"You'll work for me two days. Once that guy's gone, I'll send you to the Holy Mountain."
Burkasso examined the Hit-Monkey's corpse, pondering modifications.
The "guy" was Bucky, knocked out and slumped aside, landing with a "thud" that reminded Burkasso of the legendary "War Paddle" he forged for Karashim, a weapon that snapped with a "crack" like a butcher's cleaver.
Though a brute of a blacksmith, Burkasso had never crafted a body for a soul. Instead of forging anew, he'd rework the corpse, like he did Balza's head. Crafting a body for a soul to inhabit directly? Impossible. Even channeling ancestral rage into bodies was tough enough.
He needed to free Hit-Monkey's soul from its demonic contract.
"That guy's no nobody—Captain America's pal. He'll be gone soon," Rumlow said, twirling Balza's pendant, intrigued by the chattering demonic head.
"Captain America? That defensive guy? Name sounds familiar," Burkasso replied, grabbing a beer, taking a sip, and spitting it out. "Coulson calls this liquor? Unbearable."
He tossed the can into the furnace. Coulson knew beer wasn't strong, but no liquor stores were open nearby. Hours of fighting had cleared the area, onlookers scared off or silenced by agents with NDAs. Hydra and Hand's blockade kept NYPD at bay.
"Coulson's a Cap fanboy," Rumlow said, sipping beer. He didn't mind it, though he preferred harder stuff.
"He didn't use my money," Matt said, wiping blood off his bare torso with a soaked towel. The fight had drenched him, ruining his wallet and ID.
"How much for our 'top-tier' lawyer?" Rumlow asked, eyeing a weapon rack.
"Three grand an hour," Matt replied, smirking. Fighting for the poor didn't make him rich, but he cared about income.
"Three grand? Should've been a lawyer," Rumlow said, swinging an axe, air whistling.
"I'm the best fighting lawyer. Find another to guard that chatterbox for three grand—or thirty," Matt shot back, hefting his new warhammer, already missing his sturdier handaxe.
"Burkasso, how do I get better weapons?" Matt asked.
"Rift," Burkasso grunted, not turning.
"Talic says I'm not ready for the next rift," Rumlow interjected.
"Then get stronger."
"How?" Matt pressed.
"Rift!"
"I'm not strong enough!" Rumlow snapped, tempted to flip the table.
Burkasso turned, eyeing them like idiots. "Barbarians aren't tied to one mentor's rift. Any ancestor can open one—you just won't get their legacy."
"What about your rift?" Matt asked.
"You'd be lucky," Burkasso nodded, turning back.
Barbarians don't coddle. Want strength? Fight. Loot's yours. Burkasso's first battle yielded Arthef's Light of Life from a chest, saving him from a thousand walking corpses. Later, he found a battered crown—lowly legendaries that carried him through.
"Do barbarians never team up?" Rumlow asked.
"Team up? How do you think Madawc, Talic, and Korlic got called the Three Idiots?" Matt said. Rhea shared ancestral tales during training, so he knew more than Rumlow or Luke.
"I'll tell Talic you said that," Rumlow teased.
"Go ahead. Talic's famously good-tempered," Matt replied.
Burkasso spun, eyes glinting. "Talic's 'good temper' comes from Banar. Compared to Banar, even Diablo's chill."
His look screamed, "You're dead."
Good-tempered barbarian? Nonsense. Rage-fueled warriors don't do calm. Matt, swayed by Rhea, had bought the myth.
(End of Chapter)
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