"You bastard! Stop! Make it stop!"
The Lady of Pleasure let out a series of melodic, warbling wails. Had Constantine not been standing right there, watching the battle unfold, he likely would have let his mind wander to some very different places.
Her voice was captivating—even her screams of agony possessed a certain allure.
But punctuating those cries was a rhythmic, bone-shaking thud, like a pile driver slamming into the earth. It was the sound of Hailab's fists.
The Barbarian's iron grip did not loosen, and his strikes did not falter. No matter how beautiful a demon might be, she was nothing more than a grotesque mess under the relentless pummelling of a Barbarian's fists.
However, the fury that Hailab usually kept tightly locked within his muscles began to seep out, manifesting as a faint glow on the surface of his skin. This was a dangerous sign. It meant that the Conqueror's innate talent was being eroded; his very rage was being forcibly stripped from his life force.
The Lady of Pleasure, a creature who preyed on emotion and desire, was using her own unique methods to weaken the Conqueror before her—even if the price she paid was heavy. Having lost both her hands, she was struggling, forced to use her own body as her only remaining weapon.
"Conqueror, have mercy! I can't take anymore! Stop!"
Her voice, like a tragic aria, rippled outward across the battlefield. Both demons and warriors alike began to feel the pull of her influence. Yet Hailab remained deaf to it all, his iron fists continuing their steady, devastating work.
"I have to say, that demon's voice is exquisite. Better than any of the street-walkers I used to know," Constantine remarked, his hands never ceasing their work as he harvested demonic flesh and blood. These were prime materials for spellcasting, and opportunities to scavenge such rarities were few and far between.
"Will you just shut up? Do you even remember how you 'helped' me back then? I never asked you to blow my cash! Every cent of my money is hard-earned, you know!"
Spider-Man shot a web at Constantine's face, successfully muzzling the chatterbox. Constantine lowered his head, hiding the glint flickering in his eyes. A minor "accident" wouldn't make him abandon his internal schemes.
The Worthy? In Constantine's eyes, those guys were a perfect shortcut to power—provided they could overcome Cul, the God of Fear. And, of course, the shadow lurking behind Cul's name: Diablo.
"Kalgax, you all need to pick up the pace."
Bul-Kathos frowned slightly as he looked at Kalgax and his group, who had just rushed to the scene. Baal had only just departed; they were a step too late. When a Barbarian puts their heart into a plan, a disruption usually means things are about to spiral out of control. After all, few among them were known for their patience.
"Tch. Madawc, you idiot."
Kalgax glanced at Madawc, who stood to the side, his expression grim. In the eyes of these Ancestors, the Three Ancients—the Gatekeepers of the Holy Mountain—were not supposed to suffer such damage. They represented the link to the First Ancestor. Seeing Madawc in such a weakened state irritated Kalgax.
The role of Gatekeeper carried deep significance, and Kalgax was displeased that Madawc had allowed his personal emotions to compromise his duty. However, he didn't resort to insults. The Gatekeepers were the Protectors of the Path, the guardians of the Barbarian heritage.
Now that all heritage rested upon Bul-Kathos, Kalgax suppressed his frustration. As long as Bul-Kathos stood tall, the essence of their people remained secure.
"Faster! Move! We're running out of time!"
Olongus shouted from the center of the group, his eyes drifting toward Tyrael, who now bore a human face. Olongus looked eager—almost restless. He seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of taking a swing at Tyrael just for the hell of it.
Korlic was also eyeing the Archangel of Justice's head, seemingly searching for the perfect angle to end the Archangel's problems with a single hammer blow. Their blatant animosity made Tyrael visibly tense.
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