"Get moving. You don't have time to dither here. If this drags on any longer, I'll have to step in myself," Bul-Kathos said. He released Leah and gently pushed her forward, as if introducing his daughter to the Ancestors.
He expected them to approve. No one in Harrogath could hate Leah; she deserved their praise and their recognition.
"Barnal, move your lazy ass and get me Baal's location!" Kalgax barked, his face returning to a stoic calm. He didn't have the luxury of dwelling on Bul-Kathos's family dynamics or his lingering annoyance with Madawc.
Barnal muttered something unintelligible under his breath as he crouched down, sniffing the ground intently. Outside of combat, Barnal was a multi-purpose tool: a bloodhound, a pack mule, or even a punching bag. His "easy-going" nature brought much amusement to the group—especially when he finally snapped.
"That way," Barnal pointed.
In an instant, the entire team surged forward in formation. Barnal continued to mumble to himself, something that sounded suspiciously like, "Fine, I'll carry the team again..." He knew the stakes; he wouldn't throw a tantrum when things were this critical. What happened afterward, however, was anyone's guess.
Bul-Kathos looked at Leah and reached into his satchel, though he pulled nothing out.
"Leah, do you prefer crossbows or hand-axes?" he asked, his gaze softening with fatherly affection. Even though the Ancestors hadn't given him the reaction he wanted, he wasn't angry. He was more concerned that Leah might feel neglected.
In his eyes, victory wasn't something to be fought for; it was something that would eventually fall into his lap. He didn't believe in raising a "daughter" with the same harshness as an heir. Leah was a scholar at heart; combat was merely a choice she made when she had no other options.
"I think... as long as I'm by your side, I'll never have a day where I truly need a weapon, Bul-Kathos. My... Father."
Leah's face flushed slightly as she whispered the word "Father." Having emerged from the emotional roller coaster of the day, she finally looked like a normal young woman. She was perceptive enough to notice the Ancestors' slight reservations about her, but she kept that knowledge to herself. Living for others could be painful, but as long as that love was returned, it wasn't unbearable.
"We'll leave it at that for now. Wait until I finish this battle."
Bul-Kathos nodded, casually drawing the Hammer of Judgment. He looked down at Tyrael, avoiding direct eye contact. In the wild, a direct stare was often a declaration of war.
"Are you ready?"
"The end of this battle depends entirely on you," Tyrael replied slowly. He believed Bul-Kathos wouldn't violate Barbarian honor by ending the fight prematurely. To most Barbarians, "Honor"—as ethereal as it was—governed their lives. Tyrael banked on the fact that Bul-Kathos wouldn't interfere.
His plan to stall for time had, in a way, succeeded.
"Auriel, do you need me to send you back?" Bul-Kathos asked nonchalantly.
His heavy hammer began to pulse with an intense light. The power of the Archangel of Hope had merged with the essence of Anguish, and the sheer strength of it made Bul-Kathos's palms itch for a real fight. An equal opponent? Those were becoming increasingly hard to find.
As for Diablo... Bul-Kathos didn't want to get his hopes up. If Diablo ever gained enough power to stand as his equal, it would mean the world was already in ruins. It was a contradiction: satisfy his thirst for battle, or protect all that was good? For a Barbarian, the answer was simple.
Combat was always the final means of resistance.
"I want to see the final act," Auriel said, her eyes fixed on Tyrael. She needed to understand what was truly going on in his head.
"It won't be long. Baal isn't the type to let things drag on," Bul-Kathos said airily. Then, he tossed Madawc's soul out of the rift.
"I am angry, Bul-Kathos!"
Baal tried to grit his teeth as he spoke, but his jaw was hanging loosely, shattered by the brutal expansion of Merciless. He was forced to speak in a low, raspy hiss. To say he felt nothing after being mauled by a Barbarian would be a lie. The Lord of Destruction had a notoriously foul temper. Usually, he could distinguish between "Destruction" as a concept and "Baal" as an entity, but right now, the lines were blurring.
"I've suddenly decided I want to win this wager. And the perfect help has just arrived!"
Baal's voice didn't travel far, but it was enough to strike terror into those before him. A plane had recently landed nearby, carrying Hellboy, Nick Fury, and their team. Against Baal, they were utterly defenseless.
The "perfect help" Baal referred to was the latent Hellish essence of this world. That power was concentrated within Hellboy, and Baal realized he could use it to leave a lasting impression on the "disrespectful" Barbarians. Even if he sensed Diablo's hand in this—even if his actions played right into Diablo's desired outcome—he didn't care.
The Prime Evils were not to be trifled with.
-------------------------------
I've already uploaded 40 chapters of this story on Patreon!
If you enjoy it, come check out the latest chapters in advance.
Here's the link:
[email protected]/DaoistRoeoNQ
Thank you so much for your support!!!
"And If you're enjoying it, drop a Power Stone for me!"