No matter how much Yogg-Saron pounded on the walls of his cell, the seemingly transparent observation window remained perfectly secure. At first glance, it looked like simple glass, but closer inspection revealed an advanced dimensional anchor. No material, regardless of strength, could have withstood an Old God's direct assault without such ingenious spatial engineering—undoubtedly the handiwork of Hela.
Hela's figure gradually materialized at the doorway. Clad in form-fitting black armor, she exuded a heroic, dashing air. She truly carried the aura of a Death Goddess; her unruly, aloof demeanor was a perfect fit for her station, a trait that always provided Arthas with a distinct sort of "pleasure" during their nights together.
"The seal has loosened; someone deliberately damaged a section of the ley-line anchors," Hela reported. "Fortunately, they lacked the blueprints for this prison's specific dimensional frequency. Had they known the process, Yogg-Saron would already be free."
Looking at Hela's striking beauty and unique presence, Jandice felt a flicker of professional rivalry. It seemed Hela was also one of her master's "inner circle." Unlike Jandice's own charming, supportive style, Hela exuded an arrogance felt from a mile away. Men, however, love to conquer mountains—and Hela was a peak that promised unparalleled satisfaction upon reaching the summit.
"You've come at the right time," Arthas said, his eyes brightening at Hela's alluring outfit. He looked between her and Jandice—one a dashing warrior, the other a demure, gentle maid. It was a pleasant view indeed. "Let's discuss reinforcing the cage. I have a few ideas of my own."
Hela bowed slightly, hands folded over her abdomen with impeccable manners. She spared a small, knowing smile for the clearly hostile Jandice before extending a professional invitation.
"Master, I require the assistance of this Archmage. I have an idea to use illusion magic to further bewitch Yogg-Saron. If successful, it would grant her a significant leap in power. This is an Ancient God—an entity more primordial than the Titan Keepers. What do you think?"
Jandice was tempted. Illusion magic requires constant experimentation and high-stakes refinement. She had already benefited immensely from the battle to reclaim Freya. Manipulating a test subject of this caliber was a rare opportunity. She didn't answer Hela directly, however, focusing her gaze solely on Arthas.
"I will obey my master's will."
"Go ahead," Arthas waved a hand dismissively. "Yogg-Saron won't die easily. Use every skill in your repertoire. If you accidentally 'kill' him, so be it."
Arthas wasn't about to argue for the "human rights" of an Old God. To him, such entities were merely resources to be utilized. If they were bored, he'd happily send them to a coal mine; a single day of hard labor would likely make them repent their cosmic sins.
While Freya and Mimiron worked to repair the central control unit sabotaged by Loken, the immediate threat of Ulduar had been neutralized. The remaining task was Yogg-Saron. Old Gods possess incredible vitality; while they appear as flesh and blood, they are essentially anchored Void entities. They can survive for eons without sustenance, though they grow weakened over time.
Annihilating one completely is a monumental task. Thus, Arthas had a more "economical" plan: he would place the Soul Furnace directly above the prison.
Absorbing Old God power directly usually leads to madness and corruption. However, the Soul Furnace—a masterpiece of Dreadlord engineering from the Venthyr of Revendreth—extracted power from the soul itself. It refined raw energy into a usable form while slowly hollowing out the target. Once the soul power was exhausted, the target would be utterly annihilated, leaving a corpse that could never be resurrected—not even by the Scourge.
"Once we reinforce the seal, we can finally get some sleep," Arthas remarked. "But we can't let him just sit there and enjoy his retirement. This garbage belongs in a labor camp. He won't be getting any rest."
Arthas had no mercy for the "lazy," whether they were enemies or subjects. If his people worked hard but stayed hungry, that was a failure of the Crown. But he despised those who leeched off the kingdom. In Lordaeron, prisons were no longer places to sit idly; they were extensions of the workshops and mines.
Tyrande listened with a teasing glint in her eyes, scanning her mate up and down. "I've heard stories of kings skinning their enemies, but you are a true master of the craft. Shouldn't we be concerned?"
Snap!
Arthas gave her a playful, firm pat and a pinch. "You are my mate, my family—it's not the same. If you want to play all day, I won't say a word. It's my responsibility to support you; yours is to handle my daily life and, perhaps, provide a few more children."
Tyrande didn't take offense; she favored the idea of a large family to keep her company. Vereesa, meanwhile, kept her head down, her cheeks flushing. She imagined having ten children. In another timeline, she might have had two with a mage in Dalaran, but in this life, ten for Arthas seemed like fair compensation.
Sensing the threat, Yogg-Saron decided to attempt a final manipulation.
"Wait... your name is Arthas, right? We've met before! We had dinner together in the visions!" the God of Death hissed.
"Speak your piece or shut up," Arthas countered. "I might be willing to squeeze a little more value out of you if you're useful."
"You know of the Void Lords," Yogg-Saron's voice turned honeyed and cold. "The Void will eventually devour the universe. Why struggle? Join us. I can guide you. The Burning Legion, Sargeras, even the Pantheon—they will all bow to you!"
The God of Death perked up. If I can't fool this human, I'll write my name backward!
The chilling winds of Ulduar swirled. Arthas stood there, no longer a bloodthirsty Lich King, but a handsome, golden-haired monarch. The blessing of Azeroth's world soul enveloped him like a warm veil, creating a resonance with the earth that no Void whisper could pierce.
Beside him stood four powerful women. Tyrande scanned for threats with her Moonbow; Vereesa leaned against a pillar with a trusting smile; Ysera toyed with a branch of the World Tree, wondering if nature could take root in this dark place; and Thalyssra maintained a shimmering Arcane barrier.
"Arthas!" a hoarse whisper echoed. A blurry, gigantic shadow floated in the air—the true astral form of the Old God. "Abandon that slumbering world soul. It offers only fleeting warmth. Join the Void, and I will grant you the power to devour heavens. All things will bow before you!"
Arthas chuckled, his voice echoing with mockery. "Yogg-Saron, you've been trapped in this hole for millions of years. Your vision is narrow. If you had such power, why are you the prisoner while I am the guest? What is there to discuss?"
"Narrow-minded?!" Yogg-Saron roared. "You've never left this rock! You're a frog in a well! The Void existed before the stars! When it descends, your world soul will be nothing but nourishment. Submit, and I will give you the wealth I have hidden across Azeroth—mountains of adamantite, Void crystals of endless energy, and ancient relics to arm an empire!"
Yogg-Saron was certain ambition would take the bait. Arthas pretended to ponder, stroking the hilt of Frostmourne.
"It sounds tempting," Arthas mused. "But how can I trust an Old God? A friend of mine once told me that Old Gods are the ultimate predatory lenders. You borrow a hundred billion, receive fifty, and end up owing five hundred. Your 'black market' loans are deadly."
"What?! I don't lend money!" Yogg-Saron sputtered, confused by the strange analogy. "That must have been N'Zoth—he's the deceiver! I am different. I'll give you the locations first. You can see for yourself. The Void never lies to those with the strength to claim its prizes."