I am the Demon King of the Dungeon!

The layout of the top floor was completely different from the underground private prison. The corridor was covered with a faded red carpet, and rusty candlesticks hung on the walls on both sides. The candlelight was a dark green flame, making the whole corridor look like the esophagus of some kind of giant beast.

The air was thick with the smell of burnt meat mixed with the sour stench of cheap ale, wafting from the half-open black iron door at the end of the corridor.

Alsace pushed open the door.

The room behind the door was much larger than a prison, with a five-meter-high dome, an uneven black stone floor, and walls covered with weapons from various races: swords, longbows, warhammers...

They were all spoils of war.

Every weapon bore traces of dried blood.

Right in the center of the room.

The troll overlord sat on the "Iron Throne" made of weapon racks. It was twice the size of the guards outside. Its grayish-blue skin was covered with dark red battle markings. It wore a black eyepatch over its right eye, and its left eye was a cloudy yellow with its pupil shrunken into a pinhead-sized black dot.

He held a meteor hammer in his hand, the hammerhead made of cast iron with barbs on the surface, and the iron chain dragged on the ground, making a soft metallic scraping sound with his breathing.

"Human, do you dare step into my prison alone?"

"Your reaction seems a little slow."

"Hahaha, slow-witted?"

The troll warlord rose from the Iron Throne, his meteor hammer chains leaving a trail of sparks on the floor.

"The last person to say something like that, his sword is hanging on the wall now, you see it? It's that gilded knight's sword. Do you know how many times he begged for mercy after I captured him? Seventeen times. I counted."

Arthas didn't look at the sword, because it was none of his business.

But the guy's attitude in front of him annoyed him.

"Kneel down and beg for mercy now, and King Omorik might consider letting you die a quick death."

Omorik rotated his wrist, the flail drawing slow circles in the air. "Or you can try to resist. To be honest, I'd prefer you to choose this, because I've almost forgotten what it feels like to smash human bones with a flail."

"I see."

Arthas walked toward the Iron Throne, his boots treading on the black stone slabs, his steps unhurried.

Upon seeing this, Omolik's smile slowly froze.

It wasn't the other party's attitude that angered it, but rather it suddenly sensed a subtle fluctuation of magic, like a finger lightly touching the surface of calm water, the ripples of which were almost imperceptible.

But wherever the ripples reached, all the muscles in its body tensed uncontrollably. It was the fear instinct etched deep in the troll's bloodline, a conditioned reflex between the bottom and top of the food chain.

Omolik's single eye widened suddenly; it finally recognized the faint aura emanating from the "human" before it...

"you……"

Its voice was no longer deep and resonant, but more like a chicken being choked. The iron chain of the meteor hammer slipped from its trembling fingers, and the hammerhead smashed into the floor, creating a dent.

"You are... the Primordial Dragon God?"

Arthas stopped in his tracks, standing ten paces from the Iron Throne. He looked up, his amber vertical pupils gleaming with a cold, golden light in the dark green candlelight.

"You only recognize me now?"

"I...I don't know..." Omorik staggered backward, his back slamming against the armrest of the Iron Throne. Cold sweat streamed down his battle-marked face. "I didn't know it was you! I didn't know you came to my...my dungeon..."

Omorik never imagined that the Demon Lord of the legendary dungeon would disguise himself as a human, let alone attack his own dungeon.

"I just wanted to get the keys from you," Arthas said with a smile, "but I've changed my mind."

Omolik’s single eye was wide open, and a muffled whimper came from its throat. It tried to run, but its four legs seemed to be nailed to the floor, and it couldn’t even lift them.

Pure fear seeped directly into its spinal cord.

"Change...change what idea?"

Arthas drew his longsword slowly, the scraping sound of the blade as it left its sheath echoing long in the Blackrock Hall. Almost simultaneously, he raised his left hand, a fireball forming above his palm, its core temperature so high that the surrounding air distorted and deformed.

The fireball was not launched.

Arthas held the sword horizontally in front of him, and the fireball slowly pressed into the spine of the sword. The flames did not spread, but seemed to be absorbed by the sword. The entire longsword, from the hilt to the tip, turned into a bright orange-red, and the air around the edge of the blade was silently evaporating.

Weapon Enchantment (Fire).

Arthas was very fond of this human technology; the weapons became shiny, which reminded him of an online game he had played in his previous life. He had tried to create glowing weapons, but none of them were as effective as weapon enchantment.

Before Omeric could even get up from the Iron Throne, Arthas was already in front of him.

The long sword slashed down.

Omorik instinctively raised his arms to block, the battle markings on his arms glowing a dark red light in response to his survival instinct.

That was the troll's racial talent, "Blood Rage War Rune," which could greatly increase defense for a short period of time. The longsword struck the war rune, and the flames and dark red light collided, exploding into a ring of orange-red shockwaves.

The floor beneath Omolik's feet cracked, and its arms went numb from the shock, but it somehow managed to withstand it.

"Hahaha! That's it?" Omorik's fear was suppressed by adrenaline. He grinned, revealing fangs, and a glint of madness flashed in his single eye. "Even the Primordial Dragon God is nothing more than—"

He hadn't finished speaking.

The flames on the sword went out, replaced by deep blue frost, and icy mist drifted around the blade.

Weapon Enchantment (Ice).

The second sword strike landed in the same spot.

The battle runes on Omorik's arm shattered, and dark red light scattered like broken glass. His skin was torn open by the alternating high and low temperatures, leaving a deep wound that exposed bone.

It let out a scream and rolled off the Iron Throne, knocking over two weapon racks and scattering trophies like ping-pong balls all over the ground.

"My hand! My hand!"

"Wait! Wait! I surrender! I surrender everything! I'll give you back everything in the warehouse!"

Arthas looked down at the troll overseer lying on the ground, his mind filled with images of the bloodstained weapons on the walls and the figures huddled in the darkness of the private dungeon. These images reminded him that the trembling troll before him was not worthy of any pity.

Flames and frost ignited simultaneously on the longsword, the left half crimson and the right half icy blue, the two opposing magical forces clashing on the spine of the sword.

Omorik's single eye widened, and his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but Arthas did not give him the chance.

The sword light slashed down diagonally, flames and frost intertwined to form a cross-shaped arc, shattering the troll's massive body along with the iron throne behind it, which was made of weapon racks.

Black powder filled the air.

Arthas sheathed his sword and bent down to pick up a dark gold key from the ashes.

On the basement level, all the iron bars of the cells had automatically popped open. Marcus Greyhoof stood at the end of the corridor, the whip mark on his shoulder already scabbed over. He saw Arthas come down the stairs, a fleeting look of relief flashing in his dark brown eyes.

"You killed Omorik."

"Yes." Arthas tossed the keys to Marcus. "Let's go, Garrod is waiting for you."