Luke crouched behind a rock on Harrogath's sacred mountain, clutching a hunk of black bread like a vagrant, barely restraining himself from tucking his hands into his sleeves. The bread was a prop to seem less conspicuous, though hiding behind a rock to eat was anything but subtle.
He peeked at Jessica Jones, swinging her axe in training. Luke couldn't shake Matt's words—or his fixation on Jessica. Their brief encounter sparked a sense of fate, but his lurking head, stark against the snow, stood out like a mushroom on a moldy mop.
"Who's that?" Jessica asked casually, honing her Slam technique under Orak's watchful eye.
Orak, towering and striking, didn't turn. "Matt's heir. Uncoordinated, but a rare talent."
Orak once wanted Luke as his successor but lost to Matt. Luke's clean aura and strong physique impressed the ancestors, yet he fell short against Matt. Orak, older than the "three fools," admitted he'd been surpassed.
Jessica's trial neared, but Orak remained impassive. He'd seen countless warriors enter his secret realm. Out of respect, he'd train Jessica thoroughly, but her sins didn't escape his notice. His demeanor stayed cold.
His realm was no easy challenge. Among Harrogath's ancestors, Orak had endured the bloodiest battles, yet found no worthy heir. Few reached his second trial; fewer survived beyond. He'd wanted to dissuade recruits, knowing barbarians no longer needed a war god to turn tides. But he never spoke—none could deny a warrior's choice, if it upheld honor.
The secret realm offered no food or water. Failure meant death, bones buried within. Orak glanced at the Elders' Temple, his stern face tinged with melancholy. His realm held countless barbarian lives, unsung and unremembered, their shades absent from the mountain.
His legendary Blade of the War God was no favorite among barbarians, not even to him. Its power, born of desperation, paled against renowned skills. Slam, though fundamental, merely fueled rage, lacking earth-shattering might.
"Why's he staring at me with pity?" Jessica asked, her axe slowing, focus waning. She sensed what awaited but feigned ignorance.
She felt Luke's affection but couldn't reciprocate—not yet, not while shadowed by her past. Perhaps this was how two guarded souls danced around each other.
"Ask Matt," Orak said curtly. Words meant little to barbarians; actions spoke.
A near-fatal trial offered redemption's power—a fair deal, but few faced death fearlessly. Orak doubted Jessica's resolve.
Luke ducked back, smashing the hard bread against his nose, blood streaming. He chugged a healing potion.
"Why pity a stranger?" Veyda's spirit appeared, mocking.
"Don't you pity someone doomed to die?" Luke retorted, surprised.
Veyda laughed wildly. "Who isn't doomed? You? Me? Bulkatho?"
A merchant turned warrior, Veyda had charged demons in his final moment. All on this mountain faced death—Bulkatho even shattered the Dark Soulstone.
"I mean, she's so young…" Luke stammered, flustered by Veyda's scorn.
"Enough, Luke. Don't let baseless love cloud your instincts," Veyda snapped. The ancestors, ancient and jaded, saw through him. "Her stench won't wash off, not even with Harrogath's snow."
"I just—"
"You're just dodging your impulses. Youngsters love to wallow in self-pity," Veyda sneered.
A storied barbarian, Veyda vanished, leaving a fairy tale book: Undefeated Hope on the Sacred Mountain, chronicling Matt's tales. A bestseller in Sanctuary until his death, it was a rare find, traded from an unknown ancestor. A tale of hope for a broken world's children, now lost with Arreat's fall.
"I don't get why people can't forgive a good person's mistakes," Luke said, knowing the answer but resisting it. Passion dulled his wits—he was no calm genius.
Jessica deserved pity, but none could absolve her. Orak and Bulkatho offered redemption—if she survived. Unlike Rumlow, who needed the Oath of Shame to awaken, Jessica was lucid, lacking only courage.
Rumlow stood on unfinished New Sescheron's roof, empty bottle in hand, Talic beside him. Training paused; constant drills grew tedious. Harrogath's snow eased, the climate shifting.
Talic pulled a hidden bottle from building materials, setting it by Rumlow. "Planning to whine about unfairness like Luke?"
"I'm wondering what you paid Bulkatho to spare me," Rumlow said, eyeing Jessica's halfhearted swings.
"Not your concern now," Talic replied, planting the Oath of Shame in stone. New Sescheron, half-built, took shape. He gestured for Rumlow to grip its rough handle.
"I tried saving many with this weapon, but none survived Bulkatho," Talic said gravely. He and Bulkatho were contemporaries. "They atoned, then lost themselves. Finding themselves again, they went mad, steeped in worse filth."
Rumlow tried lifting the Oath but failed—its weight, like his past, was too heavy. "You owed Bulkatho a hundred promises for those failures, half to keep his trust in you and this weapon."
Rumlow's lips twitched. A hundred failures was no small toll.
"I'd stop trusting you after three," Rumlow quipped.
"They killed thousands of demons, like you did," Talic said. Each had atoned through slaughter, only to lose purpose and descend into madness.
"I thought the Oath was Baal's work. Bulkatho recreated it, but even the mightiest can't wield its full form," Talic mused. Its severed state hinted at the Lie King's schemes—a weapon sized for a Hell-lord, not humans.
"Your legend?" Rumlow asked, unconcerned by a distant future.
"Cleave," Talic said, pointing to the Oath. His legend amplified Cleave fourfold with rage—a defender's skill to slaughter hordes, born from guarding Harrogath's gate.
"If I fall to sin again, end me yourself," Rumlow said, unfazed by Baal or madness, recalling Bulkatho's lethal intent. Hydra's shadow lingered.
"I'm no longer gatekeeper. If that day comes, I will," Talic said, vanishing. A bottle remained, freezing in Harrogath's wind. Rumlow had to claim it before it iced over.
Tony sat stunned, facing Pepper. Without her insistence she hadn't drunk, he'd swear it was a drunken hallucination. Absurd truths were hard to swallow.
After brushing off security, Tony sat motionless. His team shielded him from reporters, not assassins—Stark Industries' arms empire deterred most threats. Magic, defying his scientific worldview, rattled him. Ancient One's feats could be tech, but they were alien.
"Today's been too bizarre," he muttered, dialing Peggy Carter. Professionals handled the supernatural better.
"Peggy, I've seen some weird stuff. Can you send an expert?" Tony asked, unusually respectful. Peggy was a trusted elder and pro.
"I'll send someone," Peggy replied, contacting Sharon. The blacksmith shop wasn't unfamiliar—Dugan, Fury, and Steve mentioned it. Serious matters deserved more than phone advice.
S.H.I.E.L.D. was in chaos. Peggy trusted only Sharon. Fury, even uninjured, was unreliable. Dugan was recovering from a severed leg. Sharon hadn't shared recent events, bound by confidentiality.
Peggy, blissfully ignorant of the werewolf and mummy's deaths, rested calmly, her sleep shallow as age crept in.
Tony buried the day's shocks—Ancient One, the mistaken killing of Winter Soldier. As Stark's majority shareholder, he masked emotions well. Obadiah's aid built the empire, but Tony wasn't clueless.
A playboy's charm was a skill, proving he wasn't a reclusive techie. As Sharon raced to Bulkatho's forge, Tony eyed the unscathed pickup outside, crashed cars a mess beside it. His top-tier ride hadn't scratched it.
This vehicle was unique—material or tech, it sparked Tony's curiosity. As Stark's innovation core, new things enthralled him, dulling his turmoil. Ignoring Pepper, he circled the truck, repelled only by its gore-splattered surface.
Its handcrafted details—no mass-production efficiency—stunned him. No exhaust pipe, no clean-energy precedent. "Can this even drive?"
Tony considered climbing through the window. After today's impossibilities, one more seemed trivial.
Pepper grabbed him, uneasy at the blood and guts. She spotted Tony's checkbook on the seat, familiar from his habits.
"Wait. It's all too creepy," she urged, knowing her sway against Tony's curiosity was weak.
(Chapter End)
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