As Baal bellowed, a tiny grain fell from Shadowfang. It was a fragment of the edge. Bul-Kathos had sacrificed Azurewrath, but he had finally dealt damage to the Prime Evil's weapon—even if it was only a chip the size of a grain of rice.
"Disgusting maggot! Next time we meet, I'll snap that fang of Tathamet myself!"
Bul-Kathos didn't look back. He tore open a portal and returned to Harrogath.
This chapter was closed. Next time, he would return with the power of Diablo and the mantle of an Archangel to face them again. On that day, Shadowfang would be obliterated.
In the Realm of the Dead, Death sat upon her lonely throne.
"My brother, I saw it. I saw Oblivion disregard your command and descend to the mortal realm. I saw the scent of death upon him... I wanted you to stop him."
She was calling out to Eternity. The shadow of death was beginning to wrap around Oblivion, signifying a dangerous path.
Eternity, however, had no time to answer. The Living Tribunal was harrassing him, move by move. If he wavered for even a second, a vast portion of the worlds within his body would be lost. To ensure the steady growth of the universe, Eternity had to focus entirely on the Tribunal's assault.
He knew what Oblivion was doing, but he was trapped. The Living Tribunal was a force that demanded his total attention.
Death received no reply. She couldn't reach Oblivion either. A crushing sense of loneliness invaded her heart. Fearing loss, she curled into a ball, leaning against the throne that still carried the lingering scent of Leoric.
Her grief turned into obsession. The two rings on her fingers began to multiply and divide, scattering into the world.
A magnificent funeral.
The holders of the Life and Death rings would feel their mutual enmity; they would slaughter one another across the world stage. Those who died would not come to the Realm of the Dead. Instead, they would turn into ash to serve as a sacrifice for the Skeleton King.
The passing of a king should be commemorated by the destruction of countless lives.
"Leoric... if this is truly a final farewell..." she whispered.
In her realm, the souls of the dead were fading away. If Leoric were merely killed, he would simply revive as the Skeleton King. But if his very existence was erased, he would be gone forever. These souls would return to the world as her tribute to him—a grand festival of life and death, an offering of brilliant, cruel, and foolish flames.
Eternity felt her actions, but he could not even spare the breath to speak a word of protest. The Living Tribunal, seeing this disruption to the world's balance, intensified the attack.
"May the holy light burn away your sins!"
Johanna shouted as she galloped across the hellish landscape. The power of the Crusader surged through the chains of her Steed Charge, pumping into Hela like water into a rubber ball.
Hela felt her body bloating. The stolen power within her was burning, causing unimaginable agony.
"Aaaagh! Stop!" she screamed. The feeling of being "overfilled" with holy conviction was eroding her sanity. She was dragged across the jagged ground, leaving a trail of blood, only for Johanna's light to instantly seal the wounds.
The demonic power within her evaporated like steam, bloating her skin and muscle. The pain only deepened her hatred. Having been imprisoned in Helheim by Odin for eons, Hela's heart existed only in the space between agony and spite.
Redemption? To her, this wasn't redemption; it was torture.
But this meant her "salvation" at Johanna's hands would be a long, drawn-out process. Those who dwell in hatred do not reflect, and those obsessed with proving themselves do not listen to advice. Even as Hela's skin became as translucent and swollen as a balloon, she felt no remorse.
Crusader power isn't subtle. It is a blunt instrument of faith.
"May you one day feel the pain you inflict on me!" Hela hissed, her voice trembling with a cold, physical malice that fought against Johanna's light.
Johanna didn't respond. She was a Crusader, not a priest. To her, "redemption" was merely a test to see if a soul had a chance. The irredeemable would simply turn to ash during the ride; only those left standing were worth the effort.
Johanna's mind was already on Bul-Kathos. She felt the tremors of the Hells and the heat of his anger in the air. She wasn't foolish enough to be easily distracted, but she knew the Demon Lords wouldn't show themselves while both she and Bul-Kathos were together.
She had to give them an opening. Hela was merely her excuse to step away for a moment.
"Johanna, teleport back!" Bul-Kathos's voice echoed in her ear.
The tremors stopped. Johanna swung her Pig Sticker—now just a hilt—and tore open a portal, dragging the bloated Hela through at full speed.
She didn't slow down. As she burst through the portal on Harrogath, she collided directly with the pickup truck Mokote was driving. The Crusader's warhorse didn't even flinch, but the truck—forged by Lazruk—shattered into a million pieces.
"Ha! Johanna!" Mokote shouted from mid-air, landing in a strange but agile pose in front of her. He looked thrilled; he didn't care about the truck at all. If Lazruk couldn't even put a Sacred Harness legendary property on a vehicle to make it indestructible, it wasn't worth driving anyway.
"Mokote? What is the meaning of this?"
Johanna's horse vanished, and Hela finally got a moment of rest. She rolled across the ground like a bloated ball before coming to a stop against a rock.
"And who is this?" Tony Stark asked, sitting by a campfire next to Rumlow. His eyes were full of curiosity. Johanna looked dusty and worn, but her radiant aura was impossible to ignore. Her heroic, valiant appearance immediately caught Tony's attention.
Beside him, Natasha Romanoff was silently comparing herself to Johanna. It was a habit of hers—whenever she saw a rare beauty, she couldn't help but take measure. No malice, just professional curiosity.
"Don't know. But she's clearly an old friend of the Ancestors," Rumlow muttered, rubbing his nose. He shivered instinctively. Even as a Barbarian, his past sins hadn't vanished. In the presence of a Crusader like Johanna, he felt a primal sense of danger.
"And the... ball behind her?"
As Tony spoke the word "ball," Hela's body began to deflate back to its original form. She was a striking woman, though her beauty was eerie and sharp. The demonic energy in her had been scorched away, though the hatred remained.
Thor stood up and walked over to Hela, offering his hand.
"Lady, I sense a familiar scent upon you," Thor said heartily. To an outsider, he looked like a guy trying to pick up a girl at a bar.
"I feel it too," Hela replied, fixing her hair and taking his hand to stand. The scent of Odin on Thor made her blood boil. She recognized him instantly. Even in prison, her "brothers" who served as jailers—like Balder—had mentioned him.
Thor, the God of Thunder. The next King of Asgard.
Balder was dead now, killed by Mephisto, but Hela felt a strange pang of nostalgia. He was the brother who had spent the most time with her. And, aside from Odin, the person she hated most.
"Johanna, it's been a long time. You look like you've seen better days," Veda said, stepping forward. Behind him, Bruce Banner and Betty Ross watched with wide eyes. General Ross had been dragged away again by Kan-Duai for more "correction."
"I heard one of your recruits can snap a piece of hardtack with his jaw without making a sound?" Johanna asked, waving the last of her black bread. She remembered Bul-Kathos's dry joke.
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