Chapter 1: The Golden Finger Awakens
Four years after the Dark Portal ripped open, the grand halls of Lordaeron's capital buzzed with the hollow echoes of celebration. Savage green-skinned orcs had poured through that infernal gateway, burning, killing, and looting their way northward. They had already shattered the Kingdom of Stormwind in the south, leaving its banners in tatters and its people scattered like ash on the wind. Undeterred, the Horde pressed on, their war drums beating toward the six human kingdoms of the north. Whispers in the courts spoke of an orcish host numbering half a million—brutes twice the size and strength of any man. It took three seasoned soldiers, fighting in perfect unison, to fell just one of them. And even then, only if the humans were at their peak.
But humanity had slumbered too long in peacetime. Armies once proud had grown lax, riddled with corruption and complacency. Now, on the brink of annihilation, the nobles of Lordaeron still found time for lavish banquets—as if those snarling green horrors were mere tavern tales. Were they fools drunk on arrogance, or simply blind to the storm gathering at their gates?
In Arthas Menethil's eyes, they were little more than termites gnawing at the throne's foundations. The king was no true sovereign here; his power was a fragile web shared among scheming lords. He was the greatest noble, yes—but crowned in name only, a puppet dancing to the tune of lesser ambitions.
Arthas lounged on a velvet sofa in the opulent banquet hall, his formal attire—a crisp doublet of royal blue embroidered with the lion of Lordaeron—clinging just a touch too tightly. His expression remained serene, a mask of princely poise that hid the storm within. From the moment he'd drawn his first breath in this world, he'd been adrift: a soul plucked from Earth, reborn into a realm of swords and sorcery. Reincarnation? It sounded like the plot of some fever-dream novel. He could still recall that fateful night—binge-watching old Japanese films on his laptop, the glow of the screen lulling him to sleep amid the city's hum. When he awoke, it was not in his cramped apartment but swaddled in silk, wailing as a newborn in a world that reeked of destiny.
*World of Warcraft*. He'd known it well—hours lost to its addictive grind, its tales of heroes and horrors. But becoming Arthas? The crown prince of Lordaeron, humanity's mightiest bastion. The sole heir, burdened with the weight of a kingdom's hopes from his cradle. Pressure like a vice, squeezing the joy from every dawn. Being a prince wasn't glory; it was a gilded cage.
His days blurred into a relentless rhythm. Mornings spent sparring with Muradin Bronzebeard—the gruff younger brother of Ironforge's king—honing blade and shield amid the clang of dwarven steel. Afternoons surrendered to the Archbishop of the Silver Hand, who schooled him in the Light's radiant embrace; its healing warmth was a balm against the shadows creeping at Azeroth's edges. Evenings dissolved into tedious lessons on noble etiquette—every bow and curtsy a chain forged by tradition. He was less a prince than a marionette, strings pulled by expectation. Born to the throne, he had no say in the dance. "The imperial family's joy is fleeting," the old texts proclaimed. Once, he'd dismissed it as flowery drivel. Now, it is carved into his bones.
It wasn't all chains, of course. There were perks that made the Earthly grind seem quaint. Fine silks draped his frame; feasts of roasted pheasant and honeyed fruits filled his plate. And the baths... oh, the baths. Slipping into steaming waters scented with lavender and myrrh, he savored the gentle massage from the young maids—their skilled hands kneading away the day's tensions with a touch that lingered just a heartbeat too long. Life's luxuries here dwarfed his old world's comforts a thousandfold.
But luxuries couldn't eclipse the noose tightening around his neck. Eyes watched him from every shadow. Kingdom nobles plotted to carve away his birthright, whispering of regencies and "wiser" heirs. The future Lich King loomed in prophecy's haze, scheming to twist him into a sexless husk of undeath. And the ladies of the court? They circled like felcats in heat, eager to claim the prince's favor—and perhaps more—in their silken webs. Pressure mounted, relentless. In a world where might made right, the biggest fist claimed the truth. And Arthas? His fists were still callow, untested.
"Ding. The system has been calibrated. Reactivation initiating."
A voice—crisp, ethereal—bloomed in his mind, sweeter than any bard's lute. Excitement flickered in his calm gaze, a spark long banked. As a transmigrator, he'd felt half-naked without one. No golden finger? What kind of hero's tale was that? With a cheat, you could slap a foe with a coin purse and walk away unscathed. Without? You'd catch the purse to the face and smile through the sting.
"Ding. Activation complete. Scanning host data... Generating templates... Application successful."
"Ding. Initial quest unlocked: Free the Crown Prince."
"Free the Crown Prince? A prince without freedom is no better than a penned ox. Seize your autonomy. Join the orcish wars, lead a detachment, and claim glory. Reward: Language Proficiency."
Arthas summoned the interface with a thought; the translucent panel shimmered before his inner eye. It laid bare his essence:
*Arthas Menethil.*
*Race: Human.*
*Age: 14.*
*Title: Crown Prince of Lordaeron (mobilize up to 500 troops).*
*Class: Warrior/Paladin.*
*Spouse: None.*
*Reputation: 100.*
He tapped the reputation tab, and an explanation unfurled like a scroll.
"Reputation measures your standing among the peoples of Azeroth. Higher values unlock discounts in trade and diplomacy. Certain races demand a threshold before they'll even parley. Brush it up—it's your key to the world's doors."
His class choice? Paladin, without regret. Warriors were brutes of blade and fury, but paladins wielded the Light—a beacon to rally fools and inspire awe. As prince, why not cloak ambition in holy radiance? For the wars ahead, specialization mattered. Each path branched threefold: retribution's fury, protection's shield, or Holy's Healing. Arthas weighed them briefly, then locked in the unyielding bulwark.
"Ding. Confirming Guardian specialization. This choice is irrevocable. Proceed?"
"Irrevocable? That's a wrinkle."
He paused, brow furrowing. The game allowed respecs with gold and grit; reality offered no such mercy. But then his thoughts drifted to the spoils of war—and vitality surged. World-saving platitudes? Spare him. Crushing evil for glory's sake? Yawn. But conquest for a harem of conquered beauties? Now *that* stirred the blood. Orc women with their broad hips and corded thighs, elves lithe as moonlight, dragons in humanoid guise with scales like silk... Dwarves sturdy as forges, gnomes with inventive sparks in their eyes. Kids dreamed of harmony; adults craved the feast. Kidney be damned—he'd claim them all.
"Confirmed!"
A surge erupted from his core. Holy Light blazed forth, pure and unyielding, flooding his veins like liquid gold. It poured from him in a radiant cascade, bathing the banquet hall in blinding splendor. Gasps rippled through the crowd—nobles shielding eyes, servants frozen in awe. Goblets trembled on tables, and the air hummed with divine power. Arthas rose, the Light coiling around him like a living mantle, his Guardian oath sealed in fire and faith.
The orcs would come. And when they did, he'd meet them not as a boy-prince, but as a light-wreathed storm.