On the snow-swept slopes of Harrogath's Holy Mountain, Luke Cage staggered out of the secret realm, collapsing onto the ground, his body riddled with wounds. Though he'd faced only a small band of Fallen demons, the ordeal had been grueling. Demons were a vast and varied race, their strengths ranging wildly. As one delved deeper into the secret realms, even a tiny spider could wield incomprehensible power.
The Fallen's crude weapons had torn deep gashes into Luke's flesh, a pain unlike anything he'd ever felt. Their shaman's fireballs slammed into him with the force of a bludgeon, searing agony through his body. Elemental power hit like a sledgehammer, leaving him battered.
"Kid, you think you're the only one getting stronger? The demons don't just stand still," Maddok said, lounging nearby without so much as glancing at Luke's injuries. His voice was calm, almost detached. "You'll die in my secret realm eventually."
Maddok's verdict was brutal, unflinching.
"I've thought about that end," Luke said, forcing himself to sit up, blood seeping into the snow in a crimson bloom. "Ever since I saw the battle where you died, I knew it was coming."
"Hmph." Maddok let out a loud snort, pulling a thick journal from his coat and tossing it to Luke. Bloodied hands caught it, and Luke flipped open the first page.
"You kept a diary? Though it skips around," Luke said, surprised. Maddok, a warrior steeped in primal ferocity, didn't seem the type to record his thoughts. The journal felt too thin for a life as grand as his.
"You wanted to know my past, didn't you? Nothing tells it better than my own words," Maddok replied. The journal detailed his sensations after first using his skills, though Luke hadn't reached those pages yet.
Maddok plucked a crystal flask from the snow—Korlic's hidden stash, brewed by a young Bul-Kathos. Before his death, Maddok had dug up and guzzled all his own treasures, determined to drink his fill. As a spirit, he now scavenged others' stashes during Harrogath's festivals, memorizing Korlic's hiding spots. The three ancestors, dubbed the "Three Fools," had few secrets from each other.
"Why'd you change your mind? You didn't want to share this before," Luke said, popping the flask's cork and taking a hefty swig. The fiery liquor burned, twisting his face in pain. Bul-Kathos's early brews used demon blood as a base—less about potency, more about scorching the throat like molten lava.
"I didn't want you hearing from other ancestors what a 'great warrior' I was," Maddok said, pausing. "I'm just an old fool chasing Bul-Kathos's shadow, who lost even his life."
Luke didn't comment. No one had the right to judge another's life.
The ancestors never stinted on praise for each other, even if laced with jest, always concluding with "greatness." Any barbarian who earned a place on the Holy Mountain after death was, by definition, great.
"I just hope I die later. More time to see new things," Luke said, gulping another mouthful of the liquor, wincing as the burning sensation lingered. He was starting to adapt, but the pain didn't vanish.
"The secret realm is the best path for a barbarian to grow strong, but you're different. You skipped the basic training. Releasing powerful skills will take more effort," Maddok said. New recruits were taught fundamental combat by the mountain's guardians, sometimes with Qual-Kehk himself demonstrating. Once their bodies were ready, advanced techniques came naturally. But Luke, despite Maddok's dedicated training, had only grasped the basics. His physical limitations were a formidable barrier to becoming a true warrior.
"You like that new woman up here?" Maddok asked, veering to an unexpected topic.
Luke took another swig, his face flickering with pain before settling into calm. He was growing accustomed to the demon-blood liquor's sting. "For a moment, yeah, I liked her," he admitted. No point hiding it—he wasn't a kid.
"Then pursue her soon. Don't leave regrets. Orak's trials—only a handful have survived his first secret realm," Maddok said, his words harsh. Orak always fought on the deadliest battlefields, turning the tide against impossible odds. Even Banar, the berserker, couldn't match the scars crisscrossing Orak's burly frame, leaving barely a patch of unmarred skin.
Orak's legendary Blade of the War God wasn't born from a love of the Slam skill but from necessity—Slam was the only technique reliable enough to keep him flawless in perilous fights. Usable in any state—prone, airborne, or drained of fury—it could shatter a demon's skull.
"'War God' is both his glory and his tragedy," Maddok added. Victory against overwhelming odds was heroic, but it came at a cost. Orak's era was humanity's darkest, when demons tainted every horizon.
"You're saying Jessica might die in her first secret realm. Why?" Luke asked, stunned.
"You smelled the stench of sin on her, didn't you? Bul-Kathos gave her a chance, but she'll have to fight for her life to seize it. Only by surviving can she begin to atone," Maddok said, then left without his usual head-smack.
Luke chugged his health potion, then poured the remaining liquor into the flask, a trick he'd learned from Vider. He could smell the persistent reek of guilt on Jessica Jones, but what could he do? He had no reason to pay the steep price of her redemption, nor the strength to bear it, nor the means to erase her past sins.
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