Nick Fury, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s director, leaned forward in his office, his single eye narrowing.
"Who can explain why a new mountain just appeared in the Himalayas?"
Silence hung heavy, answering him. His dark face hid his shock, but a mountain materializing in the Himalayas rattled him. He'd thought only Hydra's return or global war could surprise him, yet this defied explanation.
"No answers? Send a team to investigate!"
S.H.I.E.L.D. had detected Harrogath's arrival instantly, satellites capturing its rugged ruins. By the time they focused, Bul-Kathos and the Ancient One were gone, veiled by ancestral spirits. In Diablo, barbarians never hid Harrogath—unyielding even to demon lords. Why conceal an eternal home? Only elders wielded nature's magic, tied to druids through Nephalem brotherhood. Bul-Kathos, uncaring of this world's reaction, feared nothing.
Fury slumped on his sofa, studying satellite photos, head throbbing. Aliens he knew, but a mountain from nowhere? Appearances shocked more than vanishings.
Agent Hill, face impassive, spoke.
"Sir, who's handling this?"
"Rumlow. His special ops team. Level Six priority."
Fury paused, weighing the supernatural event. Ruins weren't rare, and no life was detected—just a matter to watch. The real issue: every satellite-equipped nation would see this Himalayan peak. Reactions varied only by time.
Harrogath wasn't defenseless, guarded by ancestral spirits. Though death claimed its life, souls endured, reporting all to Bul-Kathos. No one could die twice, so they watched unseen. Climbing this primal bastion was tough—only true warriors reached its peak; others fled its winds. Barbarian courage was savage—fearless, direct.
How would Bul-Kathos travel? Simple. His three spells—Teleport, Town Portal, Identify—let him flicker between places. In Diablo's wars, all learned these for battle. Now, only Harrogath glowed on his map, a beacon for instant travel.
If a brave soul scaled Harrogath and passed ancestral trials, Bul-Kathos would meet them, provided they revered the mountain.
Driven by a longing for home, he sought to know if this "Earth" was the warm haven of his fading memory. Though blurred by rage, he was human—a Nephalem. Battles forged a nightmare, numbing him to gentleness, steeped in demon stench. In Sanctuary, tenderness was a luxury; love, swift and pragmatic. For a barbarian born from corpses, softness didn't exist.
Only Tyrael, shedding angelic form, brought faint light to humanity's nightmares. Courage faced demons; hope hid. Justice, through Tyrael, was a mere guide. Bul-Kathos's emotions faded, unneeded in his obsessive fight. He lived for survival, spurred by Tyrael's justice but rooted in primal instinct.
With the Ancient One, he stepped through her portal into humanity. The energy-charged air and peaceful buildings stirred nostalgia.
A bearded mage bowed to the Ancient One, then turned to him.
"Mr. Bul-Kathos, forgive my forwardness. We'll arrange all you need to start here."
Bul-Kathos's gaze shifted from the surroundings. The Ancient One, rarely idle, deemed him safe and brought him to New York's Sanctum, entrusting his care to this mage, whose energy was laughably weak compared to Sanctuary's recruits. But this world didn't demand warriors.
"Fine!"
His roar made the mage's ears ring.
"Get me food first. I'm starving."
Fatigue tinged his voice. His vitality was vast, but hunger gnawed. Even Tyrael, mortalized, faltered from starvation or gluttony.
"Being mortal is such a hassle."
Tyrael's first human lament echoed in Bul-Kathos's mind.
(End of Chapter)