"Dead? A being who was practically one with nature itself—dead? That's more far-fetched than Vorusk's claim of wanting to sacrifice himself."
Bul-Kathos shook his head as he spoke. He took several swift strides forward, using his forearm to slam Leoric back down into the dirt.
"Leoric! I warned you! This is Harrogath!"
Bul-Kathos pinned the Skeleton King's ribcage beneath his boot, leaning over to stare with wide, unblinking eyes into the face of the arrogant undead monarch. Leoric's earlier attacks on Raekor and Vorusk hadn't truly been the problem; Bul-Kathos didn't view those as personal provocations. But Leoric had crossed a line.
He had allowed his "Domain" to bleed out and influence Harrogath itself.
"Bul-Kathos... do you truly think you can kill me?" Leoric's jawbone rattled as a contemptuous laugh escaped him. Despite the mockery, he made no move to resume the fight.
Bul-Kathos was undeniably powerful, but so what? Killing Leoric was an impossibility unless Leoric himself ceased to believe in his own existence. To kill a concept? Even if Bul-Kathos fully mastered the Rule of Devouring tattooed on his chest, he couldn't achieve that. "Devouring" Leoric would simply be another way for the King to exist—it was meaningless.
"I don't need to 'kill' you," Bul-Kathos said, bringing his face close to the jade-white skull. "You've been dead for a long time. I've carried the Black Soulstone on my brow for ages; do you think I've learned nothing of its secrets?"
Bul-Kathos lifted his foot and sat down directly in the snow. His threat was subtle, but the Skeleton King understood it perfectly. If the Soulstone could seal the Great Evils of Hell, it could certainly seal a King of Bones.
"I was merely an observer," Leoric muttered, his tone defensive yet noticeably relaxed. "Who knew that madwoman Raekor would drag me into it? I wasn't about to just stand there and take a beating."
Since Bul-Kathos was speaking openly rather than crushing his skull, Leoric knew the matter was settled. Barbarians were not a people to hold long-term grudges; if they couldn't get their revenge immediately, they would simply keep trying until they succeeded or died. That was their way. During the years of his own madness, Leoric had slaughtered many reckless Barbarians. He knew their temperaments well.
"By the way, where did Raekor go?" Leoric asked, his voice tinged with a bit of schadenfreude.
"You want to find her? Just so she can give you another thrashing? Your March of the Black King is a joke in front of her," Vorusk interjected sharply. He then turned his gaze toward Bul-Kathos.
Vorusk felt no guilt regarding Leoric. Even if he had used the Skeleton King as a pawn, he didn't care. His original backup plan, had he failed to seize Raekor's legend, was to target Leoric's Mad Monarch's Scepter. The symbol of Leoric's insanity would have been enough to keep Veda's soul anchored for a while longer. At the very least, Vorusk still had his throne to offer.
"How do you plan to face Raekor now?" Vorusk asked. "You still left her legendary set incomplete."
Though Bul-Kathos had once refused Raekor's offer of her gear, he knew the importance of the Raekor's Legacy set. Much like the Might of the Earth or Wrath of the Wastes, these sets contained the secrets to a Barbarian's ultimate mastery over their skills.
"I took her Burden," Bul-Kathos replied with a double meaning. "Now, that responsibility rests on my shoulders."
What was Raekor's "Burden"? It was her long-held wish that the Barbarian race would endure and never fade away. Now that the responsibility for the tribe's future was firmly on Bul-Kathos, Raekor could finally immerse herself in her own memories of love without the weight of the tribe's destiny pulling at her.
"My Boulder Breaker is gone, too," Vorusk noted, his eyes burning with intensity. "Now, save for you, there is no one on this mountain powerful enough to make the Rules of the World recoil."
Without her full set, Raekor could no longer manifest her peak living strength. Without the Immortal King's Stone Breaker, Vorusk could no longer act as the ultimate trump card for his people.
"I know your set has seven pieces," Bul-Kathos said, giving Vorusk a pointed look. "I'll return your belt to you."
The Immortal King's Call was unique; unlike other sets, it included a weapon. Vorusk wasn't rendered helpless without the hammer, but without his heavy belt, his power was significantly diminished. Ironically, Vorusk had never liked the belt much. He had fought his way from weakness to a strength that made his enemies flee in terror, and he had never truly been defeated in a fair fight. Even his "death" at the hands of the Rule of Death had been a mutual annihilation—Vorusk lost his life, but Death lost its lofty status.
He only used Chilanik's Chain to boost his speed so he could catch enemies who ran like rabbits. He found the traditional Immortal King heavy belt, which looked like a prize-fighter's trophy, rather cumbersome.
"Break it up," Bul-Kathos shouted to the gathered ancestors. "For next year's festival, I'll provide the food and the spirits."
The ancestors exchanged looks with their sparring partners before vanishing into the mist. Only the gouged earth and scorched snow remained as evidence of their clash.
"I'd bet my throne they'll be at it again before the week is out," Vorusk remarked, sitting down and rubbing his chin. "Bul-Kathos... why did you think I wouldn't sacrifice myself?"
Vorusk's tone was strange, but Bul-Kathos ignored it. The past was the past, and while pursuing the truth was important, badgering an old friend of several centuries for a "confession" was beneath him. If Vorusk didn't want to talk, nothing would make him speak.
"In this matter, I thank you all. But in my memory, Vorusk, you have never 'nobly sacrificed' anything without a motive. Your actions are always driven by a fierce sense of purpose. I believe you want to help me, but I believe even more that you're helping me so I can do something for you."
Bul-Kathos wiped the grime from his hands onto his trousers and reached into his pack for a bottle of his own potent brew as a gesture of thanks. He tossed a few bottles to Madawoc and the others. "You three—why didn't you tell me about this beforehand?"
"Tch. You felt it coming long ago," Madawoc replied, walking over to the spot where the weapons had been piled and scuffing the dirt with his boot, checking for any lingering traces of his legend. "It just happened sooner than you expected."
"Stop looking. Nothing is left," Talic said, smacking Madawoc on the back of the head. He glanced at Bul-Kathos. "You might as well ask him to forge you a new one. He's made so many 'Legendary' knock-offs by now, he could probably do it in his sleep."
"That name, Bastion's Might... it's unlucky!" Korlic muttered, biting the cap off his bottle and swigging the liquor. "Bul-Kathos, forge me a new weapon. This time, I want it to bear my name."
"My friend, you are dead. You cannot forge a new 'Legend,'" Bul-Kathos replied tonelessly.
Korlic wasn't like Leoric; he couldn't manifest a new, twisted legend post-mortem. Usually, a legendary weapon was only truly "Legendary" in the hands of the one who forged its story. If a Primal weapon returned to its original owner, the bond between the two would eventually restore it to its true form. Weapons were consumables in the long run; most Barbarians had replaced their original blades several times over the course of a thousand battles.
"I mean, put a socket in my blade and give me a Flawless Royal Emerald!" Korlic roared. He glanced at the paralyzed Kanuck on the ground and spat with disdain. Kanuck was strong, but he had never lived for himself. The fact that he had served as Chieftain of the Ox Tribe made Korlic feel a surge of irritation.
"Enough," Bul-Kathos sighed. "Today has been more trouble than the time I actually cut Diablo down."
"Fine," Vorusk said. "I do have something I want you to do. But right now, you aren't ready."
Bul-Kathos gave him a "told you so" look. "Speak. I'll consider it and give you an answer later."
"I want you to crush Rathma," Vorusk said, his voice suddenly grave. "I mean crush him."
The more serious Vorusk sounded, the less Bul-Kathos believed him. Vorusk was never a man for solemnity. Bul-Kathos couldn't fathom what kind of grudge existed between them.
"Why? Did you run into Rathma too? Don't tell me he's the reason you failed to conquer Death?"
"If you crush him, you'll find out. I suspect Malthael's escape was orchestrated by those people... and I can see Rathma's shadow behind it all."
"The way you describe him, Rathma sounds like a villain who exists only to ruin others' plans," Bul-Kathos mused. "That man is a shadow-dweller and a madman, but he is likely more lucid than either of us."
"He is certainly smarter," Vorusk admitted. "Wizards are like that. And Rathma is the only first-generation Nephalem who has never stopped moving."
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