"You might want to leave some targets for those recruits, or their existence won't fulfill its proper value."
Ancient One gestured toward Kingpin's direction. Though he wasn't visible in her dimensional space, Bulkathos caught her meaning.
It was just a plea to spare Kingpin, a villain, to give the recruits someone to fight.
"We don't lack battles. As for value? That's a meaningless notion."
Bulkathos soothed Assassin Monkey on his shoulder, addressing Ancient One.
He had no interest in debating rules. Crushing the evil before him was far more satisfying.
Value mattered in groups, but for barbarians, who you became was your choice.
As long as you upheld justice, no one cared what you did.
Whether you chased "value" or lived as a slacker, it didn't matter—don't trouble others, and you're fine.
Bulkathos wouldn't ignore sin.
"Rumlow and the others might not see it that way. You shouldn't decide for them."
Ancient One pulled half a bottle of liquor from her sleeve, offering it to Bulkathos.
"I'm just acting on my beliefs. That guy's better off dead."
Bulkathos crossed his arms, eyeing Ancient One, refusing the liquor.
Kingpin deserved death, but giving Ancient One a moment to argue wasn't a big deal.
Friends got a bit of leeway.
His golden hair fluttered, teetering on the edge of anger.
Assassin Monkey clung to his shoulder, warily watching Ancient One.
The monkey sensed a threat.
"You think I'll try to convince you? I won't. It's pointless."
Ancient One tucked the bottle back into her sleeve, speaking lightly.
Convincing Bulkathos?
Not easy. Kingpin had little worth sparing.
He'd deserve a swift death.
Ancient One just didn't want the world buzzing about a two-meter giant killing Kingpin.
It could spark panic. Superhumans weren't secret, but they weren't casual gossip either.
"Then head back. I'll handle this soon."
Bulkathos lowered his arms, striding toward where Kingpin had been.
As he moved, Ancient One's dimensional space cracked, glass-like groans echoing under strain.
Bulkathos was testing how much force would shatter the space without wrecking the surroundings.
Excess power could ruin the environment, complicating things.
"You plan to kill him in broad daylight?"
"I won't cause a scene or spread panic."
Bulkathos's reply was curt, his voice tinged with irritation.
He preferred direct solutions to evil but wouldn't let ordinary people feel undue fear.
Fear wasn't a fond memory for him.
It meant Diablo was growing stronger. Negative emotions fueled the Seven Demon Kings, so Bulkathos tread carefully.
Diablo, fear incarnate, had scarred the Sanctuary too deeply for him to forget.
Kingpin was a problem a single "small" stone could solve.
Swiftly purging the city's sins would leave no lasting issues.
Bulkathos could manage that.
He didn't know if someone would rise to replace the underworld's order, but he'd ensure the immediate problem vanished.
"Hm?"
Bulkathos halted, thoughtfully pulling the massive Hammer of Judgment from his pack.
A faint blue glow pulsed on the hammer.
Though Tyrael, Archangel of Justice, never wielded it, the hammer bore his power.
Its stirrings alerted Bulkathos to something new.
"What's up?"
Ancient One began retracting her dimensional space but paused at Bulkathos's odd behavior.
His pause was a relief, whatever the reason.
"Bring that little guy in. I've got questions."
Bulkathos pointed at a crack in the dimensional space, gesturing toward the vagrant outside with the wooden sign.
His furrowed brow darkened his expression.
"As you wish."
Ancient One shrugged, expanding her space to pull the trench-coated vagrant inside.
She refocused on Bulkathos—his every move warranted attention.
"What the—!?"
A startled cry burst from the vagrant.
His trembling body seemed like any ordinary person facing the supernatural.
His panicked, weak movements were unremarkable.
"Drop the act. It's boring."
Bulkathos saw through the vagrant's combat-ready stance, skipping pointless probing.
A mere human, even with schemes, couldn't harm him.
What caught his eye was the clear trace of Tyrael's aura!
Fresh off sensing Auriel's presence, he now felt another old friend's essence.
Good news, though it was merely a seed, not Tyrael's consciousness.
"How'd you know I'm Rorschach? My identity's a secret."
Rorschach lowered his sign, shedding his feigned tremors, adopting a fighting stance.
He thought his cover was blown and demanded answers.
Facing superpowers, Rorschach showed no retreat.
Rorschach, real name Walter Kovacs. Not tall, no superhuman strength.
Prone to violence, intolerant of visible evil.
And stubbornly unyielding.
"Who cares who you are? I care about Tyrael's power."
Bulkathos set the Hammer of Judgment on the ground, waving Rorschach over.
The man's pure aura earned some respect, but now wasn't the time for admiration.
Tyrael's power here was cause for joy.
It meant Tyrael himself might soon be found.
Bulkathos had much to discuss with his old friend.
Especially about Malthael—he needed more intel.
"Hm? An accident?"
Ancient One stepped beside Bulkathos, studying Rorschach.
"Like this?"
Rorschach strode toward Bulkathos, voice excited. His fists clenched and relaxed, ignoring reason.
Pulled into a bizarre place, he brimmed with caution.
"I'd advise against attacking. Controlling force to hit you is a hassle."
Bulkathos grinned at Rorschach.
He liked the little guy more and more. Force wasn't always the best solution, but it was the most versatile.
It might cause follow-up issues, but who could deny it solved most problems?
Barbarians excelled at this approach.
"I'll try anyway!"
Rorschach rushed Bulkathos, swinging a temple-targeting punch.
Skilled in street fighting and dirty boxing, Rorschach had his tricks.
Like aiming for the brow to gain an edge.
A hit could briefly blind the opponent, easing restraint.
But at 1.67 meters, Rorschach's punch against 2.15-meter Bulkathos was comical, like a child brawling with an adult.
Bulkathos raised his right fist to guard his groin. Rorschach couldn't hurt him, but he'd rather avoid that strike.
Attacks on vision often masked other goals.
Blinding to hit vitals was a solid underdog tactic. The best choice was retreating while distance allowed—fighting was a last resort for mortals.
Bulkathos flexed his arm, flipping Rorschach to the ground.
He grabbed the Hammer of Judgment, slamming it toward Rorschach's chest.
The hammer's descent was loud but caused no harm.
With precise force, Bulkathos pinned Rorschach, the hammer's blue glow enveloping him.
"Justice? What a surprise. I thought he'd side with the weakest."
Bulkathos, seeing the hammer's change, shouted excitedly. Feeling Tyrael's aura was one thing; witnessing justice's power thrilled him.
Tyrael rarely bestowed his power—few could bear pure justice.
Unlike hope or courage, easily given, or fate, reserved for those who saw it, justice demanded true dedication.
"Ah!"
Rorschach thrashed, roaring under the hammer's weight, struggling futilely.
He wouldn't stop until his strength was spent.
"Alright, kid, want to wield the power to uphold justice?"
Bulkathos held the position, releasing the hammer.
Tyrael's chosen wouldn't be harmed by it.
Though pinned and barely moving, Rorschach wouldn't be injured.
Bearing Tyrael's power seed, he could lift the Hammer of Judgment.
But at his height, wielding the massive weapon freely seemed unlikely.
"You want me to surrender?"
Rorschach gritted his teeth, spitting the words.
"Dream on!"
The last words squeezed through clenched jaws, but as a mere human, he couldn't escape the hammer.
"I'm not asking you to surrender! I'm saying without power, you can't uphold your justice."
Bulkathos's bellow buzzed Rorschach's ears, yet he kept struggling for freedom.
Bulkathos reached toward Ancient One, who was watching with interest.
She pulled out the half-bottle of liquor again, placing it in his hand.
"Kid, Tyrael chose you, so I'll give you a shot!"
Bulkathos, clearly excited, crushed the bottle's neck, guzzling the liquor.
Rorschach's traits in such a short time thrilled him.
Like Kolik and Bruce Wayne's synergy, Bulkathos felt he'd found someone to inherit his glory.
"Become a barbarian! Grow strong without limits, strong enough to uphold justice."
Bulkathos crouched, grinning brightly at the struggling Rorschach.
"Never compromise? Without power, you'll just shatter. I'm offering you the chance to say no to all injustice!"
…
On Mars, a naked blue figure sat cross-legged in midair, his gaze fixed on a gray-robed silhouette.
The figure wasn't of this world yet persisted in his vision.
No matter how he shifted his gaze, it remained.
And he could commune with it.
Archangel of Fate, Itherael!
Neutral, able to see destiny but blind to humanity's meaning.
He saw past and future yet chose to observe the present.
The past and outcomes seemed set, and he accepted them.
The blue figure, Doctor Manhattan, had grown used to Itherael's presence.
Jonathan "Jon" Osterman, Doctor Manhattan.
His eyes saw his past, present, and future simultaneously.
For him, every moment was now.
Time was relative; human past and future meant nothing.
He existed in every moment, each one the present.
Having seen the future Itherael and communed with him, he'd come to Mars early, silently watching.
Having lost his humanity early, Doctor Manhattan was merging with Itherael.
Knowing past and future, he only observed the present.
Neutral, awaiting the outcome.
From his emergence, Itherael's influence shaped him.
His presence left no mark on the world, past or future.
As Jon's humanity turned godlike and Itherael's godliness gained humanity, they birthed a perpetually observing deity.
Like other archangels, Itherael favored a being.
And awaited a pivotal moment.
…
"Banar!"
Orak, enraged, swung War God's Blade, its fivefold-enhanced Slam channeling all his might into the edge.
The blade cleaved at Banar, snapping his ordinary machetes in place.
It slashed across Banar's chest!
Orak's fury at Banar was boundless. War God's Blade gathered Slam's legendary power, crushing Banar's assault head-on!
"Orak!"
Banar roared back, his shortened machetes whipping up a gale, severing Orak's beard.
After the war cry, Banar sank fully into battle frenzy!
His crimson eyes saw only rage, lost to combat madness. Only the foe to defeat remained.
A war god versus a berserker, their clash sanctioned by Harrogath's Sacred Mountain.
Their rift wasn't easily resolved.
Banar never chose an heir. The berserker was the most indecisive ancestor.
Kindness over justice, reluctance over rage.
He feared his heir's death, blind to his own realm's battles.
He resented Orak for accepting warriors into his deadly realm despite knowing its odds.
Orak wasn't the war god Banar envisioned.
This avoidable fight reached a fever pitch.
Banar, eyes blazing, shifted to Berserker's Wrath.
He'd never fully mastered it in life. To wield the rune of madness, he birthed a berserker who lost self in rage.
This state was half again stronger than Berserker's Wrath, with no time limit!
Banar, in his savage, inhuman ferocity, made demons quail. Tasting success, he sought to master it fully.
But reluctant to abandon the limitless boost, he never did.
Only those controlling rage could master Berserker's Wrath. Banar took a dark path.
How far could instinct and a mighty body go without reason? Banar answered.
Even the strongest body and instinct needed reason.
Orak's robust frame and War God's Blade broke Banar's gale, piercing his chest in an instant.
No blood stained the blade through Banar's soul—any blood evaporated under the force.
Ignoring his wound, Banar's broken machetes grazed Orak's neck.
Orak's thick muscles shielded his vitals, ending the fight.
Banar's form flickered and vanished, sent by the mountain to recover.
A battle of convictions concluded.
So did Jessica Jones's trial.
The girl was reduced to half a shoulder and her head.
Her right arm's broken bone stabbed into the last walker's throat.
She gasped, her half-lung struggling for breath.
Each breath was a miracle, but the walker lived.
A broken bone wasn't an axe—it couldn't shatter a walker. A piercing wound meant nothing to them!
Luke, watching the projection, gripped his blade silently.
His eyes reddened.
Maddock, seeing Luke, closed his eyes.
For Luke, this cruel end hurt.
A love cut short before it began was fortunate by comparison.
Unlike Reko, who lost her love on the battlefield and charged endlessly against tides of foes.
That was true cruelty—watching a lover's body trampled into mush, forced to step on it to kill more enemies.
Reko's breastplate, "Reko's Devotion," was her lover's wedding gift.
Wearing it, she trampled her love, charging until all foes were fragments.
She couldn't tell which pile was her lover.
The ground held her love and her enemies.
She couldn't bury a piece, unsure if it was him.
Burying an enemy? Barbarians wouldn't.
Reko's love remained only in her armor.
For Luke, losing before starting might be less painful.
Maddock thought so.
Bruce Wayne, still watching, clenched his fists.
"Why fight in such a state? Isn't she afraid?"
Wayne asked Kolik. He'd trained tirelessly to conquer fear.
Mind and body grew stronger on his journey.
But his fear never vanished, so he couldn't fathom why this girl fought to her last breath for an impossible victory.
"Does fear mean waiting for death?"
Kolik countered, puzzled.
Who didn't feel fear?
Did it mean awaiting death?
Even the brave felt fear, but fighting through it made a barbarian.
Courage and fear weren't opposites!
"Can she survive?"
Wayne understood but couldn't fully accept.
"Don't know."
Kolik's reply lacked his usual candor.
The projection vanished.
Either the trial ended, or Orak stopped the broadcast.
Kolik wouldn't question Orak's choice—it wasn't his concern.
(Chapter End)
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