Deep within Tyr's psyche, the essence of Diablo recoiled. The Lord of Terror was confident he could deceive a Sorcerer Supreme, but Bul-Kathos? Bul-Kathos was a rabid dog when it came to the scent of the Burning Hells. One slip, one stray thought of demonic malice, and the Barbarian would be at his throat. Diablo chose to burrow deeper into the shadows of Tyr's soul. He would wait.
"Is this the Asgardian steward? What happened to him?" Bul-Kathos asked, glancing at Tyr. It was unusual for the Ancient One to use the Mirror Dimension on an ally.
"Brother! What is the truth of it?" Thor shouted the moment he saw Tyr. He was frantic for news beyond the scraps Natasha had given him. But then his eyes fell on Mjolnir, resting quietly in Tyr's hand. "Brother... your arm?"
The God of Justice had been one-armed for eons. To see him whole was a shock that momentarily eclipsed the loss of their home.
"I have grown stronger. As you can see," Tyr said, his voice tight. He used the "Son of Odin" hammer to surreptitiously support Mjolnir. As a Worthy of the Serpent, his power was fundamentally opposed to Odin's enchantments. Had Diablo not bolstered him with Cul's stolen divinity, he wouldn't have been able to touch the hammer at all.
"I... I see," Thor said, his expression becoming complicated. He misunderstood the situation entirely. He assumed Odin had passed the mantle of the All-Father to Tyr in his final moments, still refusing to forgive his wayward son. It made sense; Tyr was the most reliable, the most meticulous of them all.
"No, Thor. You arrive at the perfect moment," Tyr said. With a surge of Cul's power, he suppressed Mjolnir's weight and tossed the legendary hammer to Thor.
"Brother, listen to me," Thor said, clutching his hammer. "You are fit to lead Asgard. I have no resentment. I am a warrior, not a King. I'm not ready for a throne, but I will fight for you. I will be your shield."
"I..." Tyr hesitated. The brainwashing of the Sky-Hammer flickered. For a split second, the real Tyr felt a pang of guilt at his brother's sincerity. But the corruption was like a rising tide; it smoothed over the cracks before they could open.
"The people are fragile right now," Tyr said smoothly. "If they see you, it might destabilize the peace I've fought to maintain. Let me handle the transition first."
Tyr wanted Thor gone. He wanted Bul-Kathos gone.
Bul-Kathos squinted at the hammer in Thor's hand. "That weapon... it doesn't recognize you."
As a master smith, Bul-Kathos could read a weapon's soul as easily as a book. He didn't like the "vibe" coming off Tyr.
The Ancient One's eyes sharpened. She looked at Tyr's newly restored arm. That wasn't the work of Aesir magic. If Odin could have healed Tyr's soul-wound, he would have done it thousands of years ago.
"It is a deception," Tyr said, his voice thick with feigned sorrow. "An illusion to give our people hope."
As he spoke, his new arm dissolved into a mist of blood before their eyes, leaving the stump behind once more. It was a brutal display of resolve. Tyr's arm was very much real, but to keep the Nephalem and the Sorcerer from digging deeper, he had to sacrifice it.
"A master-class illusion," the Ancient One murmured, impressed. Even her eyes had seen nothing but truth in the blood-mist.
"Mages and their tricks," Bul-Kathos grunted, his inherent distrust of magic bubbling up.
"Brother, let me help," Thor said, stepping forward and reaching for a Nephalem healing potion at his belt.
The Ancient One didn't hold out much hope. Nephalem potions restored vitality and mended flesh, but Tyr's arm had been severed at the soul level. However, Bul-Kathos didn't know the specifics of Tyr's old wound. He simply assumed it was a "rule-based" injury.
Tyr took the potion and downed it. To his—and everyone else's—shock, the arm began to regrow instantly.
The Ancient One was stunned. She hadn't realized Nephalem alchemy could mend the soul itself.
"It seems to have worked," Thor beamed. "Brother, you are meant to lead. I will learn to be a King, and one day, I will take the burden from you. Until then, I am your general."
The misunderstanding was complete.
"I look forward to that day," Tyr said, his eyes moist with faked vulnerability. "Seeing you alive... it is the only joy I have left."
"Loki is studying under the Sorcerers," Thor added. "Together, we will face the one who did this. We will not fail."
"We will not," Tyr echoed. He bowed his head respectfully to the Ancient One. "Sorcerer Supreme, I acted harshly toward the humans only to show my people we are not helpless. I will not harm them further, though I must maintain a position of strength."
It was a reasonable excuse. As long as there was no war, the Ancient One was content. She had more important things to do—like finding where Odin had been hidden.
"Very well. But remember, Earth is not without its own teeth," she warned. She opened a portal to the Sanctum. "Bul-Kathos, Thor? Will you join me? Loki is there as well."
"Fine. One place is as good as another," Bul-Kathos said. Before he stepped through, he glanced back at a distant point in the desert. He sensed a soul—distorted, yet familiar.
Leah.
Her soul was still trapped within the Lord of Terror, but it existed. Shen, the God of Thieves, had promised there was a way to save her. Bul-Kathos clung to that hope.
Back on Harrogath...
"Bul-Kathos is gone. He can't hear us, and there's no one left to tell him what we're talking about," Vorusk said, scratching his head as he looked at Leoric. "He says he's already found a successor?"
Leoric sat back in the snow, his skeletal fingers absentmindedly trying to roll a snowball. It was a difficult task without skin to provide grip. "A successor? Truly?"
"A young man named Rorschach. You wouldn't like him," Vorusk chuckled. "He's like Tyrael, but without the wings and the patience. His sense of justice is... rigid."
"Justice?" Leoric's voice went low. "Tyrael was always late. In the end, his 'justice' saved no one."
Being a skeleton made emotional expression difficult. Leoric had to rely on the tilt of his crown and the cadence of his rasping voice. He wasn't like some cartoon skeleton; he was a King of Sorrows.
"At least he tried. Justice only matters when it's needed most," Vorusk said, glancing at the trembling Craig. "So, how are you going to pay this boy back? I was ready to shatter your bones and stuff them into Bul-Kathos's subconscious if you stayed mad."
"He restored my mind," Leoric said. "That is a debt that must be paid. I intended to give him the path of the Monk. If he survives the first trial, he can draw the Nephalem blood from your Rifts."
"By bashing his head with your scepter?" Vorusk snorted. "Why not just replace his bones with yours? It's basically what we do with bloodlines anyway."
"I was merely implanting memories," Leoric snapped. "But the boy does not want 'immortality.' He wants the opposite."
Leoric stared at Craig with his hollow eyes. How do you reward a man whose only wish is to die?
"This is ridiculous," Vorusk grumbled. "We can't kill him. That's not a reward; that's murder. We'd be no better than common thugs."
"I suppose I could speak with the Death of this world," Leoric mused. "Perhaps I can demand the return of his kin?"
Vorusk blinked. "Can you do that?"
"Death has no claim over me," Leoric said. "I am not alive, nor am I truly dead. I simply exist. My nature is a tier above a common vampire like Dracula. He merely dodges death; I am the contradiction of it."
Leoric turned to Craig. "Boy! What is the name of the kin you wish to see? I shall go and fetch them from the Void!"
Craig curled into a ball in the snow, weeping. "My wife... she's dead. But I don't want her back! She died because life was too painful for her. I can't be so selfish as to drag her back into her misery just because I miss her!"
"BLOODY HELL!" Leoric roared. He was reaching the end of his tether. "If I kill you, you won't even see her in the afterlife! You can't die properly, and if I take your soul, you become a thrall! This is a nightmare!"
Vorusk pulled at his hair. "Why is helping people so much harder than killing them?"
"I'm going to find Death," Leoric declared, grabbing his mace. "I'll see what the woman has to say for herself."
Leoric slammed his scepter down, tearing a hole into the fabric of the universe. He stepped through, leaving a stunned Vorusk and a silent Mina Harker behind.
The Realm of Death
"The Realm of Death... just as dull and gloomy as I remember," Leoric announced, his voice echoing through the silent, lightless void.
"What... are you?"
A figure sat upon a throne of shadows. It was not a skeleton, but a woman of breathtaking, haunting beauty.
"You are the 'Death' of this realm?" Leoric asked, walking toward her with his massive hammer resting on his shoulder. His ancient, rotting armor clanked with every step, exuding an aura of absolute authority. "Why are you dressed like a common harlot from a back-alley tavern?"
Death stood, her eyes wide with curiosity. She shifted her form, manifesting as a hooded skeleton to mirror him.
"Oh? You think this form will entice me?" Leoric sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Don't be absurd. I am a King. I have seen the rise and fall of empires. Do you truly think a pile of bones with a nice dress will sway me?"
He pointed his scepter at her nose. "I am here on business. You will surrender a soul to me, or I shall see how well your 'eternal' bones hold up against my mace."
Death didn't recoil. She didn't strike him down. Instead, the skeletal head tilted, and a voice that wasn't a whisper—but a physical sound—came from her jaws.
"How... can I help you?"
Death felt strange. For eons, she had been worshipped, feared, or courted by madmen like Thanos. She had never been spoken to with such raw, kingly arrogance. She had never been ordered around.
"A boy named Craig," Leoric barked. "He's an anomaly. Your 'rules' don't work on him. I owe him a debt. Give me his wife's soul. I intend to let them have a talk."
Leoric's aura—the combined majesty of the Sage-King of Khanduras and the terrifying might of the Skeleton King—swept through the realm. The billions of wandering spirits in the void suddenly felt a primal urge to kneel.
"The Eternal Human...?" Death's voice was uncharacteristically soft. "The souls connected to him... they are not with me."
"Then where are they?" Leoric stepped closer, his aura becoming lethal.
"With my brother, Oblivion," Death whispered, her form trembling slightly beneath her robes. "The human was his experiment. I... I do not have the authority."
"Authority? You are a cosmic entity, are you not? Go and get them!" Leoric demanded.
Death looked up at him. She was used to Thanos killing half the universe just to get a smile out of her—a pathetic, desperate act of a "simp." But Leoric? Leoric didn't care about her smile. He didn't care about her power. He expected her to obey because he was a King and she was currently in his way.
"I will... I will speak with my brother," Death said, her voice flustered. "Please... wait here. It won't take long."
She had spent eternity being the "prize." Now, she had met someone who treated her like a subordinate. To a cosmic being who knew everything, Leoric was a magnificent, rude, and terrifying unknown.
Death realized, with a jolt that shook the foundations of the afterlife, that she had finally met her match. She was prepared to break every cosmic law in existence just to see if she could make this skeletal King look at her with something other than disgust.
Hopefully, Thanos wouldn't find out. The Goddess he had spent lifetimes "simping" for had just become a "fangirl" for a man made of nothing but spite and ancient bone.
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