"What makes you think I would tell you anything just because you asked?"
Vorusk stood unyielding as the filth and gore rained down upon him, his eyes flickering with a cold intensity as he stared at Madawc. His massive, imposing frame did not waver; there was no hint of retreat in his posture. Perhaps, in Vorusk's eyes, there was nothing left in this world worthy of making him back down.
"Hmph. The Great Immortal King didn't even make it to the battlefield back then," Madawc shouted, his voice booming over the din of slaughter. With a casual swing of his axe, he pulped a cluster of demons into a spray of mangled flesh. "What makes you think I'd fear your power now?"
Madawc didn't bother to look back at Vorusk's reaction. He simply didn't care. What was the worst that could happen? Would Vorusk strike him down upon the Holy Mountain? Or perhaps exile him from Harrogath in the name of the Immortal King?
It was a laughable thought. The Three Ancients were the gatekeepers chosen by the first Bul-Kathos himself—a mandate that even Vorusk lacked the authority to overturn.
"Madawc, shut your mouth! Focus on clearing the filth from the mountain gates!" Talic barked, finally losing his patience.
It wasn't out of a desire to protect Vorusk's feelings or fear of his wrath; a Barbarian feared nothing lightly. Talic simply believed that, for the moment, the slaughter was more important than the bickering.
"A tedious question," Vorusk remarked, his expression darkening.
Beneath the layers of demonic ichor coating his face, a flicker of disappointment—subtle and fleeting—passed through his eyes, unnoticed by the others. When the end had come, Vorusk hadn't been there to watch it all crumble into the worst possible conclusion. An Immortal King who was already a ghost could hardly stop Rathma while simultaneously keeping watch over the rest of the world.
Without another word, Vorusk began to walk silently across the battlefield. His iron-shod boots crunched through the slush of blood and snow, his gait heavy and awkward. With every step, the viscous gore clinging to his soles pulled away from the earth in long, revolting threads. There was no scent of soil here, no breath of nature—only the overwhelming stench of rot.
The memory of that one-sided massacre remained a jagged scar in Vorusk's heart. How could a man take pride in a life preserved only by the cataclysmic explosion of the Worldstone?
"What's our mission now?"
Korlic asked, his voice muffled by the demon flesh he had just stomped into a pulp. He spat out a stray bit of gristle that had splashed into his mouth, his gaze wandering toward the horizon.
"You think a gatekeeper has other duties? Korlic, it's enough to ensure these maggots don't take a single step past the gates!" Talic swung his greatsword in a wide arc, the resulting whirlwind clearing a circle of bloody mist around them. "Leave the counteroffensive to Kanai. Our job is to hold the line."
"Then why is Vorusk here? Just to watch us grind these husks into dust?" Madawc asked, watching the Immortal King's retreating figure.
The Three Ancients could not fathom Vorusk's intent. This Rift was different. Zoltun Kulle had meddled, and now Archangels and Prime Evils were descending into the fray. What else was hidden in the shadows? Vorusk needed to see it with his own eyes, to fulfill his duty as both witness and judge.
It was just one battle—yet it was a battle that ripped open the scars buried deep within the hearts of countless ancestors.
"Ancestor Orak... are you going to lead us into the fight?"
Jessica looked at the towering figure before her, her voice hesitating. Orak was not an ancestor who had fallen in this specific war; he belonged to a far more ancient era. This was not his battlefield, nor was it the source of his lingering obsession. Yet, even he looked upon this reenactment of tragedy with a profound, aching sorrow.
As Jessica stared at Orak, she felt a shift. The ancestor who had always been as gentle as a grandfather now felt cold. It made her skin crawl with unease.
"No. I am only here to ensure the safety of you two," Orak said, closing his eyes.
Though his brow wasn't furrowed, his hand gripped the Blade of the War God so tightly his knuckles were white. He did not want to see a single moment of this battle. He feared that if he looked, he wouldn't be able to restrain the urge to charge at the Archangels and the Prime Evils in a fit of suicidal rage.
A warrior's best end was to die in battle, but the ultimate glory was victory. Orak's death had bought that glory; it had ensured the survival of the Barbarian race. He had no complaints about his fate.
But what would victory in this battle bring?
When the dust settled, the ancestors participating would only be left with a sharper, fresher grief for the tragedies of the past. The entire burden would fall on Bul-Kathos's shoulders.
It wasn't fair. To a warrior, it wasn't fair at all.
And these... "warriors"? Orak looked at the crowd. He didn't see the fire he expected. Could these people, who looked like tourists visiting a ruin, truly be called warriors?
"Then... which direction should we start fighting from?" Luke asked, trying to break the heavy silence. He could feel the tension in the air, but he had no better way to diffuse it than to ask a seemingly dense question.
Jessica squeezed his hand, her expression calm. She wasn't nervous. Bul-Kathos had promised the ancestors would protect them. The knowledge that death was off the table allowed her to relax.
Madawc had no intention of taking Luke into the thick of it. Luke wasn't cut out for guarding the gates of the Holy Mountain. To be a Gatekeeper was a sacred honor, a title recognized by the First Ancestor himself. Luke was nowhere near that level.
"Start from whichever direction the demons are coming from," Orak said dismissively. "And try your best to stay alive."
His gaze shifted to two figures standing nearby: Abomination and the Purple Man. Guarding these two—creatures tainted with the faint, lingering scent of Diablo—was also his task. It felt like an insult to his legend; the War God Orak could provide far more utility on the front lines. But Orak's entire life had been spent turning the tide of hopeless battles. For now, the situation hadn't reached that breaking point.
"Let's go, Luke!" Jessica pulled Luke toward the towering sentry towers.
It was a relatively safe vantage point. Under General Qual-Kehk's orders, the recruits were stationed along the battlements and towers. Whether they chose to throw axes or loose arrows was up to them. If they felt their contributions were meaningless from above, they were free to charge into the fray—but this wasn't their war. The recruits were just here to observe. The scales of victory would never be moved by their hands.
Jessica didn't notice Orak's disappointment. Or perhaps, once Orak chose to close his eyes and remain motionless, his emotions became a fortress she couldn't breach.
"Ancestor! When will I be worthy of inheriting the responsibility of the Great Bear Clan?" Jessica shouted back over her shoulder.
Orak did not answer.
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