"Raekor, do you really think we can win against these things?"
Luke roared, his voice straining over the din of battle. He swung his weapon with bone-shattering force, cleaving a demon to the ground before bringing his heavy iron boot down to crush its skull into the stone.
"You are welcome to give up," Raekor replied, her arms crossed over her chest. Her expression was impassive, almost bored.
She didn't lift a finger to join the fray, and the demons, in turn, gave her a wide berth. Even if the mindless dregs of the Burning Hell didn't recognize the name of the legendary Barbarian, they could sense the suffocating pressure of a power they could never hope to overcome. As long as Raekor showed no intent to interfere, the demons were more than happy to simply swarm around her.
THOOM!
Across the battlements, Rumlow was sent skidding from one end of the wall to the other. A massive, bloated Grotesque had delivered a kick that sent his sturdy frame slamming into the masonry with a sickening thud.
"Cough! ...Ptui!"
Rumlow spat out a mouthful of blood and grit, wiping his chin as he scrambled back to his feet. His eyes locked onto his tormentor: a specialized Elite demon.
Wretched the Accursed.
Though it belonged to the Grotesque family, this creature had earned a name for itself—a mark of distinction among the countless, faceless horrors of the abyss. It was the pinnacle of its kind, bolstered by the unnatural properties of an Elite.
Shielding. Thorns. Molten. Arcane Enchanted.
The flickering golden barrier of its shield made it impossible for Rumlow to find a consistent opening. Worse still was the Thorns attribute; every time he managed to land a blow, a jarring, phantom feedback rippled through his own body, as if the air itself were striking back.
Between the exploding pools of lava and the rotating beams of lethal purple energy—the Arcane Sentries—the battlefield was a chaotic deathtrap.
"How the hell do you kill this thing?" Rumlow cursed, his brow furrowed. "I feel like I'm trying to punch Rorschach."
The Elite Grotesque was currently beyond his paygrade.
"I am no easier an opponent, Rumlow."
A shadow fell from the sky as Rorschach plummeted into the fray! Having regained his life and steeled his resolve, the vigilante had returned to the battlefield. He clutched his journal in one hand, his entire being radiating a strange, luminous clarity—as if he had finally shed the impurities of his past.
"Tch. Then you tell me—how do we fight this?" Rumlow grumbled, tightening his grip on his massive hammer. Facing an Elite demon was a novel, if terrifying, experience.
"How?" Rorschach strode forward with a grim smile. He shouldered his Nutcracker hammer and looked the Grotesque in the eye with a flicker of dark curiosity. "Do you have a name, monster?"
Rorschach spat into his palms and rubbed them together.
"Nephalem! You shall taste failure once more!" the Grotesque rumbled. Its voice was unexpectedly deep and resonant, possessing a magnetic quality that would have sounded more at home on a radio broadcast than coming from a pile of rotting meat.
Rumlow stared, agape. "This thing talks?"
"Ignorant, arrogant Nephalem... prepare to embrace death!"
Wretched the Accursed had no interest in further pleasantries. Its massive, flabby body lunged forward like a tidal wave of flesh. Rorschach braced his hammer against the creature's chest, but the sheer momentum forced his feet to skid backward across the stone.
"Demons possess intellect, you know. Stop treating them like wild animals," Matthew called out. He swung his hammer, pulping the head of a Fallen that had strayed too close.
Matthew was currently guarding Tony and Lazruk as they prepared a "special project." While he made quick work of the "weaker" demons, the sheer volume of the horde was beginning to wear him down. Not long ago, a Quill Rat had nearly dislocated his wrist with a well-aimed spine. On this battlefield, they were still the bottom of the food chain.
"Trash!"
Rorschach spat the word as his suppressed fury finally boiled over. The activation of his Nephalem talents transformed him into a young lion. He pulled back his hammer and delivered a thunderous kick to the Grotesque's bloated belly. The impact sent Rorschach reeling back, but it halted the beast's advance.
"Lazruk, stop spectating. These children can't handle that thing on their own," Raekor said, her voice laced with sharp dissatisfaction.
"Lord help me! I'm a blacksmith!" Lazruk squawked. He brought his forging hammer down on a portable anvil with a resounding CLANG.
"I don't recall a single Barbarian who couldn't fight. Now! Move!" Raekor glared at him, a flicker of Wrath dancing in her eyes. She could feel the lingering echo of Vorusk's disappearance; she was in no mood for games.
"I'll say it one more time: if the blacksmith is forced onto the front lines, don't you bastards come crying to me when your weapons are broken!"
Lazruk let out a mighty roar, swinging his forging hammer in a clumsy but terrifyingly powerful arc at the Elite Grotesque. Lazruk was young, and compared to the warriors of his generation, he was considered "frail." But "frail" for a Barbarian was still a force of nature.
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