In the stillness of the night, Arthas found himself enveloped in a vivid dream, a journey into the memories of his past life. The details were etched into his mind with striking clarity. In that life, he was a young man of Somali descent, blessed with a handsomeness that set him apart in his world. Yet, despite his striking appearance, he grappled with a deep-seated issue of self-consciousness. He perceived himself as unattractive, a sentiment fueled by his environment and internal struggles.

This young man preferred the solitude of his home, immersing himself in virtual worlds, delving into novels, and even crafting his own stories. His world was one of imagination and introspection, a sanctuary from the outside world.

Although he had fond memories of playing "World of Warcraft," he considered himself an average player, clocking in only 200 hours of gameplay. What he lacked in gaming prowess and lore of world of warcraft, he made up for with his intellect. His intelligence was his greatest asset, enabling him to thrive even in his reclusive lifestyle.

Despite rarely stepping out, he had a knack for business. He established a website, a digital marketplace that bridged sellers with buyers. His platform offered a variety of goods, from third-party products to unique finds. For every sale made on his site, he earned a substantial 30% commission. This venture catapulted him into financial success, placing him among the top 1% of earners. His wealth was a testament to his entrepreneurial acumen, a stark contrast to his humble, introverted nature.

As the dream faded and morning light crept in, Arthas awoke with these vivid recollections. They were more than just memories; they were insights into a life once lived, a life that shaped the person he had become in this new world.

In the soft light of dawn, my mother entered my room, her presence as comforting as the morning sun. "Wake up, son, it's time to rise. I need to get you cleaned and dressed," she said with a gentle smile.

Despite the presence of maids in our castle, my mother cherished the role of personally caring for me and my sister. She believed in the importance of a mother's touch, preferring to tend to her children herself rather than delegate these duties to the servants. Her devotion was a testament to her love and commitment to motherhood.

Gently lifting me, she carried me to the bathroom, her steps light and graceful. The bathroom, adorned with fine marble and ornate fixtures, reflected the elegance of our castle. As she filled the basin with warm water, I noticed the care with which she handled everything, ensuring my comfort.

My mother began to clean me with a soft, tender touch. She worked methodically, her movements both efficient and nurturing. There was a rhythm to her routine, a dance of care and attention that she had perfected over the years. After bathing, she dried me with a plush towel, its fabric soft against my skin.

Next, she helped me brush my teeth, guiding my small hands to ensure every tooth was cleaned. Her patience was endless, her instructions laced with kindness and encouragement.

Dressing me was another part of the routine she relished. She chose my clothes with careful consideration, ensuring I was both comfortable and presentable. Each garment was meticulously selected, from the soft shirt to the well-fitted trousers, all suited for a young prince.

Once I was dressed, we proceeded to the kitchen, where my mother began to prepare our morning meal. The kitchen was a warm and inviting space, filled with the aromas of cooking and the clatter of pots and pans. Despite the availability of magic, my mother preferred the traditional methods of cooking. She moved around the kitchen with ease, gathering ingredients and utensils.

She cooked a simple yet nutritious breakfast, the kind that only a mother's hands could perfect. There was a hearty porridge, simmered to just the right consistency, accompanied by fresh bread and a selection of fruits. As she cooked, she hummed a soft melody, a tune that I had grown to associate with the comfort and warmth of home.

Sitting down to eat, I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. My mother's dedication to these everyday tasks was her way of expressing love, a love that was as nourishing as the meal she had prepared.

As we ate, I shared my thoughts and plans for the day. My mother listened attentively, her eyes reflecting pride and affection. In these quiet moments, I wondered whether I should tell my mother about the dreams I've been having, but first, I decided to ask if she could teach me alchemy.

"Mother, can you teach me alchemy?" I asked.

My mother hummed and then inquired, "How did you know I can do alchemy?"

"I asked Father if I could learn alchemy yesterday, and he said you're one of the best in the kingdom," I replied.

"And pray tell, why do you want to learn?" my mother asked.

I hesitated, pondering whether to tell her the truth. Lying was against my nature, and I had grown to love my mother deeply. "Mother, I've been having dreams for quite some time now," I began.

"What sort of dreams, my son?" she asked as we sat eating. I looked down at my porridge, gathering my thoughts. "I had a dream where I was another man in another world, but that's not all. I dreamt of playing a game called World of Warcraft on a screen. At first, I didn't understand it, but as the dream kept recurring, I started to understand. I saw what will happen to our kingdom, Mother, and I'm scared, so very scared," I confessed, tears welling up in my eyes.

My mother immediately got up from her chair and came to me, wrapping me in a comforting hug.

I composed myself and continued with my story. "It all started with a plague of the undead. As I fought, we met the necromancer Kel'Thuzad and discovered his plans to infect outlying villages under the orders of the dreadlord Mal'Ganis. We set out to stop the demon before he could reach his next target, the city of Stratholme."

Upon reaching Stratholme, I faced a harrowing decision. The citizens had consumed the tainted grain and were doomed to turn into the undead. Foreseeing the inevitable horror, I made a choice that would haunt me forever. I decided to purge the city - to kill every man, woman, and child before they could turn into the undead.'

'This decision was met with disbelief and horror, especially from my mentor and friend, Uther the Lightbringer, and my beloved Jaina Proudmoore. They pleaded with me to seek another way, to spare the innocent. But consumed by a desperate sense of duty, I saw no other option. In my mind, this drastic action was a painful but necessary sacrifice to save the kingdom.' 

The Purge of Stratholme became a massacre. Leading my troops, I carried out the grim task with a heavy heart. The city was left in flames, its streets filled with the echoes of the fallen, a testament to a prince's drastic choice in the face of an unspeakable evil.'

'The aftermath of Stratholme changed me. The once noble prince, hailed for his bravery and righteousness, stepped onto a darker path, one that would lead me to the frozen wastes of Northrend and to a destiny that would reshape the world.'

'The tale of the Purge of Stratholme is not just a story of a prince and a city; it's a haunting reminder of the thin line between heroism and damnation, and the heavy burden of leadership in times of crisis

"After the Purge of Stratholme, a heavy burden settled upon my soul. The path ahead was clouded with darkness and uncertainty. Consumed by a singular obsession to protect my kingdom at any cost, I ventured to the icy lands of Northrend. It was there that my fate took a fateful turn.

In the frozen wilderness, I was confronted by a malevolent force, the dreadlord Mal'Ganis, who taunted me, leading me further into the icy depths. Driven by vengeance and a desperate need to save my people, I pursued him relentlessly. But Northrend was a land of ancient, unfathomable powers, and it was here that I encountered the cursed runeblade, Frostmourne.

Frostmourne... the very name echoed with dark promises and forbidden power. In a moment of dire need, facing overwhelming odds, I made a choice that would forever alter my destiny. I took up Frostmourne, the blade promising me the strength to vanquish my enemies. But the sword was a curse, not a blessing. Its chilling embrace ensnared my soul, severing me from the Light I once held dear.

With Frostmourne in hand, I achieved a hollow victory. Mal'Ganis fell, but at a terrible cost. The blade consumed my humanity, leaving in its wake a heart encased in ice. My noble intentions were twisted into a dark, insidious will. I became an agent of the Lich King, the very embodiment of the Scourge I had sought to destroy.

Returning to Lordaeron as a changed man, a prince in name but a harbinger of death in truth, I committed the most heinous act. With Frostmourne's unholy power, I slew my own father, King Terenas, and sealed my fate as a betrayer of everything I once held dear.

The journey that began with a righteous quest to save my people culminated in my ascension to the Frozen Throne. There, amidst the icy spires of Icecrown Citadel, I merged with the Lich King, becoming a ruler of a kingdom of the damned, a monarch of a frozen wasteland.

This transformation was not just a loss of my former self; it was the birth of a new being, a lord of death, whose every step brought despair. The once-honored Prince Arthas was no more, replaced by a being whose heart knew only the cold embrace of the grave."

I started crying in my mother's arms.

Hearing that her son was having such prophetic dreams, my mother grew worried. These dreams detailed people and places he had never seen or visited before. The vividness and detail in my descriptions only deepened her concern.