"Hmph, those guys still haven't given up?"
Bulkathos perked up, shouting excitedly.
The Ancient One watched his enthusiasm, thoughtful.
She wasn't unfamiliar with that agent team.
In the timelines she'd observed, they were no minor players.
"Uncle, how long will they argue?"
Jill struggled up from the snow, tugging Bulkathos's hem.
His small hand pointed at the bickering Anvil and Madoc.
"Probably until you start your trial."
Bulkathos ruffled Jill's head, grinning broadly.
Today's events were new to him. Back then, he was the least remarkable barbarian, neither genius nor decisive.
No ancestors fought over him.
Only Sonya, the undeniable genius, sparked such contests. She mastered all skills swiftly.
Bold and fierce, she was the brightest barbarian, flawless save for some arrogance.
But arrogance? Against demons, any attitude was justified—they deserved no respect.
Jill eyed the spectating ancestors, curious.
These ethereal souls were novel to him.
"That's years away. I just want your barbarian barbecue soon."
Jill straightened, mimicking the bare-chested ancestors, shouting loudly.
"Good lad, you've got barbarian spirit!"
An ancestor's voice rang out, followed by warm laughter.
Having seen Bulkathos's battle with Malthael, the ancestors understood their new reality.
No longer focused on defeating demons or the terrifying Death Angel, they pondered the barbarian tribe's continuation.
The mountain's snow held the ashes of the last followers of the Immortal King. Survivors abroad might carry their legend.
"Let's prepare the feast."
Bulkathos shed his shirt, revealing a scarred, robust frame.
He donned armor—his trusted companion through countless years.
The menacing armor glowed dark red in its crevices.
Demon blood had seeped into the metal, leaving marks.
Jill gazed at the armor, eyes full of longing.
Barbarians loved armor but rarely forged it.
Only inherited, glorious armor felt right—otherwise, it was like being canned.
Per Madoc, inglorious armor dulled the thrill of demon blood splattering on skin.
Even as the strongest barbarian, Bulkathos disliked full armor, no longer needing ancestral gifts. His mastered skills left armor as mere defense.
Yet he solemnly donned it.
They were about to hold a traditional barbarian festival, and this inherited armor was a symbol of glory.
The armor, "Ninety Barbarians," named for the mightiest barbarian troop, made demons flee and Hell's lords tremble.
Though lost to history, this original set remained.
Wearing it signified the inheritance of barbarian glory.
When Bulkathos became the third Immortal King, his favored armor would also become a symbol.
Though he often fought bare-chested with twin blades in Hell's battlefields, he wore a kilt and boots.
Future barbarians wouldn't need to start festivals shirtless.
"Bulkathos!"
As he donned the armor, the ancestors ceased arguing, gazing at the imposing Barbarian King, shouting his name!
The festival began!
"I, Madoc!"
Madoc's form appeared before Bulkathos, gripping his elongated axe, Madoc's Sorrow.
"For barbarian glory, I offer the grandest opening!"
Madoc's voice drowned the ancestors' cheers, echoing across Harrogath.
His form solidified, swinging the massive weapon at Bulkathos's waist!
Bulkathos, wielding Oathkeeper and Azurewrath, crossed them like scissors to block the axe's path.
A resounding metal clash opened the festival!
…
"Boss, hear that shout?"
An agent shrank, calling to Rumlow.
The barbarians' cries had reached them.
"I'm not deaf!"
Rumlow stared at the peak, eyes deep.
The barbarians' fervent shouts made their bodies tremble involuntarily.
"Should we contact HQ?"
Rumlow ignored the question, his grim eyes fixed on the peak, lost in thought.
"Up the mountain! Toward the sound!"
Rumlow barked, moving first.
Hearing the barbarians, he thought he'd found a path. He needed to know why this mountain appeared.
Not for S.H.I.E.L.D., but for the unforgettable Hydra!
A mysterious, otherworldly peak was irresistible to Hydra—they craved the truth!
Perhaps by fate, as Rumlow resolved to advance toward the barbarian roars, his courage earned Harrogath's acknowledgment.
To barbarians, facing them was the greatest bravery.
Even Hell's lords flinched before their wrath—who dared confront it?
(End of Chapter)