"If that is what you want, then watch over her life yourself!" Orak said calmly.
He had never intended to save Jessica during the battle. He was the War God, the most demanding entity a warrior could face. Save a weak tribesman? Of course—that was a Chieftain's duty. But save an unproven warrior? Never.
The War God showed no mercy in war. His compassion was reserved for those unable to fight. An inadequate warrior would be culled by nature, and Orak would not intervene.
"We both know what this battle means to Bul-Kathos! I will not abandon my duty to do the job that should be yours," Cassius growled, tugging at his braided beard. He knew he hadn't changed Orak's mind.
"Then shut up! You have no right to question my decree!"
Orak's body began to char under the intensity of his own rage. This was the fury of a man who had already accepted his end. What was the purpose of battle? To Orak, it was to bring death—whether it was his opponent's or his own.
He was the coldest ancestor on the mountain. The most demanding. The most fanatical.
Meticulously gentle to his kin, but ice-cold to the warriors who faced death. This was the true face of the War God Orak: the legendary founder of the Great Bear, a man whose heart was filled with terror, yet who used that terror as fuel to keep killing.
"But I can change your actions. I can change this outcome!" Cassius gripped his beard, his gaze resolute.
"A Barbarian never forces his will on another!"
"Then I will simply change the result you've chosen!"
Cassius stood his ground. In his empty hand, a hammer materialized—a weapon he had cherished in his youth. The Molten Flange. He knew his fists were no match for the Blade of the War God. Even if his Ignore Pain ability could sustain his existence, his flesh was no substitute for a legendary artifact.
"You would fight me before the march? What do you think battle is, you fool?!"
The heat radiating from Orak was scorching the very air.
"You know the pride of Cassius! Your anger doesn't affect me in the slightest!" Cassius tilted his head back to look at Orak, who stood over seven and a half feet tall—a mountain of unyielding muscle.
"Then, warrior... have you prepared yourself for death?" Orak's voice was a low, guttural growl. The sound of burning fat hissed from his skin.
"I've already died once," Cassius laughed boisterously, gripping his hammer. "But even if you ask me a thousand times, I'll tell you the same thing: the one who walks away will be me!"
To find life in death? Cassius never thought that way. Even when he drew his final breath, he believed he was the one who had survived. Because he had been unable to feel pain, he had died of massive internal trauma without realizing it; the moment he appeared as a spirit on the Holy Mountain, he genuinely believed he was still alive.
Two legends from different eras, two leaders of the same clan separated by centuries, now stood at an impasse over the soul of their people.
"You're just going to watch them fight?"
Johanna stood beside Bul-Kathos, following his gaze toward the confrontation between Cassius and Orak.
"Do you expect me to use my power to subvert the will of two legends?" Bul-Kathos asked. His voice wasn't cold, but it lacked any warmth. He had no intention of interfering in a clash of ideologies.
Whose idea was noble? Whose perception was correct?
In this world, the soul was the ultimate authority. If a legendary figure could be easily swayed, they wouldn't be a legend.
"If I told you that everything you believed in was a lie—that your faith was wrong—would you abandon your creed just because I said so, Johanna?" Bul-Kathos turned to her.
Johanna chuckled, a bright, clear sound. "Maybe not? But what if I said I would?"
"You are still young, Johanna," Bul-Kathos said, a hint of disappointment in his voice. "You, who came here following the trail of Tyrael's fall because of a vague prophecy... you are far too young."
He had hoped that after witnessing Malthael's near-extinction of humanity, Johanna would have matured. But a woman not yet thirty was only marginally more experienced than the twenty-year-old Li-Ming. Without the tempering of centuries, these youths were often laughably naive.
"So you'll only have these conversations with Kharazim? Bul-Kathos, you're as cold as the rock I'm sitting on!" Johanna snapped. After everything she had survived, she felt she deserved more respect.
"How old do you think Nazeebo is?" Bul-Kathos asked, wiping blood from his face—a remnant of his duel with Raekor. He uncapped a bottle of strong spirits and poured it down his throat. It didn't go to waste; the liquid entered his stomach and promptly began leaking out of the ragged wound in his abdomen, mingled with fresh blood.
Johanna frowned. "A hundred? Two hundred?"
Nazeebo was always so detached, so somber. He carried the weight of the grave.
"Twenty-eight," Bul-Kathos said.
Nazeebo was only twenty-eight. He wandered through spirit realms that made the jungles of his birth look like a playground. His knowledge was gifted to him by the fusion of countless souls. He had been exiled by his own people to die in isolation because they thought he mocked the spirits—but only Nazeebo truly understood them. Among the Witch Doctors of the Unformed Land, only Nazeebo was strong enough to make a Great Evils take notice.
"Maturity has nothing to do with age, Johanna." Bul-Kathos stuck a finger through his own skin to pinch the wound in his stomach shut, finally stopping the leak of wine.
"I'm not mature? Because I don't look at the world with cold indifference?"
"When have I ever just watched things happen?" Bul-Kathos's eyes widened. His half-healed wounds tore open again. "I simply refuse to pretend I can change another person's soul! You should use your own eyes to see, Johanna, instead of asking me for my perspective!"
He turned his attention back to Cassius and Orak. In war, there is usually only one kind of winner: the one who lives. But in a fight between kin, the winner is the one who gains the right to decide the other's fate.
"Fine, Bul-Kathos. That's a question without an answer. But tell me this: what are you all actually planning?" Johanna asked, her tone turning somber.
On the slopes, Kanai's vanguard was ready. They knew where Baal and Mephisto were. They intended to end the threat of the Prime Evils once and for all. The vanguard would carve a path through the sea of demons so the main force could reach the brothers unscathed.
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