Bul-Kathos spoke slowly. When he had first met Leah, Sonya and Li-Ming were already by her side. Kharazim, the monk, had acted as a guide, constantly aiding her.
"Leoric, you know how it is. Human kingdoms rise and fall. The truly stable paths to power are few and far between. Before Khanduras, the Dark Kingdom fell too. Only a few ways remain reliable."
Leoric fell silent. Whether it was the fallen kingdoms or the wanderers, there were always powerful warriors among them. But aside from the classes and tribes represented by the first Nephalem, there was no other guaranteed path to strength.
Leoric was strong—there was no doubt about that. Before he became the Skeleton King, he was a warrior powerful enough to make the Lords of Hell take notice. It was hard to say if he was stronger alive or as an undead king. But his path was not one with a clear roadmap for others to follow.
"When I was alive... never mind. It seems you don't wish to talk about the past. Bul-Kathos, your long life has allowed you to witness the rise and fall of Khanduras. To you, those are not legends—they are memories."
A ghostly blue light flickered in Leoric's hollow eye sockets. It was the soul of the Skeleton King. Because he existed, this set of bones remained as pristine as new.
"That was only yesterday, Leoric!" Bul-Kathos roared, his voice cracking slightly.
Nearby, the Ancestors were silently watching. For the long-lived Nephalem, many things felt as though they had happened only the day before. Raekor stood with her arms crossed, her head bowed. She felt a lump in her throat but refused to clear it.
It was "yesterday" that she had lost her lover. The memory was carved into her very bones. Because of this, Raekor believed implicitly in Fate, even gaining the favor of Itherael.
"Bul-Kathos, you are the courage of the Barbarians."
Talic appeared at Bul-Kathos's side, resting a thick arm on his shoulder.
"You are the King of the Barbarians, though you haven't been a very 'proper' one," Madawoc added, stabbing his axe into the ground and rubbing his chin. "You are the only King in our history to preside over our people becoming a rarity."
"But you are also the most noble of Kings," Korlic said, standing by Leoric and patting the Skeleton King's shoulder. "You simply lack a bit of selfishness."
The Three Ancients were not Bul-Kathos's predecessors; they were his brothers-in-arms. They had grown, fought, and died together. There were things only they could say to him.
"A King should not be a Saint, Bul-Kathos. But you are the exception," Vorusk said from a distant cliff, his voice echoing.
Without desire, there is no possession. Nobility meant he would not plunder. Kindness meant battle was always the last resort. Yet, it was this man—the one who least resembled a traditional conqueror—who was trusted by every Barbarian who had ever lived.
"How fascinating, Bul-Kathos," Azmodan's voice finally chimed in. To the Lord of Sin, this was the perfect moment to corrupt him. When friends point out your flaws, it is easy for "Sin" to sprout. Azmodan could smell the familiar scent; with just a little nudge, the darkness would spread. Negative emotions are a bottomless well in the human heart.
"But I am the King of the Barbarians! You should show your King some respect!" Bul-Kathos ignored the voice in his head and shouted at the spirits before him.
"No King does everything himself, Bul-Kathos," Talic said. He drew the Remembrance of Honor and thrust it into the ground next to Madawoc's axe. Korlic did the same with his own weapon. The three massive legendary armaments stood together like a small mountain peak.
Whirr—
A heavy sound of claving air followed as Vorusk's Boulder Breaker slammed down onto the pile. The Immortal King's hammer glowed with a blinding, blood-red light. A Primal Legendary weapon carried the light of the soul that forged its legend. That visceral crimson was the color of Vorusk's spirit.
As the red light from the Boulder Breaker pulsed, the three other weapons began to resonate. Talic's weapon bled a grey mist of regret—his soul was a mixture of hope and agony. Madawoc's axe emitted a ghostly blue light—the color of sorrow. As a battle-prophet, Madawoc was always steeped in sadness because he knew the outcome of the fight before it began. His axe looked rusted, heavy with the weight of his melancholy.
Meanwhile, Bastion's Might radiated a warm fire that instantly shifted into a harsh, white-hot orange. Korlic's soul was defined by his fierce protection of life—warm, yet violent. His love for life manifested as a pure, unadulterated rage in battle. After all, combat was the act of taking life; thus, his soul was the purest form of fury.
"Bul-Kathos... you've never forged your own 'Legend,' have you?" Leoric asked, watching the spectacle with a hint of disbelief.
Bul-Kathos had yet to truly solidify his legend. No one knew what color his soul would take. Perhaps Malthael knew, for death allows one to see what others cannot.
"Legends are the power left behind after your curtains have closed," Bul-Kathos said, looking at the pile of weapons. He drew Oathkeeper and Remorseless.
Both blades pulsed with light. Anajinn's Oathkeeper radiated a grey-white hue filled with hatred for his traitorous brother. Mortick's Remorseless glowed with a vibrant green, representing a deep love for life. Mortick, who named his weapon Remorseless specifically because he couldn't bear to see life perish, had to remind himself to stay heartless against evil.
"But I! BUL-KATHOS! THE CURTAIN SHALL NEVER FALL ON ME!"
As he roared these words, the entirety of Mount Harrogath trembled.
"Tch... you were still called 'Light' back then... never mind, I won't spoil the mood," Hilaio, known as the Conqueror, muttered nearby with a smirk. His body radiated a deep black. To him, the title "Conqueror" was a joke. What had he conquered? He had only pillaged resources because his tribe was starving. He saw himself as a tragedy—a pacifist forced to wage unjust wars so children wouldn't freeze.
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