"Are you truly going to stand by and watch his soul plummet into the abyss?"
Bul-Kathos's voice was low, directed at Raekor, who stood beside him.
She had appeared nearby the moment Veda—or rather, Joret—began his dark recitation. As for Bul-Kathos, he had been observing the entire sequence in silent contemplation. Veda had always been a reliable comrade, but the fact that he carried a heavy secret was common knowledge on Mount Arreat.
To suspect a dead man of harboring ulterior motives? Only on the Holy Mountain of Harrogath could such a scenario be considered a mundane occurrence.
"Can destiny truly be outrun? What do you think, Bul-Kathos?"
Raekor crossed her arms, her question light yet burdened. Watching Joret's descent into a state of frenzied madness was difficult for her to witness. Yet, a veteran of a thousand battles did not allow sentimentality to cloud her judgment—not even when the man in question was the very Joret she had loved for a lifetime.
Even if Joret had "defeated" destiny once, what of it? The sheer magnitude of destiny's weight was incomprehensible to those who hadn't felt its crushing pull. Joret had never truly escaped its grasp; Raekor simply couldn't bring herself to tell him the truth of what she saw.
Help Raekor defeat fate? Even Worusk, the Immortal King, had never entertained such an arrogant notion.
Before them, Joret—the warrior surviving on the fumes of a thousand years of regret—stood over Rorschach. With a sickening whistle of displaced air, he swung a crude wooden staff directly at Rorschach's head.
How much power did a Barbarian ancestor, once dubbed "The Brave," truly possess? It was difficult to quantify, but it was certainly enough to liquefy a mortal's skull with a single blow. Rorschach was the strongest among the new recruits, but the gap between him and the ancient spirits was still an unbridgeable chasm.
The scene was one of absolute helplessness. Even though Joret held nothing more than a common, weather-beaten branch, the result was inevitable.
"You're just going to watch your successor die? And then wait for the next one to wander into your path?"
Raekor closed her eyes, unable to watch any longer. Seeing her lover commit such atrocities in her name was a surreal, agonizing experience. But her logic remained firm, even if she had long since laid down her heavy mantle of leadership.
"We have a pact with Death," Bul-Kathos said softly.
It was information Raekor was permitted to know—the kind of secret reserved for the strong. The weak had a poor track record of keeping secrets.
Mistress Death had made it clear: she would not claim any soul tied to the Barbarians. Therefore, a "temporary" death might be exactly what Rorschach needed to clear his vision. As for Joret, who had cast his lot with Azmodan for Raekor's sake, he was still ignorant of this grand design. Whether he was called Veda or Joret, he was powerful—but he lacked the perspective of a King.
"You've grown cold, Bul-Kathos. Colder than I remember," Raekor remarked, her eyes still closed. Her voice carried no urgency, sounding much like a casual greeting exchanged over the centuries.
"The version of me you remember didn't have to carry this much weight. Back then, all I had to do was hack demons to pieces every day. That was enough."
Bul-Kathos offered no further defense. He was no longer the man he once was. Back then, Harrogath was teeming with Barbarians, many of them legendary warriors. Now, the burden of the entire race rested on his shoulders alone.
Rorschach was the candidate he had chosen, even going so far as to grant the man his own bloodline. But the man needed to face death once—to use that ultimate threshold as a mirror to examine his own soul. This was the price of Bul-Kathos's deal with Death: a severed hand-bone, placed by his bedside, which would eventually merge with the spirit of Leoric.
Bul-Kathos had agreed. It was like an ancient form of correspondence—not suitable for instant chatter, but enough to bridge the gap between two longing souls.
"Johanna? Is Johanna here? She always seems to be everywhere at once, but only she can help you lot master the power of the Rifts."
The Crusader approached the group, having noticed something interesting. She recognized several faces on the mountain, though most of them were currently hiding in the shadows.
"For now, you should decide whether that little squire is ready for your training," Bul-Kathos said, not directly answering her. "The next Rift is about to begin."
The answer was obvious, but some things were better left unspoken. The Nephalem Obelisks and the spirit of Orek weren't exactly state secrets, but now wasn't the time for a history lesson.
"Is this Rift just another one of your traps, Bul-Kathos?"
Ancient One used her magic to project a private question to him. Bul-Kathos paused for a moment.
"Prepare yourselves," he said aloud, ignoring her question. "This Rift will feature two Prime Evils and an Archangel locked in a cycle of slaughter. We will sustain that battle until the very end."
Ancient One lowered her gaze and followed silently behind him. A Rift of this magnitude? Presented like a casual invitation to everyone on the mountain? It didn't sit right with her. A trap? Likely. But what was Bul-Kathos's ultimate goal? Without a clear objective, such an act only invited chaos.
Most people eat because they are hungry. They drink because they are thirsty. No sane creature swallows filth unless they have a very specific, desperate reason. Bul-Kathos was calculating something—something hidden so deep that even the Sorcerer Supreme couldn't see the bottom of it.
But what could he be hunting? The answer was simple: the demon lurking in the deepest shadows. Unless that one was dealt with, every vision of the future was nothing but a beautiful lie. And Diablo was the undisputed master of lies.
With a dull thud, Rorschach's body hit the ground. A soul began to manifest, hovering slowly above the remains. Harrogath protected the souls of all Barbarians, but that protection worked differently among the ancestors.
Joret, his eyes bloodshot and wild, stared intensely at Rorschach's spirit.
"You're dead now," Joret said dryly, before sitting down abruptly in the snow.
He was waiting for Bul-Kathos. Rorschach's death would undoubtedly summon the King, and Joret had fulfilled his promise to the Lord of Sin. Raekor's soul would finally be free within the Dark Soulstone embedded in Bul-Kathos's brow. She would have to share space with Andariel for a while, but she would be free from the void.
A dead man couldn't carry Bul-Kathos's legacy. By killing Rorschach, Joret believed he was extinguishing the light of hope Bul-Kathos had found. He was prepared to be obliterated for this act.
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