, and I caused you to leave it... and now, through my hand, you are reborn."

The skeletal horse struggled, finally breaking through the earth, then its forelegs planted firmly, supporting its entire body as it stood. It leaped, its eyes burning with crimson flames, and though its flesh had long since decayed, it could still neigh joyfully.

Arthas trembled, reaching out to the undead creature, which whimpered softly, nuzzling his palm with its bony nose. Seven years ago, he wiped away the tears frozen on his face and plunged his sword into his beloved horse's heart.

He had been filled with guilt ever since. But now he realized—it was his destiny. If he hadn't killed his mount, he wouldn't have it back now. Because if it were still alive, it would fear him. And now it was a fiery undead, its bones bound together by Arthas's necromancy bestowed upon it by the Lich King. Now the horse and rider were finally reunited, just as they had wished. He wasn't wrong seven years ago, he wasn't wrong then, and he isn't wrong now.

Yes, he couldn't be wrong.

This was the proof.

Frostmourne was still stained with his father's blood. Death would spread across the land he now ruled, and great change was imminent.

"This kingdom will perish," he promised his steed, spreading his cloak and mounting his skeletal horse. "From its ruins will be born a new order that will overturn the world!"

The skeletal horse neighed.

Forever invincible.

Chapter Two: The Urn

Arthas proclaimed himself the new King of Lordaeron, and his new subjects continued to grow in number. Of course, he didn't consider his sister (more accurately, Calia's undead) his queen, but merely a tool for his sexual gratification. This undead, aside from her beauty, was no different from other undead.

He had tried to restore her soul, but failed time and again. This frustrated Arthas, feeling it wasn't quite satisfying.

Now, under the guidance of a herald, he served the Lich King, a dreadlord almost identical to Mal'Ganis, equally vicious and cruel, but equally no match for Arthas. When Tichondrius arrived before Arthas, Arthas was engaged in frenzied sexual activity with Calia.

"Like Mal'Ganis, I am a dreadlord. But I am not your enemy," Tichondrius said. It twisted its lips in a smile, seemingly uninterested in Calia's naked body. "Actually, I'm here to congratulate you. You killed your own father and handed the kingdom over to the Scourge; that's passing your first test. The Lich King is very pleased with your... enthusiasm."

Arthas felt two completely different emotions surging through him simultaneously—pain and ecstasy.

"Yes," he replied, maintaining a calm and powerful voice before this demon, "I destroyed everyone and everything I ever loved in his name, and I feel no remorse, no regret, no shame."

Tichondrius pointed to Frostmourne. "This runeblade you're holding was forged by my people long ago. The Lich King endowed it with the ability to steal souls. The first soul it obtained was yours." "

Then I'll just have to make do with whatever soul it doesn't have," Arthas said nonchalantly, slowly thrusting into Calia's plump vagina. "What is the Lich King's intention?"

The answer he received was to revive the Cult of the Damned to fulfill a higher mission—collecting Kel'Thuzad's remains.

He was told that the bones still lay in Andorhal, where Arthas himself had left him to rot into a pile of blackened flesh. Andorhal, the birthplace of the plague-infected grain—he seemed to feel again the fury he had felt rushing towards the necromancer, but this feeling did not last long. A pale smile, a mocking smile, curled at the corners of the prince's lips. At the same time, another stream of hot semen shot deep into Calia's vagina.

After resting for a while, the Death Knight—the new title given to Arthas by the Lich King—began to gather his forces to search for Kel'Thuzad's remains. A massive horde of zombies and skeletons moved slowly under Arthas's leadership. Calia mingled among them, her snow-white, even slightly shimmering, naked body standing out starkly against the rotting flesh. Arthas had forbidden her to wear any clothes, except for the high heels on her feet.

He had once left Kel'Thuzad's corpse to rot on the spot, but someone—undoubtedly a devout follower of the necromancer—had placed the remains in a small grave. The cultists rushed forward, located the grave, and with considerable effort pushed open the seal. Inside was a coffin, which was quickly hoisted out. Arthas lightly touched it with his foot, a slight grin spreading across his face.

"Come, wizard," he said sarcastically as the coffin was loaded onto the so-called "meat wagon," "your former master needs you again."

"I told you, my death is meaningless,"

Arthas said, startled. He was used to hearing certain voices; the Lich King whispered to him almost constantly through Frostmourne. But this time was different. He recognized the voice, but in the past it had sounded arrogant and sharp, not so intimate and enigmatic as it was now.

It was Kel'Thuzad.

He had not only heard it, he had seen it. Or at least he had seen a ghost. Kel'Thuzad's form gradually took shape before him, transparent and ethereal, his eyes appearing as two black holes. Though drastically different from his former self, it was undoubtedly him; a sinister smile played on his ghostly lips.

"I am right beside you, Prince Arthas."

"You've been at it for a long time." A low, angry roar came from somewhere, and Kel'Thuzad's ghost—if it had ever truly existed—vanished instantly. Arthas was bewildered. Was it an illusion? Was his sanity also beginning to leave him along with his soul?

Completely oblivious, Tichondrius opened the coffin, staring with disgust at the nearly rotting corpse inside. Arthas found the stench of decay more palatable than expected, though still horrifying. He had struck this wizard with his warhammer and witnessed his agonizing decomposition—it felt like a past life. "He's rotting too badly. I doubt he'll last until Quel'Thalas,"

Arthas murmured, regaining his senses. "Quel'Thalas?" The golden land of the elves… "Yes. Only the energy of the Sunwell of the High Elves can resurrect Kel'Thuzad." The Dreadlord's brow furrowed even more. "He'll rot worse with every second. The paladins have a special urn; you must steal it. They're carrying it nearby. Then you put the wizard's remains in it, and that will keep him going on his journey." The

Dreadlord finished speaking with a smug grin. Things were definitely not as simple as they sounded. Arthas opened his mouth to ask, but swallowed his words. Tichondrius wouldn't tell him. He shrugged, mounted the Undefeated, and headed in the direction the Dreadlord had pointed.

He heard the demon's sinister laughter behind him.

Tichondrius was right. A small funeral procession approached slowly along the road, without horses. Arthas recognized the funeral ornaments; it could be a soldier's funeral, or perhaps that of some high-ranking official. Several armored men stood in a single file, the one in the middle carrying something in his strong arms. The dim sunlight shimmered on his armor and the object in his hands—it was the urn of ashes that Tichondrius had mentioned. Arthas suddenly understood why the Dreadlord had been so excited.

The paladin's figure was extraordinary, his armor unique. Arthas's hands suddenly trembled, and he had to grip Frostmourne even tighter. He suppressed the thousand confusions and anxieties in his heart and ordered his men to advance.

Although the funeral procession was almost entirely composed of exceptional warriors, they were not numerous, and surrounding them was easy. People drew their weapons but did not attack, instead turning to await instructions from the one carrying the urn. Uther—it couldn't be anyone else—stared expressionlessly at his former self, but the wrinkles on his face were noticeably more numerous than Arthas remembered. He appeared very calm, but a fire of justice burned in his eyes.

"A leopard can't change its spots," Uther said, his words tearing through the air like a whip. "Your father ruled this land for fifty years, and you've reduced it to dust in a few days. Destruction is easier than construction, isn't it?"

"Very dramatic, Uther. But though it's enjoyable, I have no time for reminiscing. I'm here to collect the urn. Give it to me, and I'll make your death quicker." This man must not be let go, even if he begs for mercy. And if he begs, he must be killed even more. There was too much history between them, too much—emotion.

And at this moment, Uther's emotion outweighed his anger. He stared at Arthas, utterly shocked. "This contains your father's ashes, Arthas! You've already ruined his kingdom, why do you want to desecrate it again?"

"I don't know what's inside," he murmured, more to himself than to Uther. It seemed this was yet another reason for the dreadlord's sinister laugh when announcing the command; it at least knew what was in the urn. One test after another. Could Arthas confront his mentor… could he desecrate his father's remains? Arthas had had enough. He suppressed his rage, drew his sword, and dismounted.

"That's alright. I'll get what I want. If this method doesn't work, I'll try another."

Frostmourne almost cried out, shrieking not only in his hand but also in his mind, yearning for battle. Arthas assumed an offensive stance. Uther looked at him for a moment, then slowly raised his blazing warhammer.

"I don't want to believe it," the paladin said hoarsely. Arthas shuddered to find tears welling in Uther's eyes. "Your selfishness as a child, I took as childishness. Your stubborn recklessness, I interpreted as a young man's desire to step out of his father's shadow. In Stratholme—yes, the Light forgave me, even after that—I still prayed that you would realize your mistake. I cannot be an enemy of my lord's son."

Arthas forced a smile, and the two faced off. "But now you have."

"For the Light!" he roared, pulling his warhammer back before swinging it with all his might at Arthas. The blazing weapon hurtled towards him with incredible speed, the whooshing sound of it tearing through the air filling the air.

Arthas was nearly struck; he barely managed to dodge, feeling the shockwave from the warhammer's blow against his face. Uther's expression was calm and focused… and radiated a murderous intent. He felt it was his duty to execute the king's rebellious son and stop the spread of evil.

Similarly, Arthas knew it was his duty to kill his former mentor. He had to erase his past… all of it. Otherwise, it would forever haunt him, offering a false, sweet hope, as if he might still receive mercy and forgiveness. Arthas roared and brought his sword down.

Uther's warhammer blocked the sword's edge. The two began to wrestle, their faces almost touching, the muscles in their arms trembling with the force of their blows, until Uther roared and pushed Arthas back. The young prince staggered a few steps, Uther pressing forward relentlessly. His face was calm, but his eyes were fierce and resolute, as if he believed in his inevitable victory. This absolute confidence shook Arthas. His attacks were also powerful, but hesitant and panicked. He had never defeated Uther before—"That's enough, boy!" Uther's voice boomed. In an instant, Arthas saw in horror that a brilliant light outlined the paladin's silhouette. Not only the warhammer, but his entire body was glowing, as if he himself were a weapon of holy light, about to strike Arthas down. "For the justice of the Holy Light!"

The warhammer crashed down, striking Arthas squarely in the abdomen, and for a moment he felt the air in his internal organs being squeezed out. His armor saved him, but the armor itself was dented by the holy knight's blazing light. Arthas fell flat on his back, Frostmourne flying away. He struggled to breathe, trying to get up, but the excruciating pain felt like it was piercing him.

The light surrounding Uther burned even more intensely, searing Arthas's eyes, searing his soul, contorting his face in agony. Forgetting the Light was a mistake, a terrible mistake. Now, His mercy and love had transformed into this radiant, merciless being before him. He stared wide-eyed into Uther's incandescent eyes, his own eyes brimming with tears, awaiting the fatal blow.

Uther's expression suddenly froze, his eyes filled with undisguised astonishment. "Princess Calia? You... what happened?"

Arthas glanced around and saw Calia, completely naked, slowly walking towards him, carrying a rusty iron sword. As a living corpse, she staggered, her large breasts
swaying exaggeratedly with each step.
Arthas seized those few seconds. He pressed forward again, this time without hesitation, filled with the fervor of battle. His attacks were relentless, giving the paladin no chance to catch his breath or adjust his momentum to launch a powerful counterattack. Uther's eyes widened in shock, then narrowed resolutely. But the holy light that had once surged around his powerful body was fading every second, fading before the power granted by the Lich King.

Frostmourne rained down—striking the hammerhead, striking the handle, striking Uther's shoulder, piercing the narrow gap between his throat guard and shoulder armor, biting deep—Uther groaned and staggered back a few steps. Blood gushed from the wound. But Frostmourne craved more, and Arthas wanted to give it more.

His white hair flew wildly, he let out a beastly howl, and pressed down with all his might. Frostmourne nearly severed Uther's arm, the gleaming greatsword slipping from his limp fingers. Then another strike, denting Uther's breastplate; another, and the blade cleaved through the armor, tearing flesh apart. Uther the Lightbringer collapsed to his knees, his tattered robes billowing in the snow—the blue-gold robes symbolizing the Alliance for which he had served. Blood trickled from his mouth, wetting his beard, but his face showed no sign of surrender.

"I truly wish there was a place reserved for you in Hell, Arthas," he coughed, blood bubbling.

"We can't know anymore, Uther," Arthas said coldly, raising Frostmourne for the final blow, the cursed sword seeming to groan impatiently. "I intend to live forever."

The runeblade plunged down, piercing Uther's throat, severing his contemptuous words, then penetrating his great heart. Uther died almost instantly. Arthas pulled out his sword, staggering back, trembling uncontrollably. It must have been from the sudden relief and ecstasy; it must have been.

He knelt down, picked up the urn, and held it for a long time. Finally, he slowly broke the seal, turned it over, and poured out its contents. King Terenas's ashes rained down, like plague-infected flour, slowly settling on the snow. A sudden gust of wind blew, and the king's remaining gray dust rose with the wind, swirling as if alive, covering the death knight's entire body. Arthas was startled and took a step back, instinctively covering his face with his hands. The urn fell to the ground with a dull thud. He closed his eyes and turned to the side, but bumped right into Calia.

Arthas steadied himself, then pressed Calia down onto the ground, arranging her in a kneeling position, her round, snow-white buttocks raised high before him. Calia's waist was already slender and delicate; with her upper body bent forward like this, the curves of her buttocks were even fuller, making her more visually appealing and alluringly seductive. Arthas casually slapped her snow-white buttocks, and Calia's round, plump buttocks trembled elastically with his touch. Her buttocks were not only white and full but also very smooth. With Arthas's slap, Calia's buttocks rippled wildly, arousing all sorts of fantasies.

Arthas pressed one hand on her buttocks, and with the other hand, he guided his penis to her plump vulva. With a powerful thrust of his waist, the head of his penis easily reached her clitoris. A fierce battle began. Arthas held Calia's large, white buttocks with both hands, his lower abdomen repeatedly slamming against her plump buttocks. The exceptionally comfortable, elastic fleshy sensation brought Arthas to the brink of ecstasy.

Arthas gripped Calia's slender waist with both hands, raised his penis, and thrust wantonly between her white buttocks. He smiled, raping his helpless sister while whispering to his father's ashes.

"Do you see, Father? Your kingdom will never be shaken again, for your only two heirs have become one. Look, how much pleasure I feel from my sister's beautiful body! If she were still alive, we could surely have many children, wouldn't we? Those children would be the strongest warriors here. It's a pity my sister can't have children, Father, are you also saddened?"

With each "slap, slap," Calia's plump, round buttocks rippled with beautiful, wanton waves. Arthas's eyes were drawn to the small anus above her tender vulva, opening and closing with each thrust, quite adorable.

Calia's large, soft anus, rounded and alluring, resembled a delicate, lustful stamen, crimson and glistening. Arthas slowly withdrew his penis, knelt behind Calia's snow-white buttocks, and forcefully spread her buttocks apart, fully exposing Calia's pink anus. Arthas raised his already swollen and thick penis, the large glans covered in her honey-like fluid, and pressed against her anus, slowly thrusting in.

The entire glans finally pushed in with great effort, and an unprecedented feeling of tightness suddenly came over him. Arthas also gasped, almost ejaculating. After the surge of pleasure subsided, Arthas continued to advance. With the hurdle of the glans over, it became much easier. With slow, forceful thrusting, Arthas slowly inserted the entire penis. The tight, oppressive pleasure was indeed unparalleled, and a perverse sense of conquest arose in the Death Knight's heart.

"Father. Our noble Princess Calia Menethil of Lordaeron has such an alluring anus. As her father, you must be very proud, right?"

Calia's head was pulled high by Arthas, who lay on her soft, plump buttocks, his penis thrusting rapidly into her anus, his lower body slamming heavily against her large buttocks. Calia's snow-white body swayed with Arthas's thrusts, her slender waist contrasting sharply with her large buttocks. She lay on the snow, her large breasts almost squeezed into two meat patties, her pale fingers weakly scratching the ground. Her father's ashes, the snow stained with Uther's blood, she endured Arthas's onslaught, murmuring weakly.

Arthas collapsed onto Calia's back. He thrust with all his might into the depths of Calia's anus, his penis releasing, hot semen shooting out, all of it reaching deep into Calia's rectum. As they retreated, Arthas relaxed completely and lay down to rest on Calia's soft body.

After a moment, Arthas stood up, regaining his composure. If he possessed any emotions, they were deeply locked away, imperceptible even to himself. The Death Knight, expressionless, turned to the meat wagon loaded with Kel'Thuzad's rotting remains and shoved aside a Scourge soldier.

"Bring the wizard in," he commanded.

Arthas mounted the Undefeated.

Quel'Thalas was not far.

[The End]

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