"I expected the Sorcerer Supreme's residence to be more... how should I put this? More opulent?"
Thor looked around with a restless energy, his fingers itching to touch the ancient artifacts lining the shelves. His inquisitive, almost boyish demeanor made him look less like a prince and more like a curious child in a museum.
"The 'Sorcerer Supreme' is a title and a responsibility. Where that person resides is of little consequence," the Ancient One replied serenely.
This was Bul-Kathos's first proper visit to the Sanctum Sanctorum. Usually, he simply took the milk provided by Wong and departed without a second glance. He stood in the center of the room, his presence heavy and grounded, a stark contrast to the ethereal hum of magic permeating the walls.
"You have something to say to me. Say it now," Bul-Kathos rumbled. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, but he knew the Ancient One well enough to recognize when she was orchestrating a conversation.
"It's about Cul. I suspect Thor is unaware of the prophecy regarding his future," she said, sitting at a low table and pouring a cup of tea with deliberate, slow movements.
"What prophecy?" Thor asked, his interest piqued.
The All-Father had shielded Thor with a ferocity that bordered on obsession. No god in Asgard would have dared to speak of the prophecy that foretold Thor's death at the hands of the Serpent. It was Odin's will, and they obeyed.
Bul-Kathos merely glanced at Thor, saying nothing. He held prophecies in the same contempt he held the Archangel of Fate, Itherael. To a Nephalem, destiny was a hollow concept. If the future could be changed, the prophecy was a lie; if it couldn't, then knowing it was a waste of breath.
"Thor, it is said that as the God of Thunder, you will fall in battle alongside Cul, taking him with you into the void," the Ancient One said, a small, cryptic smile playing on her lips.
"The 'God of Thunder'?" Thor frowned, catching the technicality. Currently, the title was shared. There was Thor himself, and there was Tyr, who now wielded Mjolnir. If Zeus were still active, one might even argue for the King of Olympus. "You mean the prophecy doesn't specify which God of Thunder?"
"Exactly."
"Then Tyr... is he trying to fulfill that destiny in my place?" Thor's expression shifted to one of urgent concern. He always chose to believe the best of his kin, never imagining that Tyr might have a darker agenda.
Knock, knock.
Wong, the somewhat stout sorcerer, poked his head into the room. "Master, I believe I am ready to master more advanced incantations."
Since receiving Bul-Kathos's gift, Wong's internal energy had been skyrocketing. He was now capable of casting high-tier spells using only his own reserves. He had reached the upper echelons of sorcery, matching even Loki in pure raw power.
"Wong, now is perhaps not the best time," the Ancient One said. Her gaze was soft but carried an unmistakable authority that sent Wong scurrying back.
"I'm taking Thor for a walk," Bul-Kathos interrupted. "I assume that's all the 'destiny' talk for today?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He ripped open a portal, the air groaning under the strain of his raw strength. Staying in the Sanctum made him uneasy; the constant ripples of magic felt like being watched by Li-Ming—a sensation he never particularly enjoyed.
Bul-Kathos and Thor emerged in the basement of the forge, right in the middle of a domestic moment between Luke Cage and Jessica Jones.
"Back already?" Luke asked, popping a piece of fried egg into his mouth. "Those SHIELD agents were starting to get on my nerves."
"Did you fight today? Who was it?" Bul-Kathos asked, his eyes narrowing. He sensed a strange residue on Luke—a faint scent of fear that didn't quite match the stench of Diablo.
"Just some Hand ninjas. Why?"
Jessica looked thoughtful. "I went to see a meteor landing, but no combat."
"Cul's handiwork, no doubt," Bul-Kathos muttered. He gestured to the three of them. "All of you, follow me."
He led them deeper into the basement. He had decided it was time to give these Nephalem recruits something to tilt the scales. Their luck had been abysmal; while not as cursed as Kaecilius, they weren't exactly drowning in legendary loot either.
"Armor and the like... normally, I wouldn't bother with this," Bul-Kathos said, sitting on a crate and pulling a heavy pauldron from a rack. He tossed it to Jessica. "But for some reason, you've all come up empty in the Rifts. It's unnatural."
He threw two sets of bracers to Luke and Thor. They weren't masterwork relics, but they provided a layer of protection that surpassed anything modern technology could forge.
"I wouldn't call myself unlucky," Thor said, hefting the Butcher's Cleaver. The faint, ghostly shriek of the Butcher's soul echoed in the room, making Bul-Kathos scowl.
"That thing is a curse," Bul-Kathos growled. "It came from Vorusk's Rift. The fact that he's polluting his own memory with the Butcher's presence after death... it irritates me."
"It's a fine blade," Thor countered.
"Vorusk's Rift is changing," Bul-Kathos warned. "If he loses control of it, you won't just be fighting demons. You'll be fighting the domain itself. And the worst part?" He paused, his voice dropping an octave. "Vorusk died challenging Death. If you go back in there, you might find yourselves standing before the Void itself."
"Death?" Jessica's eyes widened. "But Death backs down whenever you're around. You have her arm bone on your nightstand, for God's sake."
"There are different aspects of Death," Bul-Kathos said, a hint of a headache forming. "The Death you saw is a personification with a shred of humanity. The Death Vorusk challenged was a cold, unyielding rule of the universe. It is a presence that knows only balance, not mercy. When Vorusk fought it, Death learned its first emotion: Anger."
He looked at his tired hands. When he wasn't fighting, the memories of the fallen and the whispers of the demons in his head grew louder.
"You will fail, just as Vorusk did," Azmodan's voice hissed in his mind.
"Shut up, Azmodan," Bul-Kathos retorted internally. "Go back to sleep with Andariel. Whether it's Malthael or your brothers, I'll deal with them all."
He turned back to the recruits. "Equipment can only take you so far. But since time isn't on your side, take what you need. Consider it an advance on your future 'spoils' of war."
"Spoils?" Luke muttered. He knew "spoils" meant "whatever we survive with."
"I'm not worried about the Rift," Thor said, rubbing his chin. "I'm worried about Cul. He defeated my father. If I don't stop him, there won't be an Asgard left to lead."
"I just want to make amends," Jessica said softly, leaning into Luke. "And then I want to live. Really live."
"The people I care about are safe with SHIELD," Luke added. "Cap promised me."
Bul-Kathos sighed. "Tell Rumlow and the others. I'm not going to play messenger for everyone. How you live is your business, but know that the world isn't going to wait for you to be ready."
The Realm of Death
"My brother does not have the soul," Death said, her voice dripping with apology as she looked up at Leoric. "He says he has no record of it."
Leoric gripped the Mad King's Scepter, his white hair billowing in a wind that didn't exist. "Why are you apologizing? I threatened you. A cosmic entity shouldn't be so... pathetic."
"I only wanted to be of use to you," Death whispered, her tone that of a smitten maiden rather than the mistress of the afterlife.
"Use to me? You don't even know my name! This is absurd!" Leoric barked. As the King of Khanduras, he was a family man. He didn't understand why this personification of the end was suddenly 'simping' for him. It made him deeply uncomfortable.
"I have no ill intent..." Death murmured, twisting the hem of her robes. She was a 'stan' in the truest sense, convinced that if she just did enough, this skeletal King would finally look at her with something other than disdain.
"If you want to help, stay away from me! It would be better for both of us!" Leoric shouted. He was a skeleton, but he had no desire to spend eternity with another skeleton, no matter how 'cosmic' she was. He loved his family, even in madness.
"Please... don't go!"
Death's voice was so pitiful that had Thanos heard it, he would have abandoned his quest for the Stones just to sit at her feet.
"Enough! Are you even 'Death'?" Leoric roared. The name 'Death' always reminded him of Malthael, and that was a memory he didn't care to revisit.
"My Lady, I have brought you a harvest of fresh souls—"
Thanos's voice boomed as he entered the realm. He had just finished a casual genocide of half a planet to balance the scales and had come to present the souls to his beloved.
"Who are you?" Leoric asked, resting his mace on his shoulder.
"I am Thanos, the most faithful servant of Death! You may call me the Mad Titan!"
"Tch. A barking dog at the door," Leoric sneered. "And you dare approach me in such a disgusting, fleshy form?"
Death felt Leoric's irritation. With a flick of her skeletal wrist, she didn't just dismiss Thanos—she physically ejected him from her realm and revoked his 'VIP' pass to the afterlife.
"You've been learning social skills from him?" Leoric asked, rubbing his temple.
Death nodded shyly. Her skeletal head looked almost... cute.
"I've had enough. I am Leoric! The Skeleton King of Khanduras! The Desecrator of Life!" He slammed his scepter down. "I'm leaving. I'll find another way to compensate the boy."
In a flash of blue soul-fire, he vanished, returning to Harrogath. He ripped off his crown and threw it at Vorusk.
"Here. This crown is worth a fortune to a Nephalem. Use it to pay for that kid Craig's living expenses for the next century."
Vorusk caught the crown, grinning. "Didn't go well?"
"The Death of this world is a joke. She lost the soul. She's nothing compared to Malthael."
"Death is supposed to be an end, not a secretary," Vorusk remarked, his voice growing somber. He looked at Craig, who had overheard everything. "So, kid. You have a choice. You can live in luxury for the rest of your long, long life... or you can take the hard road."
"I want power!" Craig shouted, his eyes burning with a sudden, desperate resolve. "I want to be able to protect what's left!"
Vorusk laughed, a boisterous, wild sound. "You hear that, Leoric? He wants power! Just like I did! I challenged Death for it, and I'd do it again!"
"And look where that got you," Leoric remarked dryly. "But fine. If he wants power, he shall have it. But his body cannot accept the Barbarian bloodline."
"I know," Vorusk said, a wicked glint in his eye. He shoved Craig toward Leoric. "No Bul-Kathos here to stop us. Give him the memories."
Leoric didn't hesitate. He raised the Mad King's Scepter. The massive hammer was a terrifying sight, carrying the stench of a thousand graves.
This was how Leoric had once shattered Bul-Kathos's soul—by imbuing his own existence into the strike. He could do the same with memories, though he would lose them himself. He reached into his mind, pulling out the ancient techniques of the Monks of Ivgorod, given to him long ago by a master who wanted the King to find peace.
"Accept my gift, boy! And find yourself in the echoes!"
Leoric swung. The hammer connected with Craig's head, shattering the physical skull in a spray of blood and bone. But because there was no intent to harm the soul, Craig's spirit remained anchored.
From his new perspective, Craig saw Vorusk as a pillar of roaring flame—the embodiment of Wrath. And he saw Leoric as a swirling vortex of cold, absolute Presence.
A coward cannot control anger. But a Monk? A Monk finds the center.
The Burning Hells
Hell was in the midst of a violent restructuring.
Hela, recently liberated from the Underworld by Mephisto, sat at a round table, eating with a ferocity that lacked any royal grace. In her exile, she hadn't found a single decent meal. As the Goddess of Death, she craved the bitterness of souls seasoned by agony.
"Who is that... 'thing'?" Satannish asked, whispering to Hela as he looked at the figure occupying Mephisto's throne.
The entity that had usurped Mephisto looked like him, sounded like him, but felt like a void of pure, concentrated Hatred. Satannish was terrified. First Dormammu fell, and now this. Hell was becoming a very dangerous place for the old management.
"That is Mephisto," Hela said, sounding bored. She was stuck here. The gates to Midgard and Asgard were locked tight. She could only eat, stare at the crimson sky, and wait.
"You're lying. I've known Mephisto for eons," Satannish hissed.
"Is there a problem with my name?"
The New Mephisto appeared before Satannish, the sheer weight of his Hatred making the minor hell-lord feel physically ill.
"This is tedious, Mephisto," said Baal, currently inhabiting the form of Nightmare. "If you don't like the little tree-spirit, give him to me. I need to recover my strength. I'm itching to destroy something."
Baal was as restless as ever. As long as Bul-Kathos kept the world locked down, they were trapped here. But they weren't just hiding from the Barbarian. They were hiding from Malthael—the Aspect of Death who wanted to consume them all.
Mephisto and Baal knew they couldn't face Malthael alone. Hatred and Destruction were nothing before a half-formed Creator. Only Diablo—the Prime Evil, the sum of all Terror—had a chance.
The two brothers began to whisper in the dark, plotting. They needed to find their youngest brother. They needed to find Diablo.
And they needed to find a way back to the world of men.
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