Outside of battle, Banar was fairly normal. But once combat began, he turned more savage than any demon, reason all but abandoned. His secret realm was among the most perilous—waking to find oneself surrounded by demons, only to turn the tables in a brutal counter-siege, was a routine ordeal for him. In terms of danger, it rivaled War God Orak's realm. Both were near-certain death.
"Then you take this mage," Banar said with a teasing lilt, eyeing Qual-Kehk. He knew the general loathed magic, despite wanting mages on the Holy Mountain. That didn't stop him from despising their craft.
"I'm not taking him. This guy's luck is rotten," Qual-Kehk replied. Luck mattered deeply to him—unlucky barbarians didn't live long, and Casillas clearly wasn't blessed with fortune.
"Bul-Kathos, what's your call?" Banar turned the question to the towering barbarian.
A mage becoming a barbarian sounded amusing, and Banar was intrigued.
"What do you think, Kanuk?" Bul-Kathos asked, glancing at an ancestor standing slightly apart.
Chief Kanuk, successor to Leiko in the Bul-Kathos tribe, bore a striking shoulder pauldron crafted from a ram's skull, its massive horns jutting proudly. A warrior defined by his ferocious charge, Kanuk's legend was tied to his Evil-Proof Pauldron. Each enemy struck during his unstoppable charge boosted his strength by nearly a third. The farther he charged, the stronger he grew—until his body could no longer contain the unleashed power.
Kanuk's death came from plowing through Azmodan's hellish army, his uncontrolled might shattering him against the demon's iron-hard hide. Azmodan was flung back like a ball, blood spraying everywhere. That blow sidelined the demon for over three years, granting the barbarians a rare reprieve. Ever since, Azmodan wore thick armor over his battered abdomen.
"I say let him try. His brain's only good for cracking walnuts anyway," Kanuk said with a nod. He admired fearless fools like Casillas—only such a reckless soul could inherit his legacy. Not every barbarian fought with their head, not even Bul-Kathos, who used his weapon as a battering ram. Kanuk, though, wielded his shoulders and skull like blades.
"He's yours, then," Bul-Kathos said, nodding before heading toward the Elder Temple. He craved quiet to ponder his place in this alien world, where he felt like an outsider.
Qual-Kehk vanished, leaving Banar to cast a predatory grin at Casillas. Banar yearned for an heir to one-up Maddok, who always mocked him but never lost a fight. Yet Casillas wasn't handed to him. The mage hadn't committed irredeemable acts, so Bul-Kathos gave him a sliver of consideration.
Casillas, still dazed, mulled over why his teacher had slapped him. He could only conclude that his attempt to tap the Dark Dimension had been discovered. Oblivious, he didn't notice Kanuk looming over him, grabbing his collar.
In S.H.I.E.L.D.'s operating room, a nurse in disguise plunged a scalpel into the lead surgeon's ribs, missing a vital spot by a hair. She was swiftly restrained.
"Why would you do this?" the surgeon bellowed, unable to fathom an attack from someone so close. Blood seeped from his wound as his voice shook with betrayal.
"You know who he is? He's Hydra!" the nurse cried, tears streaming from eyes blazing with rage, her voice raw like a mourning cuckoo.
"I'm a doctor! My job is to finish this surgery. We took an oath!" The surgeon struggled to stand, shouting through the pain.
"They killed so many of us! My Kelvin, my poor Kelvin!" Her tears flowed unchecked, her hatred chilling the room.
"I told you, office romances are a bad idea," the agent restraining her muttered. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s brutal work made losing colleagues common, so agents rarely dated.
"I'd already resigned! We were getting married next week!" The nurse tore off her glove, revealing a modest ring on her finger.
"You broke medical protocol by wearing jewelry!" the surgeon roared, angrier now as blood spurted from his wound with each rising heartbeat.
"Then stab him! Why me?" the surgeon yelled.
At that moment, the monitor tracking Bucky's brainwaves flickered to life, showing steady activity. The surgery had exceeded expectations—brainwaves restored, only physical repairs and vitality boosts remained. With memory adjustments, Bucky Barnes would awaken and join Nick Fury's ranks.
"Who told you he's Hydra?" another agent asked softly, pinning the nurse. How did a nurse, even one at S.H.I.E.L.D., know the patient's ties to Hydra? That question demanded answers.
Meanwhile, Constantine had been persuaded—by a fist the size of a casserole dish.
The problem was the transport. Crammed between Coulson and Hawkeye in a doorless car speeding down the road, Constantine was far from comfortable. John Wick rode with Steve on the motorcycle, clutching a pistol and spare clips from Coulson, his dog's corpse still in his arms.
The group stopped at the site of Nick Fury's wrecked car, staring in stunned silence.
"Is that the Director?" Coulson's voice trembled as he eyed the corpse of Fury's decoy, head blown apart.
Wick's brow furrowed. He didn't care who he'd killed—anyone who harmed his dog paid the price. But facing this group, including Captain America, he doubted he could take them all. More likely, he'd be dispatched cleanly.
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