Three days had passed since Bul-Kathos settled in New York. The mages, true to their word, secured a remote shop for him, outfitted with all a smithy needed. Life was comfortable, but the calm was stifling. For a barbarian forged in war's fires, idleness was maddening.
His greatest amusement came from ancestral spirits recounting the cautious intruders on Harrogath. These "warriors" scouted every step, wary of unseen foes—laughable to a barbarian. To Bul-Kathos, an axe swing solved more than endless pondering. Harrogath held no cunning traps, only ancient siege machines, still functional but hardly sophisticated. The ancestors' scornful tales of their "timid" movements drew a rare chuckle from him.
In this city, pure blacksmithing found little demand. Those seeking mighty weapons or armor were a speck amid the masses. His isolated shop, nestled by a park, saw more inquiries for lemonade than ironwork. The "toys" he forged—gear too weak to be transitional—gathered dust in the basement. Even these trinkets could grant frail warriors "powerful" strength, a judgment tinged with barbarian disdain after sizing up this world's feeble martial standards. His "toys" offered protection against firearms, but their magic went unnoticed, save by the mages.
Barbarians disliked debts, so Bul-Kathos crafted trinkets for them—like bracers granting full-body defense. "These weak mages might survive a human army now," he'd said, half-mocking. He'd sought a quiet life, but boredom crept in. Tales of "warriors" were mere gossip, and sneaky types earned no respect. As long as they didn't defile Harrogath, he'd let them skulk.
A bell chimed as wind stirred the door, snapping him from his thoughts. In this lonely smithy, rare visitors were a fleeting joy. Turning to the glowing forge, he muttered.
"Time to craft a heavy weapon."
His old blades, ruined against Malthael, were beyond repair. But as the greatest smith, forging was a fine pastime. Even barbarians who wielded broken weapons craved new blades, christened with glory and names. Replicas of the first Immortal King's twin blades, dubbed "Bul-Kathos's Solemn Vow" and "Warrior's Blood," varied in quality but carried ancestral power when blessed.
Rage fueled endless combat, so long as life endured.
"First, the metal."
He placed a faintly glowing Veiled Crystal and collected metals into the forge. Common but not worthless, materials were the least of a Nephalem's wealth—endless riches gleaned from demons, as abundant as desert sand. As the materials melted, seeping into the metal, a red glow of heat emerged. Bul-Kathos deftly pulled the block, hammering rhythmically, the clangs as piercing as war cries.
Forging took time; stronger weapons demanded finer materials—a smith's universal truth. Adding another Veiled Crystal to the shrunken metal, he returned it to the forge. Flames bathed his bare torso, warming him, but sweat? This effort couldn't faze a tireless barbarian.
Nephalem, born of angels and demons, weren't like this world's humans. Even a Nephalem child surpassed Earth's strongest men. This was but a fraction of their power.
"Time to hammer again."
Muttering was his habit—smithing was lonely work, and quirks eased the solitude. These weren't "powerful" toys but new weapons for himself, bearing "Bul-Kathos's" name and savage design, not crude replicas. Ancient replicas, called "Primal Legendary," nearly matched the originals' peak but lacked their full essence. Later "Ancient Legendary" copies, mimicking Primals, inherited their power but varied in strength, most weaker. Common "Legendary" gear, copied from Ancients, was Bul-Kathos's bare minimum—too frail for Kanai's Cube to extract powers like "Pride of Cassius."
Legendary gems, fused from top-tier stones, empowered weapons, but standard "Legendary" gear couldn't withstand it. These were mere stepping stones, shattering under his reckless swings if lesser. Yet, as toys, they could make mages unimaginably strong—able to flip tanks or face natural disasters, thanks to raw attribute boosts.
(End of Chapter)