"Bul-Kathos, I still don't understand your ways."
Rumlow's voice carried a resolute edge as he stared at the figure before him.
"You could've saved that old soldier, just like you saved me."
His tone grew firmer, not out of overflowing compassion but from a need to unravel Bul-Kathos's reasoning. He fixed his gaze on the barbarian's broad back.
"Why would I? Because he seemed remorseful?" Bul-Kathos replied without turning, his strides unwavering. To him, such matters required no deliberation.
Snow danced endlessly around the sacred slopes of Harrogath, yet the flakes that touched Bul-Kathos vanished instantly, as if repelled by his presence. He had seen too many cases like this—take Nirazek, for instance. Hadn't he felt regret for his actions? Yet when Nirazek met his end, it was with a sense of release. No one offered him a second chance.
All opportunities granted by others were mere moments of wavering resolve. Even Rumlow's salvation came only because Talic and Mokot's wills swayed Bul-Kathos at the last moment. No one was entitled to everything they desired, and Bul-Kathos had no intention of sparing a remorseful soldier from a vengeful hand.
"I still don't get it. Like that woman over there—why is she here? Her aura reeks of sin, just like mine," Rumlow said, glancing at Jessica Jones, who was swinging a hand axe in the distance. Her figure stood beside Orak's towering form, both visible from their vantage point. Rumlow didn't know her story, but the indelible taint of guilt clinging to her was unmistakable.
"She'll likely die in her first trial," Bul-Kathos said, not sparing a glance in her direction. "Rumlow, have you forgotten your own wretched state when you first entered the secret realm? I thought you'd perish."
The ancient Holy Mountain held no secrets from Bul-Kathos; the ancestors' tales told him all. Orak had chosen many barbarians as his heir, but even the luckiest never faced Hammerlin and his endless rats. Being chosen by Orak was tantamount to a glorious death.
"Enough, Rumlow. Instead of dwelling on that soldier, focus on how to grow stronger."
Bul-Kathos halted, turning to face him. Talic stood ahead, awaiting his chosen successor. Bul-Kathos pondered what lay ahead for the barbarians. This world seemed to have little need for them—the demons of Hell here were feeble. What purpose could barbarians serve?
"I thought we were merciful," Rumlow said, shaking his head as he walked toward Talic. His tone was flat; he sought only an answer, not a debate. Endless demands were inherently unfair.
"We are justice. Mercy belongs to that hope cloaked in a hood," Bul-Kathos replied.
"Sir, should we adjust his memories?"
Bucky lay on the operating table, his heartbeat steady—a sign he'd passed the most dangerous phase. The doctor, unaware of the patient's identity, had no desire to know more. In S.H.I.E.L.D., ignorance was safety.
A modified soldier was far easier to handle than agents who'd undergone "treatment." Though several surgeries remained before full recovery, failure was no longer a risk.
"Erase the part about his death. Let him think he was only gravely injured," Nick Fury instructed.
Fury's mind was elsewhere, fixated on Warpath and Mummy. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s forces were depleted, making every operative vital. The doctor shook his head and returned to the operating room. This was a long-term procedure, and he needed to prepare for the next stage.
S.H.I.E.L.D. was in turmoil. The Council was in heated discussions about its future, while the military, pausing their hunt for the green giant, eyed a chance to carve a piece from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s weakened state.
"I thought you'd come groveling with an apology," a deep voice rumbled, accompanied by the crunch of a chocolate bar.
"I thought you'd show up even later," Fury shot back, dreading the sight of the massive figure before him.
"Just passing through. We've picked up traces of a demon," Hellboy said. Like Mammon, ripped from Constantine's gut by Bul-Kathos, Hellboy was a demon's son. Yet, by some twist of fate, he stood with humanity.
S.H.I.E.L.D. had analyzed his body, finding human traits but no way to replicate his power.
"You never share intel. I've never seen a demon besides you," Fury said, unafraid to jab at Hellboy. Having accepted aliens, he saw little difference in these creatures. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s focus was "world peace," targeting superhumans, not the mystic.
"You're always this charming. The mystic is a rigorous discipline—your science-soaked brain can't grasp it," Hellboy retorted, tucking a cigar into his massive stone hand.
"Fine, you've got a job to do. Get to it," Fury began, but a fist sent him sprawling.
"I came to punch you, you bastard. Abe's still recovering, so I'm here to settle the score," Hellboy said, turning to leave. He'd sensed a familiar aura near the city and requested this mission to avenge his friend.
"Your wounds—they're on your soul, aren't they?" Hellboy called back before vanishing.
Hell's power was always a threat to guard against. As Anu En Rama, the Honored Human, Hellboy's duty was to handle these disbelieved, "nonexistent" entities.
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