The power of Destruction scorched the Archangel of Justice. From the darkness beneath the hood, a piercing light erupted. Tyrael was giving his all. That single punch made Tyrael's body waver.
A sense of fulfillment filled Baal's heart. Even in the battle that triggered the explosion of Mount Arreat, he and Mephisto together hadn't managed to inflict any real damage on Tyrael. But things were different now. Destruction was no longer what it once was.
"Prime Evil! You cannot stop the descent of Justice!" Tyrael swung his own fist at Baal's head.
His voice carried a suppressed weight. He knew he could no longer save the Skeleton King. Facing this empowered Baal, Tyrael was about to break his word.
Justice is eternal!
Light converged on Tyrael's body as his fist punched clean through Baal's face. The hideous visage of the Lord of Destruction seemed to be ignited, wisps of blue smoke rising from the wound. In the next heartbeat, the light transformed into a shimmering divine sword that pierced Baal's chest.
"But I can stop you from saving a soul that should have vanished long ago!" Baal gripped Tyrael's blade with his other hand, black miasma erupting from his palm.
As the power of Destruction hammered against Tyrael, Oblivion's attack finally landed on Leoric.
"You are as fragile as a weed by the roadside. 'Skeleton King'? What a boastful name," Oblivion's voice rang out again, the void appearing behind Leoric. "My sister does not have the strength to stop me. The Authority of Life? The end of all things rests in my palm."
As Oblivion spoke, the Skeleton King's body began to disintegrate, inch by inch.
"But can you end... emotion?" Leoric asked softly, opening his clenched palm. He dropped the final shard of the legendary Skeleton King's Wrath to the ground. His pauldrons glowed with a red light—the power of resurrection was manifesting.
Legends were the gifts Anu left to the world. Their status transcended simple existence. A legend only died when it was forgotten. Neither Death nor Destruction could kill a legend—only oblivion could.
The phantom of the hideous mace appeared in Leoric's hand again, though this time it could not take physical form. Even now, Leoric refused to stop fighting. No one could make the Wise King of Khanduras surrender. Not Diablo, not Oblivion. Even when Bul-Kathos stood before him, he had never once bowed.
"Faded into naught!" That was the last time Oblivion's voice would ring out.
Leoric's reforming body was suddenly covered in cracks. Then, like a Prince Rupert's Drop with its tail snapped, he began to turn into powder, scattering across the ground. Oblivion's power was something the Skeleton King could not withstand.
"It ends here," Leoric whispered as he felt his body slip from his control. He had fought, he had used the gifts of that somewhat simple, infatuated goddess, but he still couldn't find a sliver of life before Oblivion.
The Skeleton King raised his hand and slowly straightened the crown on his head. In those hollow eye sockets, for the first time, something other than soul-fire appeared.
Eyes. Fleshy, bloodshot eyes without lids.
"I am the Skeleton King, but I am not the King of Skeletons! Tyrael... you finally stopped just watching, unlike when you let Diablo destroy me and Khanduras. But in the end, you are still powerless. Justice! How pale it is!"
Leoric's final words were spoken with a trembling jaw. His voice no longer sounded like the grating of two bones. It was the farewell of a monarch—a king once renowned throughout the world for his wisdom.
"Aidan... Leah... Albrecht, my youngest son..."
Leoric's final murmur called out to his sons and his granddaughter.
"LEORIC!"
At that moment, Death let out a piercing scream from within her palace. She stood up, feeling Leoric's erasure. Even though she had foreseen this end, even though she had tried everything to change the outcome—she was now on the brink of madness.
Mina Harker, kneeling before Death in the palace, remained silent. Mina, the undead—the vampire who had become a vassal of the Skeleton King. Her King was gone. Now, she had to fulfill Leoric's final request.
With two porcelain-white skeletal arms, she slowly presented Leoric's last legendary artifact.
The Mad King's Scepter.
Aside from his crown, this was the last legend of the Wise King of Khanduras, even if its creation was born of his madness.
"Grant my final love to my Asylla."
On the handle of the scepter, a line of text was elegantly carved in a beautiful script. Leoric had carved it himself with his own finger bones. Asylla—the name of his wife.
In his final moments, the deepest regret of the mad King Leoric was not for the subjects he had harmed, but for the wife who had given her life and still failed to wake him from his insanity.
Death tremblingly took the scepter, pressing her face against the cold metal. The lingering scent of Leoric was slowly dissipating. It was cold, like Leoric's hand; it was gentle, like a sleeping King.
"Leoric," Death said, her tone returning to a haunting calm. Perhaps she had simply accepted the result.
Every person who held one of those rings felt the urgent pull of Death. A grand ritual was beginning! A massive sacrifice of endless lives to honor the arrogant and fierce Skeleton King! And then, the arrival of new life to offer the final flowers to Leoric's memory.
"Frank, I didn't want to bother you at a time like this," Nick Fury said helplessly, sitting in his safe house.
Frank Castle held a shotgun aimed directly at Fury's stomach. If Frank pulled the trigger, this LMD (Life Model Decoy) would be saying goodbye. What happens to a normal body when hit by a shotgun at this range? It gets blown in half.
"What the hell do you want?" Frank didn't ask twice. If the answer wasn't what he wanted, he would pull the trigger. Death's ring was constantly reminding Frank that the Nick Fury before him possessed an "interesting" soul.
"Frank, please, put the gun down!" Fury's voice was anxious but sincere. He felt a profound sense of danger from the weapon as it began to be shrouded in black mist. That was power capable of harming the soul.
He was panicked. No matter how many decoys he had, Nick Fury only had one soul. If he didn't trust Frank, he would have abandoned this body and fled this dangerous place long ago.
"My patience is thin, Nick!" Frank looked at the man, hesitated for a second, and then pointed the gun at the floor. He felt Death's urging, but no one—not even a god—was going to control his will.
"What are the Barbarians doing right now?" Fury asked bluntly, though his feet were already pointed toward the door. The body is often more honest than the mind; feet pointed at the exit are a sign of the desire to leave. Facing Frank now, Fury couldn't stop his soul from trembling. This was worse than when he lost his eye.
"Nick Fury, you have three seconds to leave this body!" Frank raised the muzzle again.
"I'm just asking! We need their strength!" Fury shouted urgently.
"Three!"
"Just tell me what you know—"
"Two!"
"That's enough!"
"One!"
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