"I am the leader of the Great Bear! You are a relic of the past!"
Cassius bellowed, swinging Gavel of Judgment. The weapon felt like an extension of his own arm, a massive fist of iron slamming toward Aulic's face. A sphere of molten fire swirled around the hammer's head, the intense heat scorching Aulic's cheeks.
"The past represents tradition! The past represents glory!" Aulic spoke calmly, his body not shifting an inch. He brought the Blade of the Tribes down heavily upon Cassius's brow.
A spray of blood erupted. Cassius used his free hand to drive a punch into Aulic's elbow, deflecting the lethal edge. The blow failed to cause critical damage, but in a pure contest of strength, Cassius was no match for Aulic's sheer mass.
"But I hold the future in my hands!"
Cassius's waist coiled like a tensed spring. He leapt into the air, spinning with blurring speed. The Gavel of Judgment struck the Blade of the Tribes with a deafening clang of iron on iron. Cassius's style was a masterclass in technique; whether unarmed or armed, he pushed his body to its absolute limits, making every movement a calculated strike for dominance.
"Fighting with such reckless abandon will only bring you bitterness once more!"
Aulic delivered a heavy kick, sending Cassius skidding back. Aulic's style never relied on overextension. He fought with minimal movement and surgical precision. Even if he lost an arm or a leg, he would continue the assault with whatever remained intact. As long as life flickered, the God of War's attack would never cease. Pain was an afterthought. It was a feat no other ancestor on the mountain could replicate.
"Bul-Kathos... have you truly forgotten me?"
The voice continued to whisper in his ear. Even Andariel, trapped within the Black Soulstone, held her breath. Diablo. The Prime Evil who struck terror even into her heart. His claws had reached the Holy Mountain.
Andariel watched with twisted anticipation. Diablo wasn't like her or Duriel, who lashed out indiscriminately. Every move Diablo made was surgical, purposeful, and rarely flawed. She wanted to see how he would break this "fearless" Barbarian.
"The horns of war have sounded," Bul-Kathos said quietly.
He didn't scream, but his voice carried across the battlefield. Kanai's soul was churning, transforming. Before the process was complete, Bul-Kathos wanted to see this symbolic duel reach its end. When Kanai fully transitioned into the Cube's essence, the battle should conclude. That would be the perfect burial.
Kanai deserved honor. He would not be a nameless sacrifice; his name would be sung among the Barbarians forever. He had finally stepped out of that sunless place, ending the darkest chapter of his duty.
But there was another who sought the same end.
Vorusk stood before Kanai's empty grave, his head held high. The Immortal King bowed to no one. That was the last piece of advice Kanai had given him. Barbarians had no crowns, only glory. They had no royal decrees, yet who dared question them?
Vorusk hesitated, feeling a flicker of dread. Over the long eons, he had grown accustomed to solitude, for he had always known this moment would come. Dark, endless loneliness. The young Vorusk, who once feared the dark, was now destined to carry it all. Loneliness would be his only companion, his only sustenance. And beyond that... he would be forgotten. His presence would slowly fade from the memory of his people.
"Kanai... did Rathma truly not tamper with your remains?" Vorusk whispered, unable to bring himself to look at the grave. He was terrified that, at any moment, a skeletal hand would claw its way out, or that he would see Kanai's rot-covered bones standing before him.
But Kanai would not answer. His soul was already tumbling within the Cube that bore his name. Vorusk knew that feeling well. To remain a spirit and continue gaining strength through battle, Vorusk had once cast himself into the Cube with a heart full of terror. He had succeeded, but not without a price. His soul had been frayed and disordered in that churning golden void.
"Bul-Kathos protects me."
There was no emotion in Vorusk's voice. Though Barbarians said this prayer countless times in their lives, Vorusk's utterance was the most desolate of all. It wasn't a prayer; it was a statement of fact. The "Truth of the First Ancestor" had shielded his soul when the Cube sought to tear it apart.
"Rathma..." Vorusk muttered to the silence. The only person who could have listened was gone. Even with the physical remains nearby, the spirit was passing away. A single tear of exhaustion finally escaped Vorusk's eye. He planted his Shattered Mountain hammer atop the grave. It wasn't his original legendary weapon, but it carried the weight of his legacy.
Without Kanai, Vorusk could no longer show his strongest side. Without the ancestors, even in the form of the Wrath of the Berserker, he lacked that indomitable strength. There was only one name left that could stand beside him and carry his legacy.
Bul-Kathos.
But Vorusk wouldn't do it. He didn't want a day to come where he woke up and had to look at Bul-Kathos's spirit, telling him it was time to fight side-by-side once more.
"Infinite darkness... I thought about this. I spent so much time trying to prepare for it. But I'm still afraid," Vorusk confessed softly.
He was ready. Bul-Kathos wouldn't have to carry the mountain alone anymore. Li-Qiang's (Raekor's) revival was an accident, but a welcome one. She would be a better leader than Vorusk ever was—stronger, fiercer. But there would never be another Barbarian as arrogant or as unruly as Vorusk.
"Bul-Kathos, I won't say goodbye."
Vorusk spoke as if trying to bolster his own courage. He clenched his fists, a gesture more like a frightened child than a king. Here, before his elder—the man under whose knee he had grown, whose eyes had taught him to wield a blade—Vorusk could finally allow himself to be weak. Only before Kanai could he be an "immature" Immortal King.
"Oh, Barbarians! Oh, Ancestors!" Vorusk sighed deeply. "When will our people no longer need a 'perfect' Immortal King?"
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