"Oh, Kanai..." Worusk sighed inwardly. The great warrior who once stood before him was now a past he preferred not to dwell upon.
"Is it alright if I just wander around?" John Constantine asked, sounding nonchalant. Nearby, Bruce Wayne had already stood up and walked into the distance. Qual-Kehk would handle the tactical arrangements; Wayne intended to observe with his own eyes and feel the weight of the coming war.
"Tyrael? I never imagined you would actually make such a choice."
Baal stood not far away, addressing the Archangel. Neither was the true physical entity, but as consciousnesses personally entrusted to Bul-Kathos, they were fully aware of the stakes of this gamble.
"Baal, if you intend to fight me here, you'd best consider the consequences," Tyrael's consciousness snapped. They were unaware of the recent events in the Burning Hells, and thus remained relatively restrained. Defying Bul-Kathos's will was a dangerous game.
"You are merely a witness. I am the one who has to face the ceaseless assault of these Barbarians. It's hardly fair—especially since what you've done isn't so different from what we've done," Baal said. His eyes flickered—a break from his usual role as the singular Lord of Destruction.
"Is your consciousness unable to control Mephisto's power?" Tyrael asked with a sneer. The bodies of the Two Evils in this Secret Realm were constructed from the essence of the fallen Mephisto. The shred of consciousness Baal had provided seemed insufficient to fully harness that power.
"Quiet. This body and mind are merely sacrifices for Bul-Kathos anyway. I won't waste effort controlling them," Baal dismissed. Regardless of the outcome, he would surrender it all.
"I suspect your brother won't let this opportunity slip by so easily. Diablo will appear. I am only curious to see how he intends to make Bul-Kathos hesitate," Tyrael said, turning his gaze away. Looking at a Prime Evil only made him feel a deep, visceral disgust. "It's beginning."
The final clash between Bul-Kathos and Raekor was the signal.
"COME ON!"
Bul-Kathos let out a provocative roar and initiated the charge himself. His injured arm was held high, pointed like a blade at Raekor's throat. He could have simply overwhelmed her with raw power to claim victory, but that would lack the spirit of a Barbarian King. To defeat a challenger of his own kin, he had to meet them at their strongest point.
"HA!"
Raekor's voice rang out. Her scarred body lunged forward. Right or wrong didn't matter now. There was only one answer left, and she would find it in Bul-Kathos's strike.
The two figures collided in a blur. Bul-Kathos's hand clamped around Raekor's throat, his immense strength driving her backward. It was a pure disparity of power.
"Bul-Kathos... you truly will be... the greatest Immortal King!" Raekor laughed, even as her throat was constricted. She knew. She had always known. Bul-Kathos was no slave to righteousness; he was still a man.
The sound of shattering bone echoed from Raekor's legs. Under the crushing weight of Bul-Kathos's power, she forced her retreat to a halt. A Bull never retreats during a lock.
She twisted her shoulder and slammed it into Bul-Kathos's chest. This was no longer the Furious Charge skill; it was the sheer, stubborn will of Raekor, leader of the Bull Tribe. The spikes on her pauldrons pierced deep into his chest. Blood erupted from his previous wounds, and red foam sprayed from his lips.
"An Immortal King who failed to protect his people from death?" Bul-Kathos laughed, his voice laced with self-deprecation.
He released his grip on her throat and delivered a heavy kick to her midsection, sending the mighty warrior tumbling into the snow.
"That's different. You've done far better than Worusk ever did," Raekor said, still laughing as she lay on the ground. Dragging her broken legs, she forced herself to stand once more. "Only you can inherit the title of Immortal King. I am just a warrior who has already died once."
Raekor pulled out a crude mace—the only weapon Jere Harash had left when she saved him from the Samuren.
"I liked Wynton as a comrade, but I hated Jere Harash!" Bul-Kathos adjusted the belt at his waist—Cassius's Pride. It would extend the duration of his Ignore Pain, though he no longer truly needed its power. It was his gesture of mercy to Raekor—a clear signal of how he intended to face her ultimate strike.
"You aren't using the Ring of Power?" Raekor asked, smiling.
"There is no need. I may not have studied your legendary set, but I have other ways." Bul-Kathos glanced at the gates, where his three brothers-in-arms stood. He wore the Ancients' Fury pauldrons, allowing the Three Ancients to shoulder a portion of the damage for him. It was a silent pact; in their long years of war, their lives had long since merged into one.
"Madawc and the others?" Raekor's eyes softened. She once had companions like that. But not long ago, she had ended one of them with her own hands.
"It is every ancestor standing upon Harrogath's soil! Every comrade who witnessed my growth!"
Bul-Kathos brought his hands together. Even with one arm broken, he used his right hand to steady his swaying left, forming the shape of a hammer before him.
"Hammer of the Ancients. Let this strike witness the end! Then, let the gamble begin! Let the glory of the Barbarians ignite in this new world!"
As he spoke, the transformation of Harrogath was complete. The Holy Mountain was now the Fortress of Harrogath of old. Every warrior on this land was ready. Their fury could no longer be contained.
"Bul-Kathos... say a word of regret for the death of Jere Harash!"
Raekor raised her mace high. Her legs were trembling. A 275-fold explosion of power was more than a broken body should be able to bear, but she did not hesitate. The lover or the tribe? Raekor had never made the wrong choice.
What she wanted now wasn't Bul-Kathos's apology, nor his death. She wanted Jere Harash's name to be remembered as a Hero.
"He was not a hero of the Barbarians, but he was your hero, Raekor! I truly regret that he made the choice he did!"
Bul-Kathos's voice was low, his entire body coiled like a spring. The phantom of the Judgment Hammer appeared between his hands.
"Then judge it all, and let Jere Harash's story find its final period!"
"Raekor! After this, you will no longer be called an 'Ancestor'! You will be a blade! A warrior! A person who is loved!"
The dialogue ended. Two titanic Hammers of the Ancients manifested in their hands. The hammer in Raekor's grip was so condensed that the surrounding space seemed to collapse toward it. It was the physical embodiment of "weight." On the head of the hammer, only one name was visible: Jere Harash. On the handle, the word Hero was engraved.
The hammer in Bul-Kathos's hands was massive and grotesque, its surface covered in murals. There was Cassius falling after losing both arms; Madawc turning to ash before Baal; the furious faces of countless ancestors in the final explosion.
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