The Seven Great Evils of Hell were, in truth, a somewhat hollow collective title.
To humanity, each of the seven was equally fraught with peril; after all, those capable of saying "no" to a Lord of Hell were few and far between.
Andariel seemed to be the one with the smallest ambitions among them. Much like that great maggot, Duriel, she appeared content merely to satisfy the twisted cravings buried deep within her soul. But that did not mean she lacked cunning.
"You will speak, Andariel. I will make sure of it before I find a way to devour you all."
As Bul-Kathos spoke, his hand drifted to the tattoo over his heart. His voice was harsh, carrying a trace of the very cruelty inherent in the demon blood he fought against.
"You were never the one we feared most, Bul-Kathos," Andariel replied, her voice dripping with disdain. From within the confines of the Black Soulstone, Azmodan—imprisoned alongside her—found his perspective of her shifting slightly. "You have lost the sublimity of your soul. What difference is there between the man you are now and a mere slaughtering machine? You inspire less dread in me than Vorusk ever did. Honestly, you don't even measure up to that brainless oaf, Cassius."
Andariel's voice was a sneer.
"You have no passions. You claim to love strong liquor, but only because it provides a sting of sensation. You have no hope, no desire, not even ambition. Tell me, Bul-Kathos: what is the meaning of your existence? Is it truly nothing more than 'noble sacrifice'? You are a hollow shell, a vessel without a self, driven to this choice only by the silver-tongued manipulations of the Archangels. Tell me—how are their actions any different from ours?"
She laid out her mockery as a cold statement of fact. Bul-Kathos could almost picture her—that alluring yet grotesque form, preening her hair, a beautiful face twisted into an expression of malicious charm.
"I have heard the wails of the people," Bul-Kathos said softly. "I have seen the tears of children. I have felt the heart-wrenching despair and the pure, unadulterated hatred they bear for you. Andariel, you possess a complete soul, yet you have never once had the chance to feel the sublimity of the human spirit."
His words were light, airy, but they were his truth. Though perhaps not his entire truth.
"There is no difference between us and the Archangels," Andariel countered, her voice causing even Azmodan to fall into a pensive silence. "We corrupt the masses; they simply 'infect' the strongest among you. In the end, you humans—you Nephalem—are nothing more than fuel for the Great Cycle's rules."
Azmodan found himself reconsidering how he dealt with Andariel. The depth she was displaying now far exceeded the Lord of Sin's previous estimations. How much did the Seven Evils truly know of one another? Though they had coexisted for eons, they usually viewed each other through a lens of suspicion and conspiracy. They cooperated, yes, but they were eternal rivals. Every Lord of Hell sought to become the Prime Evil; Diablo had simply traveled the furthest down that path.
"Are you implying that Rathma has slipped beyond your control? Or perhaps that I have done the same?" Bul-Kathos asked. He wrenched the seal off a bottle and took a heavy swig.
The quality of the liquor? He didn't care. Regarding his need for the "sting," Andariel hadn't been wrong. He craved the sharpness of it.
Power was never gained without a price. As the cost for surpassing even Cassius in the mastery of Ignore Pain, Bul-Kathos's physical senses had become incredibly dull. He had no palate for fine food; for him, the sense of taste was merely another sacrifice on the altar of strength.
He felt nothing in response to Andariel's seductive barbs. Instead, he caught a different thread—the way she pointedly avoided mentioning Rathma.
"Rathma seeks to awaken the Mother," Bul-Kathos noted. "How do you think Lilith, the mother of all Nephalem, will deal with Malthael?"
"Malthael will teach Lilith the true meaning of Death."
Bul-Kathos decided to end the conversation. Words often felt hollow. As a bridge of communication, language was only useful when both parties actually intended to exchange anything of value. Bul-Kathos had no desire to truly "understand" a Lord of Hell.
"Hehehe... Bul-Kathos, I suddenly realize you aren't as devoid of ambition as I thought. Or perhaps, your ambition is something even Vorusk couldn't match."
Andariel left him with a string of silver-bell laughter.
What kind of person would nobly sacrifice themselves, even to the point of losing their very "self"? A hero? Andariel had seen many heroes in her long life, but none had ever shown the terrifying steadiness of Bul-Kathos. A hero without an ambition—or at least a goal—would never be this unwavering.
"Ambition? Perhaps. But before that, I must give you all a final resting place!" Bul-Kathos roared.
His voice thundered across the Holy Mountain, a sound like the roaring flames of a furnace, consuming everything in its path.
"Bul-Kathos!"
Leoric's voice rang out. The towering skeletal frame of the Skeleton King appeared before him. Craig had already received the memories belonging to Kharazim; the Skeleton King was no longer mired in his previous internal conflict.
However, the state Bul-Kathos was in now reminded Leoric all too much of his own descent into madness when Diablo had pushed him to the brink. He was worried.
"Leoric. I am glad to see you standing here," Bul-Kathos said tonelessly. His rough fingers rubbed against the mouth of the glass bottle, producing a harsh, grating sound.
"You may not be as helpless against the pressure of the Hells as I was," Leoric observed, "but you are standing on the edge of a dangerous precipice."
"Regarding Leah... I am sorry, Leoric." Bul-Kathos finally found the opportunity to say those words.
Leoric let out a long, ghostly exhale. Though he lacked the lungs to breathe, the sigh of his soul carried a weight of regret that everyone present could feel. "Tell me about my granddaughter, Bul-Kathos. I imagine she was a righteous child, much like Aidan."
"Leah... she was kind. Kinder than me, kinder than Cain—kinder, even, than Auriel." Bul-Kathos sat down directly in the snow of the Holy Mountain, his heavy frame sinking into the white powder. "But as you know, Leah had no one to guide her in the ways of power. Though she was a formidable warrior in the eyes of ordinary men, she was far outmatched by the Lords of Hell. Yet she never complained. Even when she watched Cain's remains turn to ash in the fire, she never uttered a word of grievance."
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