The further she was from that dangerous world, the safer she was. Ignorance was bliss, after all. He felt he'd done her a favor; the Church was never a good place to be, a fact made clear since the days they sold indulgences.
"I am a professional," he muttered to himself. "But I don't think our two lives are enough to solve this one. Now, how did that prophecy go again? The God of Thunder and the Great Serpent shall fall together? If Cul doesn't turn into the Serpent, where does the prophecy lead?"
Constantine whispered the words. Based on Peter's description of the markings on Kingpin over the phone, the occultist already knew what Fisk was becoming. The Worthy were no secret to him.
He knew many secrets, but he rarely spoke them. Knowledge was a mage's greatest power, but sometimes it felt tragically thin. Most of what he knew involved the less-than-savory side of magic.
Constantine was a self-taught, "hedge" mage. He lacked powerful offensive spells, which was why he was always dancing on the edge of disaster. After the incident in London, he had tried to learn the magic of the Sorcerer Supreme's lineage, but he couldn't grasp the fundamentals.
Perhaps his forcibly reconstructed soul had created a rift in his connection to his "self." Even when he tried to split his soul again, he couldn't shed the power within him. That power, taken from Angel, was called a "Blessing," but it felt more like a curse.
Foreign things were rarely safe—Constantine knew that better than anyone.
"Alright, you'll have plenty of time to catch up. I'm not going to separate you brothers again so soon."
The Ancient One looked at Thor and Loki, who were eyeing her with a touch of hostility in the Sanctum.
"The reconstruction of Asgard has begun with the help of S.H.I.E.L.D. It seems those people don't care much for 'pride' or 'dignity.' I must admit, they often do well when acting on behalf of humanity."
The displaced Asgardians had been settled. Tyr, after meeting the Ancient One and Thor, had tempered his behavior. He had abandoned the idea of using raw fear to dominate humans. Under the Ancient One's silent threat, he chose a slower path of development.
The remaining ten thousand Asgardians were his "Fear Farm." He would let the "crops" grow strong before expanding his fields. Diablo wasn't as impatient as the original Cul; time meant little to him. In fact, the Lord of Terror would prefer not to show his face until he had surpassed the power of Bul-Kathos.
"If I may ask... how do you view the Asgardians?" Loki asked, his expression neutral, though his mind was clearly racing.
As the God of Mischief, Loki never wore his heart on his sleeve—unless Thor was around to drag his IQ down. A truly stupid person could never master the deep arts of magic; Loki only suffered from "brain-rot" when dealing with the brother he'd known for millennia.
"I don't mind another nation on Earth. I am not the protector of any single country or faction," the Ancient One replied, seeing through his intent.
Loki wasn't asking about Asgard's survival; he was asking for her opinion on the succession of the throne. Her answer was simple: "Your family drama is none of my business."
"Loki, the Sorcerer Supreme does not interfere in such matters. Asgard will endure on Earth. Have faith in our brother; Tyr can handle this," Thor said earnestly.
His words made Loki want to slap him. Loki remembered their pact: he would do whatever it took to put Thor on the throne. And yet, this idiot had handed Mjolnir to Tyr the moment he had the chance.
"Can Tyr even lift Mjolnir?" Loki asked, his lip twitching.
Thor recalled the meeting. "Father seemed to grant Tyr the power to wield it. At least, I saw him holding it, though he let go quite quickly."
"Clearly, Father did not intend for Tyr to be the heir," Loki said, his eyes turning red with frustration. "You are the God of Thunder! The master of Mjolnir! Odin's chosen king! And you just... gave up your birthright?!"
"Loki, don't be like that. Tyr is better suited for this than I am. He's managed Asgard's affairs for thousands of years—longer than we've even been alive. Have faith in him; he will restore Asgard's glory."
Thor patted his brother's shoulder with a patronizing fondness.
"You! I... Ugh!" Loki sputtered, his emotions far too volatile for actual words.
"You two can continue your sibling bonding after I leave. I have work to do. Thor, find me once you return to Harrogath. I'll be back to continue Loki's lessons."
The Ancient One found their dynamic hilarious, but it would have been rude to laugh in their faces. She quickly opened a golden portal and stepped through to the gates of Harrogath, where she finally let out a peal of laughter.
"Hahaha! How on earth did Odin raise those two? It's too much!"
Her laughter smoothed the lines of her face, making her look younger. The stillness of her aura, usually like the surface of a deep well, rippled with life.
Then, she noticed Anderson—looking like a giant tin can in his full armor—standing before her. Though his face was hidden by his visor, she knew his expression was likely one of pure bewilderment. She cleared her throat, smoothed her robes, and walked toward the cliffs behind the Temple of the Elders as if nothing had happened.
Once she was out of earshot, Anderson's muffled voice echoed from inside his helmet. "That's the Sorcerer Supreme? How did her predecessor choose her? I thought she'd be more... majestic. This is bizarre."
Anderson had taken over some of the gate-keeping duties from the Three Ancients. Most of the time, he stood like a statue, silent and unmoving. Thanks to him, the Three Ancients had a bit more free time to roam.
"The Sorcerer Supreme is still human. Why shouldn't she have emotions?" Madawc appeared beside Anderson, carrying a brand-new Grief blade.
"As long as there is thought, there is emotion. As long as one weighs pros and cons, hatred and joy follow like shadows. Even Imperius feels rage; even Tyrael feels despair. Why would you think otherwise?"
Madawc was curious about Anderson, the only subordinate Imperius had gathered in all these years.
"I only knew of the gods through books," Anderson replied, remaining motionless.
"And who wrote those books? The gods' diaries? Who actually writes a diary these days?" Madawc scoffed. As a former seer, Madawc had unique perspectives on everything.
"I suppose not," Anderson muttered.
Was the Bible written by God? Obviously not. It was a record of his deeds written by followers. And Anderson was certain the Bible didn't mention Imperius...
"Exactly. Followers need a perfect god to anchor their faith, so the god tries to look perfect to receive that faith. If your god spent all his time cursing and drinking himself under the table, would you worship him?"
Madawc spoke with the tone of an elder. This was why Barbarians never placed blind faith in any single deity—not even the Immortal King. Who in their right mind would worship a short-tempered alcoholic? Or a crude brute whose head was filled with "I am the strongest," "pretty women," and "don't run, you coward"?
Worusk was exactly that kind of guy. Barbarians followed the strongest leader, shedding blood and sweat—and occasionally spit—for survival and justice. Cassius was the gold standard for that.
"So, gods don't exist?" Anderson asked.
"Gods exist, but perfection does not."
Leoric appeared at the gates, swaying slightly as he walked. He had just been kicked out of the Temple of the Elders by a fed-up Bul-Kathos.
"The Skeleton King? I've heard your story from the souls. You were a great man," Anderson said, his familiar bayonets appearing in his hands.
"And because I was 'great,' you want to fight me? I may not be a match for those monsters, but you're still miles behind. Even Imperius couldn't do anything to me."
Leoric's jawbone clattered as he spoke, his voice sounding like a challenge.
"I'm just used to reacting to non-human entities. I know you aren't the enemy," Anderson said, retracting the bayonets and pulling a long spear from his back.
It was his reward from Bul-Kathos for guarding the gate: a replica of the legendary Skywarden. It was a Primal Ancient weapon forged by Bul-Kathos himself. The original Skywarden was a relic discovered during the Eternal Conflict, its creator unknown, its surface scarred by demonic blood and millennia of battle.
As a vassal of Imperius, Anderson found the weapon a perfect fit. He was the messenger carrying the will of High Heavens into the mortal realm. Though Imperius was the only Archangel currently present, that wouldn't last. The High Heavens were drawing close to this world; Bul-Kathos could feel the massive architecture of the Diamond Gates approaching. Soon, resurrecting Auriel and Tyrael would be a simple task, unlike the ordeal required for Imperius.
"You point that spear at me and say you don't want to fight?" Leoric scratched his skull, a dry, grating sound like fingernails on a chalkboard.
"I am a subordinate of the Archangel of Valor. In your presence, I uphold his will," Anderson said, his voice flat.
"Imperius doesn't fight me every time we meet, either." Leoric felt a phantom headache. It wasn't that he feared Anderson; he just didn't want to start a fight on the Barbarians' Sacred Mountain. If he didn't actively restrain his power, his chilling aura would sweep across the peak.
Bul-Kathos had already warned him twice to behave. Three strikes and you're out; Leoric didn't want to find out if the third provocation would lead to Bul-Kathos stuffing his bones into the Black Soulstone.
A rational Skeleton King couldn't fight Diablo—he knew fear too well—but he could certainly handle beating up Andariel inside a soulstone. Aside from Diablo, only Azmodan and Mephisto could truly suppress him. But Azmodan was currently a tattoo on Bul-Kathos's back, and Mephisto was likely the next target on the menu. Until Diablo was dealt with, Leoric wasn't all that useful.
"Yes. Which is why I am speaking to you civilly," Anderson said, his spear still leveled at Leoric's chest. "I am simply stating my stance."
"Alright, weren't we just talking about gods? I know a thing or two about them," Madawc laughed, slapping Anderson on the shoulder before giving Leoric a "get lost" look.
Madawc might only last a few minutes against Leoric in a real fight, but this was Harrogath. He had no reason to fear the Skeleton King here.
"Madawc, you'd better pray we never meet outside of Harrogath. I'll shatter every bone in your body," Leoric hissed before vanishing.
He retreated to the Realm of Death. Even if that Death gave him a headache, it was better than being bullied by Barbarians.
"None of you had better leave this mountain!" Leoric muttered as he reappeared in the dark realm.
"Did someone upset you? I can bring their souls here for you to vent on," the voice of Death whispered, sounding almost eager for his attention.
"You? Hmph!"
Leoric sat boldly upon Death's throne, resting his skull on his hand with a scoff.
Before Bul-Kathos had consumed Azmodan, Death might have been a threat. But now? If Death showed even a hint of hostility toward the Barbarians, Leoric would likely be the one trying to figure out how to bail her out of the Black Soulstone.
A world's Death cannot vanish, for it would break the balance—unless Bul-Kathos consumed her and became the new rule of mortality.
And did a Raging Barbarian care about consequences? Leoric highly doubted it.
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