"Bul-Kathos, I expected you to handle the problem before you with... a bit more brutality."
Johanna spoke in a low voice, her tone laced with a lingering tension. Facing Baal directly was never a pleasant experience, especially now that he had consumed Mephisto.
The pure, unadulterated Baal hadn't integrated Mephisto's Aspect of Hatred; instead, he had channeled that stolen essence to fortify his own power of Destruction. In terms of raw strength, Baal had once again ascended to become the most formidable of the Great Evils.
To Baal, a temporary retreat was of little consequence—especially since he had already obtained exactly what he wanted. Pure power and pure destruction; they were a match made in the abyss.
Johanna couldn't help but feel a flicker of unease. Baal's power was almost a direct counter to her own. Against the sheer force of "Destruction," even the most stalwart tenacity and impenetrable defense felt brittle.
"And then what?" Bul-Kathos replied without turning around. "To be locked away in the Burning Hells for an eternity? Waiting for those bored fools to watch from the sidelines while Diablo grows into an even greater nightmare within the shadows?"
Bul-Kathos's attitude toward Baal was cold at best. If given the chance, he would gladly tear the demon into ragged scraps. But the timing was wrong. Baal still had a role to play.
Of the Three Prime Evils, only two remained. Combined with Belial, who was currently off somewhere whispering his delusions, the Lords of Hell seemed to have no cards left to play—save for that singular, searing "Burning Fang."
"Bul-Kathos, I am merely curious," the Ancient One interjected, her gaze soft and contemplative as she watched him. She could sense the weight of a soul that had achieved true independence, and it puzzled her why a man who seemed so "free" chose a life of such constant burden. "Why do you insist on handling every matter personally?"
"On the Holy Mountain of Harrogath, who else is there to handle the things I cannot?" Bul-Kathos's voice carried a hint of weary boredom. "Rorschach? Thor? Their minds are not yet tempered; their power is insufficient. They might stand before Baal without flinching, but they lack the clarity to think calmly in his presence."
The Barbarians needed more strength, but strength required the one thing he couldn't conjure out of thin air: time. Growth was never a feat accomplished overnight.
There was still an hour left before the festivities began. Bul-Kathos was currently conferring with Vorusk regarding the specifics of the upcoming "Rift."
This was no ordinary trial that could be bypassed with brute force. The Rift had to accommodate the spirits of ancestors filled with a rage that had no outlet; thus, balancing the intensity was paramount.
"So, you brought this 'trouble' to us?" Vorusk grumbled, holding a small black sphere with clear irritation.
The sphere wasn't some strange artifact—it was the very essence of Mephisto, the Lord of Hatred. Within it resided a sliver of Baal's consciousness and power, intended to manifest the projections of Baal and Mephisto as they were during that ancient, fateful battle.
The ancestors were dead; their power was naturally a shadow of what it had been in life. Consequently, the Baal and Mephisto within the Rift couldn't be made too powerful. If the challenge was impossible, the entire "wager" would be a failure.
"I will not be participating in the battle personally," Bul-Kathos said, his expression solemn as he looked at Vorusk. "According to the original history, I should still be in Sescheron, hunting down those rats who excel at hiding."
He couldn't interfere. If Bul-Kathos drew his blade within that Rift, the wager would lose all semblance of fairness. This bet between him and Tyrael was for the sake of the Barbarians who had fallen in that war. As for the new recruits? They were, at best, a secondary consideration. In a meat-grinder where even the Three Ancients could fall, the only thing a recruit could do was pray a catapult stone didn't find their head.
"A wager? You think you've earned the right to be a chess player now?" Vorusk didn't look up, his attention fixed on the sphere of Hatred. He looked like Deckard Cain hunched over a desk of ancient manuscripts. "Bul-Kathos, don't disappoint me."
"Vorusk, this is our best opportunity," Bul-Kathos said firmly.
The outcome of the wager itself was becoming secondary. Tyrael's "Aspect" was within reach—even if the Archangel's methods were... eccentric.
"Is it? The 'best' opportunity?" Vorusk finally looked up, his eyes searching. "If you had demanded the Authority of Justice then and there, Tyrael likely would have handed it over."
Tyrael owed the Barbarians a debt that could never be repaid. More than that, he had long been prepared to relinquish his mantle. Now that Bul-Kathos had redeemed the soul of Izual, Tyrael had no more lingering burdens.
"He wouldn't have," Bul-Kathos countered softly, rubbing his wrist. "At least, he wouldn't have handed it all over immediately."
A faint sense of unease flickered through him, like the cold itch of a conspiracy unfolding. But Bul-Kathos brushed it aside. Conspiracy? The Nephalem were raised on plots and schemes, whether simple or complex. By the time he faced Diablo again, he was confident he could crush any "plan" the demon had devised. Diablo was no longer the Tathamet-incarnate Great Evil he once was.
"The Barbarians don't despise Justice," Vorusk said, tossing the sphere back to Bul-Kathos. "We simply despise Tyrael when he stops acting like a human."
The Barbarians pursued Hope, Courage, and the preservation of Justice—but they did not worship Auriel, Imperius, or Tyrael.
"I don't particularly like the man either," Raekor added from the side, her voice cold. Her familiarity lay with Itherael, the Aspect of Fate—and even that was a relationship born of necessity rather than choice. Even in death, the followers of Fate found Itherael trying to pluck the threads of destiny from their souls.
"Bul-Kathos," Vorusk continued, "according to your plan, are we 'old fogies' who died before that battle only responsible for babysitting the greenhorns?"
A festival that excluded its participants wasn't much of a festival at all.
"No need for that. I'll make the demons... lively enough," Bul-Kathos replied, tapping the Black Soulstone embedded in his forehead. He didn't intend to limit the Rift to those who fell during the Defense of Harrogath. That would be too small-minded. However, certain individuals did need to be restricted.
"Then can I join in?" Vorusk's eyes widened with a predatory glint. "I'd like to give that Archangel a piece of my mind."
Placing Vorusk at his peak into an "evenly matched" battle would be a catastrophe. Especially since the Rift's enemies would be scaled down, while Vorusk would still wield his full might.
"You, me, and Raekor are out," Bul-Kathos said. "And Johanna won't be stepping in either."
As he toyed with the sphere, Bul-Kathos suddenly paused. A small, shimmering, dreamlike fragment of essence flickered before his eyes.
"It seems Baal gave me more than just Hatred. He threw in a little 'gift'?" Bul-Kathos held up the ethereal shard, a novel idea forming in his mind. "This is a fragment of the laws governing the Dream Dimension. What do you say... should we try something big?"
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