The soul of Antonidas, skewered by Frostmourne's phantom blade, found himself in the undignified position of spiritual shish kebab. When Arthas withdrew the cursed sword with casual indifference, the old wizard's essence clung to the blade with all the dignity of wet laundry stuck to a clothesline.
The ancient wizard was preparing to release a scream that would have shattered windows across three kingdoms, but suddenly he paused, wondering if his tortured mind was playing tricks on him. On Arthas's still disgustingly handsome face—seriously, even corruption couldn't ruin those cheekbones—there seemed to be something beyond endless rage. Was that actually a flicker of regret hiding behind those cold eyes?
Arthas pulled back his sword and, with all the ceremony of flicking mud off his boots, casually flung the old wizard's soul away from the blade's ethereal surface.
The distinguished archmage's soul had nowhere to flee and collapsed onto the icy ground, curling up in a pathetic ball. The bone-deep cold emanating from the very core of his spiritual being made every particle of his essence vibrate with agony.
The indescribable, mind-shredding pain felt as though invisible claws were methodically tearing his soul apart thread by thread. He instinctively reached out with his ghostly arms to clutch at the gaping wound in his chest, a futile gesture that accomplished absolutely nothing but somehow felt necessary—as if his spectral hands could somehow stem the flow of spiritual ichor or provide warmth to his freezing heart.
"Just destroy me already!" Antonidas pleaded with all the strength left in his rapidly failing voice, "I'm begging you... grant me a swift and final annihilation."
Antonidas's supernatural senses began dulling to nothing, and even his once-commanding voice became as insubstantial as morning mist.
Arthas's voice suddenly cut through the spiritual fog: "Considering your past accomplishments and former status, it wouldn't be entirely unreasonable for me to grant you that merciful release..."
This unexpected statement ignited a desperate spark of hope in Antonidas's fading consciousness.
The very next moment, Arthas crushed that fragile hope beneath his armored heel with malicious satisfaction.
"What an absolute shame. First, I must deal with Edmund Duke for spectacularly ruining both the Lich King's grand designs and my own carefully laid plans. Then that insufferably noble Uther had the audacity to reject the generous embrace of eternal darkness. I simply cannot and will not tolerate a third consecutive failure..."
Terror transformed into countless razor-sharp needles that pierced every corner of his soul, but the excruciating sensation lasted only moments before fading as everything around him dissolved into meaningless blur.
Will Arthas resurrect my corpse and transform me into some shambling, mindless zombie barely capable of coherent thought?
"No..." he whispered, his voice carrying the weight of mountains and filled with bitter complaints and seething resentment: "I am Antonidas—I was destined to become the greatest wizard who ever drew breath—how dare you...how could you possibly...take everything from me..."
Before he could complete his final protest, Antonidas lost all connection to conscious thought.
He genuinely believed this would mark the beginning of eternal rest, that all pain would simply evaporate, leaving behind only warm darkness and endless, blissful peace.
He imagined that without any more exhausting political maneuvering in the Council chambers or diplomatic struggles within the Alliance hierarchy, he could finally set down the crushing burden of leading Dalaran and rest forever in deserved tranquility.
Unfortunately for his plans...
Sudden, overwhelming agony exploded through his soul with the force of a magical catastrophe.
This wasn't pain delivered through his five physical senses—this was an entirely new category of suffering he had never experienced or even imagined possible.
Once, during a particularly disastrous experiment, half his body had been consumed by magical flames that burned for three solid days.
Once, during a foolhardy adventure in his younger years, an enraged ogre had snapped his arm like a dry twig and used it to pick its teeth.
But no physical torment he had ever endured could even begin to compare to this absolute torture of his very essence.
Antonidas suddenly understood with crystal clarity that this was direct torment of the soul itself.
Captured and imprisoned by the rune sword Frostmourne, it was utterly impossible for him to find any warm and peaceful realm of death.
The sword's malevolent power was so brutally efficient that it could simultaneously torture the souls of a hundred victims without breaking stride. The unbearable agony generated an overwhelming urge to scream that originated from the deepest foundations of his soul and surged through his entire spiritual being. The pain buried in his heart felt like an emotional avalanche with no possible outlet, violent suffering that could find no escape or relief.
This relentless, high-intensity torture shattered his legendary willpower with embarrassing ease.
Almost simultaneously, from the shallow depths of Antonidas's tormented soul, a seductively melodious voice began its insidious work.
"Do you truly desire immortality and power beyond mortal limitations?"
"Are you not frustrated by your declining energy and failing body?"
"Do you despise your aging flesh and its increasing frailties?"
"Do you find it impossible to release your grip on the authority you've wielded for so long?"
"Do you believe that a single human lifetime is pathetically insufficient to explore magic's infinite mysteries?"
Five perfectly crafted questions, repeating in an endless, hypnotic loop.
Antonidas desperately wanted to resist, to maintain his integrity and principles, but he couldn't prevent himself from sinking deeper into the trap.
He genuinely wanted to shout "NO!" with every fiber of his being.
But every single time he prepared to voice that defiant rejection, his treacherous heart would whisper mockingly—you're lying to yourself, old man!
He refused the temptation a thousand times, but the seductive voice asked ten thousand times more.
The harder he fought against providing answers, the more he experienced bone-deep, soul-cutting anguish that not only amplified his existing pain but also made the mysterious voice sound increasingly reasonable and compelling.
After countless repetitions, after his resistance had been ground down to nothing...
"YES! I admit it—I'm a pathetic coward! I hate myself for being so disgustingly weak! Fine! You win completely, I surrender unconditionally!"
Along with that utterly humiliating declaration of defeat, the final defenses protecting his heart crumbled completely, and the dark, freezing tide of corruption flooded his consciousness and began rapidly transforming his very soul.
Time became meaningless during this spiritual metamorphosis, but eventually the overwhelming darkness retreated from his senses. However, when awareness returned, everything before him remained drained of color and life.
Antonidas discovered he no longer needed a vibrant world filled with reds, yellows, blues, or any other cheerful hues to identify the individual who had orchestrated his torment. Even in a world of full color, Arthas would forever appear composed entirely of blacks, whites, and various shades of gray.
The accursed rune sword Frostmourne, which had devoured and corrupted his soul, continued gleaming with malevolent energy. Arthas raised his free hand in a commanding gesture, and that simple motion was how he extracted the newly transformed spirit from the horrible pocket dimension contained within the blade.
"Spirit—you will remain in this ethereal form until you are reunited with your physical remains. When you return to inhabit your corpse, you will become an immensely powerful lich," Arthas informed Antonidas with the tone of a judge delivering an irrevocable sentence.
A lich!?
I've actually been transformed into an undead lich?
Antonidas experienced a complex mixture of profound humiliation and disturbing, decadent pleasure at his new status.
Arthas continued with bureaucratic efficiency, "Although I'm reluctant to admit my limitations, I've discovered that I desperately need several loyal commanders to help me manage the increasingly vast Scourge armies. Now, you—the once-respected great magician—will serve my purposes."
Antonidas felt indescribable dread crawling through his transformed essence.
"Absolutely not! I refuse completely—my magical knowledge and power will never be turned against my own people, nor against any scholar who genuinely yearns to unlock magic's sacred secrets!" Although his voice had become hollow and grotesquely distorted, Antonidas struggled to infuse it with his former commanding presence.
"Really? How fascinating." The evil prince made a casual gesture, barely moving his fingers, but this microscopic movement caused Antonidas's entire soul to contract into a writhing ball of pure agony.
Overwhelmed by unbearable, violent suffering, the once-great wizard finally understood his complete powerlessness when facing the most formidable death knight in existence. He finally grasped that he had become nothing more than an advanced tool, only marginally more sophisticated than the shambling corpses and putrid ghouls that made up the bulk of the undead army.
Several days later, he followed Arthas back to Dalaran—a place that had once been his beloved home and center of power.
Then he sensed the presence of his own long-dead body.
"Proceed now and convince your former colleagues to serve me willingly!" commanded the Fallen Prince with undisguised pride and anticipation.
Antonidas released a piercing shriek that could have awakened dragons and rushed toward his own decomposing corpse with desperate hunger.
On this cursed day, one of the most devastatingly powerful liches in recorded history was reborn into undeath.