"I suppose you're the one that babbling fool is always going on about—Bul-Kathos?"
A woman's silhouette emerged step by step from the heart of the Burning Hells, eventually coming to a halt before the Immortal King.
"And while we're at it," she added, her eyes drifting sideways, "how should I address the one standing beside you?"
She wore a crown that branched out like skeletal antlers, lending her an eerie, jagged silhouette. The aura she radiated wasn't exactly weak, yet it fell short of being truly formidable. With an air of casual indifference, she raised a hand, gently blowing on a fingernail as if bored by the very fabric of reality.
Bul-Kathos had no intention of wasting breath on her. The stench of demons clung to her like a shroud; specifically, the power she had siphoned from Mephisto made his brow furrow in distaste.
Was she someone who had willingly descended into depravity? Or was she a soul driven to the brink by despair, left with no choice but to embrace the darkness?
Though she carried the sharp, disciplined presence of an elite warrior, there was a glaring anomaly: he could detect no trace of Sin within her.
This was impossible. No one who became a sycophant of the Hells could remain untainted. To inherit the power of a Great Evil was to inherit a portion of their fundamental Sin. A wielder of demonic power without Sin? Even the most fanciful fairy tales wouldn't dare such a premise.
"A follower of demons? Truly a pity," Johanna spoke up, her voice ringing with the iron-clad certainty of her faith. "Fortunately, I am here to correct this mistake."
Sacred energy began to coalesce around Johanna, thickening into a tangible pressure that bore down on the woman. Most who followed demons eventually lost their sanity and their sense of self, leaving very little behind worth saving. Even if they hadn't yet committed an atrocity, their twisted souls usually drifted beyond the reach of redemption.
But this woman was different.
She held the power of a Hellish Lord, yet her original soul remained the master. She had not become a distorted monstrosity. While Johanna couldn't fathom how she had kept the scent of Sin at bay, she knew one thing: once she "saved" this person, the threat would vanish.
"You should at least answer a question with an answer, rather than presuming to lecture me on my life," the woman said, dropping her hand. Long, razor-sharp nails extended from her fingertips like talons. Her gaze sharpened, though a layer of haughty detachment remained.
"By the way, my name is Hela. Child of Odin."
Hela finally offered her name, but unlike Thor, there was no thunderous pride in her voice. To her, the title seemed less like an honor and more like a long, waking nightmare.
"In my eyes, you are merely a soul to be pitied," Johanna declared. "Now, I shall redeem you! I shall tear the influence of the Great Evils from your spirit!"
The holy light surrounding Johanna transformed into a magnificent, high-stepping celestial steed. Barbed iron chains, glowing with divine fury, lashed out and bound Hela tight!
Crusader Skill: Steed Charge — Draw and Quarter.
This was the only rune for the skill that focused entirely on Holy power. In Johanna's hands, this sacred energy would wash over the bound victim. To a being fully turned into a demon, it was an agonizing execution. But for a free soul, it was a redemption paved in holy fire and pain.
At her peak, Hela's power was roughly on par with Odin's. Even with the shards of power granted by Mephisto and Baal, she was in no position to challenge Johanna. Johanna was a powerhouse capable of dueling a Prime Evil in single combat—and even the Evils themselves lacked the strength to truly break her.
"Hah!"
Johanna gave the command. The celestial steed, bound to her soul by ancient oaths, let out a sharp whinny and surged forward. When a Crusader was on the move, they were only slightly slower than a Demon Hunter who spent their time rolling and tumbling. Even Bul-Kathos found it difficult to keep pace with Johanna once she broke into a gallop.
Johanna's style of combat favored facing the elites of Hell; clearing out common fodder was never her preference. The warhorse vanished in a blur of light, dragging Hela behind it. As they disappeared, a brilliant, sanctified radiance began to erupt from Hela's body.
The "salvation" had begun.
"I hope you can... forget it."
Bul-Kathos's warning died in his throat as Johanna and Hela vanished into the distance. He gave up on trying to intervene. Johanna wouldn't kill her, so there was no need for excessive concern. Though Odin was missing, he was still a comrade-in-arms on the side of Justice. Bul-Kathos didn't want to have to tell the All-Father that his daughter had been slain upon his return.
Hela would be purged of the demonic taint. Whatever Johanna decided to do beyond that was of little consequence. The power of a Crusader could be instilled into others this way, provided the recipient could learn something from the experience. Otherwise, it simply risked creating a hollow devotee whose heart was drowned in holiness rather than a true warrior.
Johanna wouldn't get lost. Though most Nephalem rarely memorized maps, they could navigate by the trail of corpses they left behind. Besides, with waypoints and Town Portals, no Nephalem was ever truly stranded.
"Now then, Lords of Hell," Bul-Kathos muttered, clenching his fist. He turned his gaze toward a secluded corner, his eyes eventually settling on the throne of the Burning Hells.
The moment Johanna had dragged Hela away, the presence of the Great Evils had leaked from that direction. Bul-Kathos couldn't tell if this was a "poisoned apple" or a "gift bag," but the scent of the Prime Evils was now undeniably thick within the air of the Burning Hells. It was likely too late to stop whatever they had planned.
But it didn't matter. Bul-Kathos feared no foe. It was worth asking, however; perhaps the Lords of Hell would be arrogant enough to reveal their thoughts. They weren't fools enough to lay out their entire plan, but a conspiracy was no fun if there was no one to admire it. When it came to inconsequential details, they were never stingy. The Lords of Hell were perpetually narcissistic, maintaining a ridiculous, cruel "grace" even on the verge of defeat.
"We want you dead. Will you oblige?"
A flickering, ethereal voice drifted from the throne. It was devoid of emotion, yet the blatant contempt within the words was unmistakable.
The figures of Baal and Mephisto, shrouded in mist, were already seated upon their respective thrones. The central seat should have belonged to Mephisto, but it was now Diablo's place. Thus, the two sat to the left and right, leaving the highest seat vacant.
The moment Hela had distracted Bul-Kathos and Johanna, they had seized the opportunity to return to the heart of their power.
"Now, Bul-Kathos. Unless you can shatter the entirety of the Burning Hells, we are immortal," Baal spoke. "We have reclaimed the essence of our power, and you lack the strength to destroy this realm. Even the Black Soulstone cannot tear our souls from the Burning Hells now!"
Bul-Kathos knew that voice well. During the Battle of Arreat, he had heard Baal's hollow, echoing roars. Those were days of profound agony—days he would never forget.
"But I can stay here forever," Bul-Kathos growled. "And you will be forced to stare back at me from your thrones for all eternity! I see you. I have locked onto you. It is your turn to enjoy an unending sense of crisis. Destruction! Hatred!"
Fury rippled through Bul-Kathos like waves on water. He tightened his grip on the legendary blade, Azurewrath.
He did not accept threats.
So they couldn't be sealed? So what? Bul-Kathos would leave the two Great Evils in a state of living death under the might of a Barbarian. Forget plotting evil deeds—once Bul-Kathos took up his vigil, not even a single Fallen would dare to be born in the Burning Hells.
"But you cannot do that," Baal's voice grew louder, as if volume equated to logic—a trait common among predators in the jungle of life. "Because Diablo and Belial are still out there."
To Belial, noise was everything. Bul-Kathos recalled the joke about "the True Form of a Lord of Hell." Kharazim had once claimed he wouldn't even need to put on his spirit stones to punch Belial's true form into mincemeat. Loudness was merely noise.
"Even if Johanna is here, you cannot watch over us forever. You must leave eventually," Baal said calmly, pointedly ignoring the Archangels of the High Heavens.
How much trust could a Nephalem truly place in the Archangels? Was there truly no rift between them? It was a question that required little thought; the Barbarians would never fully trust Tyrael. And after Malthael had nearly ended the world, the Nephalem could never again look upon the Archangels with total faith.
"How would a lone Prime Evil face three Archangels who are free to act?" Bul-Kathos countered. "Even if Itherael stays hidden, Tyrael, Imperius, and Auriel can come here at any moment to cave in your skulls."
The Azurewrath in his hand pulsed with light. The final will of the Angel Izual still clung to the legendary blade. Having wielded it for so long, Bul-Kathos had long ago touched the last noble conviction Izual held before his fall.
Spare the Lords of Hell? Impossible.
On his rocky throne, Baal stood up and took two steps forward. An aura of Destruction, designed to incite primal terror, crashed against Bul-Kathos. It was useless. Bul-Kathos knew no fear; he looked upon the display of destruction with a sideways glance, as if watching a pathetic comedy.
"However," Baal's silhouette solidified from the shadows, his eyes locked onto the Barbarian, "they will not have the chance to strike."
Compared to his brothers, Baal appeared more regal, possessing the true gravitas of a king. Yet, his power meant nothing to Bul-Kathos. Bul-Kathos didn't even register the threat. Whether Itherael revealed his true self or whether Imperius had some secret link to the Hells was irrelevant. Since Imperius had handed over his Archangelic essence, the two were bound together.
"Nonsense!"
Bul-Kathos swung Azurewrath. A frigid hurricane erupted, instantly dropping the sweltering temperature of the Burning Hells. A verdant blade of light sliced through Baal's body and crashed into his throne. Yet there was no dust, no sound of impact. The Hells had birthed these thrones; they were the very laws of the realm made manifest—the cradle of the Evils.
Baal didn't even cry out in pain. His wound knit back together in an instant.
"They want to end you more than I do," Bul-Kathos roared with disdain, his weapon glowing once more. "Their hatred for demons is longer than my very lifespan!"
"But you will not stay here forever, King of the Barbarians. Have you ever seen a king who is never upon his throne? You will leave, and sooner than you think."
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