Bul-Kathos, uncertain if outsiders grasped his world's ways, spoke gruffly, his words rough as Harrogath's crags.
"Mage, you might not know how we share knowledge."
His coarse tone belied his renowned integrity, a beacon in Diablo's dark world. By his final battle, only scattered allies and Tyrael remained; friends had faded into war's smoke, leaving only memories.
The Ancient One, heeding his guidance, plunged her mind into the crimson gem. Visions surged—scenes her centuries-long life had never glimpsed.
The Skeleton King rose, his grim scepter radiating a mad king's chill.
Belial shed his human guise, his demonic form shaking the heavens, dragging his palace into a toxic abyss.
Maghda's Coven, mindless mortals, and Azmodan's endless Hell legions swarmed.
Imperius, Archangel of Valor, bled under Diablo's might, the Crystal Arch shattering.
Bul-Kathos faced the Angel of Death, his Whirlwind tearing the world asunder.
These battle fragments seared into the Sorcerer Supreme's mind. She saw him—a savior, guardian of justice, master of boundless rage. His rugged honesty and raw strength etched deep.
The memories flashed by swiftly.
"Those battles stir fear. The gore's unsettling," she murmured.
She knew truth from illusion, having felt his rage firsthand. Though unsure she could best him, she trusted the memories, tracing his rising power to the force she'd faced. Alien yet no threat, she concluded.
Adjusting her awed expression, she bowed slightly.
"Honored Barbarian King, Mr. Bul-Kathos, how may I assist you?"
"You trust me so easily? Your openness earns my favor."
Surprise flickered in his eyes. He hadn't expected trust in this strange world, nor cared to prove himself.
"Your strength speaks. A warrior like you needs no lies for petty goals."
Her candid words, lightly flattering, rang true. Barbarians were simple—fire, liquor, slaughter, survival.
In Diablo's despair, survival was grueling.
"What are your plans now?"
He hesitated. Freed from battlefields, only Harrogath's snows remained, with no kin, only his liquor flask's burn.
"Maybe I'll explore this world."
He bit his tongue, blood trickling, and swigged the fiery potion. Talk of the future sank him into gloom.
"Earth… is this my home?"
His murmur didn't faze her. Misreading him, she thought he sought a new home, dismissing "Earth" as a name like "Midgard." If he wasn't a threat, details didn't matter. But "home" was his enduring anchor, now blurred—Sanctuary's wails or a fading, warm memory?
"My world's less perilous. Most don't fight to live. Would you settle here?"
Her invitation aimed to bind his strength to Earth. His memories showed his allies' might; with time's river shifting and her death looming, his aid could ease future burdens.
He studied her bald head, rare even compared to Sky Temple's monk. Her baldness held a human charm, beyond gender.
"Mage, help me open a smithy among people. Besides fighting, it's all I know."
His voice, low and resonant, shed its harsh edge.
(End of Chapter)