Kehjistan calendar, autumn of year 1275.
At the northernmost border of Westmarch stood Bastion's Keep. Built on high latitudes, it was wrapped in snow and ice all year long. The fortress was Westmarch's largest, most remote, and strongest bastion.
Its original purpose had been to resist the Barbarians of the north. Now, with the Barbarians nearly extinct—mere relics of a bygone age—the fortress had been repurposed as the closest base to the Arreat Crater, a secret stronghold used to train the new generation of elite warriors from across the nations.
Before dawn, snowflakes like goose feathers still danced in the air. A black-haired, yellow-skinned young man of average build had been training in the yard for a long while. He breathed the biting air, sweat soaking his forehead and back.
As the sky paled, the training grounds grew livelier.
A tall blond man, no less than two meters in height, strode toward the youth, calling out as he came:
"Hey, Leo, good morning. Five years now and you're still this diligent. Are you some kind of automaton, never tiring? Poor guy, though—no sparring partner again today?"
Leo looked at his friend, this man who seemed to radiate light wherever he went, dazzling like a hero from legend—noble in character, strong in power, and striking in appearance.
Here in the keep, where Leo spent all his time training, he had only made one friend: Reinhardt.
Frank and boisterous, his origins shrouded in mystery, Reinhardt often hinted at secrets no ordinary man could know. They had first bonded when both were punished for sneaking wine in the keep. From then on, they had become drinking companions.
"Hart, with you—the rookie king—here, who else could be a better sparring partner?" Leo smiled, taking a tower shield from the rack, then choosing a short spear.
Reinhardt frowned, his face sagging into mock complaint:
"Your skin is thicker than that shield. No wonder no one can stand you, 'Battle-mad Leo.'"
Seeing Leo ready, Reinhardt hefted a massive greatsword and continued to tease:
"Leo, spare me. The world's huge, full of mysteries. This 'rookie king' title doesn't fit. Your thick hide is the only thing I've never managed to cut. One day I'll be the true king of rookies."
Leo ignored the jibe. Between the two of them there was an easy understanding, like schoolmates who insulted each other as a form of affection.
"Hart, here I come—better guard those parts you won't want skewered." Leo charged with shield raised, striking before Reinhardt could even set his stance.
Reinhardt thrived on straight-on combat, his favorite thing in the world being power clashing against power. With a shout, he swung the greatsword in a mighty vertical cut. Leo knew his friend's strength was immense—he was the keep's unmatched powerhouse.
No blocking that head-on. As sword and shield neared, Leo braced the shield's bottom against the ground, forming a triangle with his body and the earth to absorb the blow. Before Reinhardt could adjust, Leo's short spear darted low.
He knew Reinhardt's weakness: though first among the keep's recruits, Reinhardt always met foes on their own terms, relying on sheer force to overwhelm them.
"Leo, your turtle style is as shameless as ever. Can't you face me squarely?" Reinhardt hopped back, barely dodging the sly thrust. A chill brushed his inner thigh, and his expression grew serious.
Leo pressed the attack—shield crashing, spear stabbing. His style wasn't flawless, but it drained opponents over time. Once their stamina ebbed, he could end things with a lightning strike. Or, a foe with a hammer might break him in one swing.
But Reinhardt would never choose evasion or another weapon. Proud, he would always meet his opponent's blows head-on, countering with greater force.
Another horizontal cut came. Leo absorbed it with his shield, but the impact rattled him. Though the ground dispersed some power, taking Reinhardt's strikes twice in a row left him reeling.
He envied Reinhardt's natural gifts. Yet the less gifted had to carve out their own strength.
For Leo, that strength was experience—two lifetimes' worth. From his past life he borrowed the Spartan method: the most efficient melee combination of tower shield and short spear. His "turtle tactics" had earned him a name in the keep—though often called shameless.
Shield-bash, defend, thrust. In moments, they had exchanged over fifty rounds. Leo's arm was numb from gripping the shield, but Reinhardt's trousers were shredded from near misses.
Reinhardt spotted his friend's fatigue and capitalized. With a clever strike, he disrupted Leo's defense at an angle he couldn't absorb. Power crashed into shield, which bounced into Leo's forehead, launching him backward.
"Leo, the match is decided. But you lasted a couple more moves this time—you're improving fast."
Leo's head rang from the blow, the world spinning. A salty, fishy tang filled his nose—so familiar. Memories surged like a flood.
His past life was hazy now, only the exhaustion of endless pay-to-win games remained. The old thrill of grinding through nights had long died. By chance, he had returned to a classic: Diablo II.
He rolled a Hardcore Paladin, nervously installed a stash mod—just an expanded chest, hardly cheating, right?
He made it to Nightmare difficulty. While exploring Nihlathak's Temple, he foolishly opened Cain's Notebook app on his phone for reference. By the time he looked back, a bugged serpent had killed him.
Those snakes converted poison damage into physical. And in Diablo II, defense couldn't block physical damage—it only reduced hit chance. If it connected, the damage was real.
His character was gone, now just another cloaked spirit, forever remembered.
After months of grinding, all wasted. Rage surged, his chest seized, blood filled his mouth, and darkness swallowed him.
When he woke, he was an infant—reborn.
As he grew, fragments of his old life surfaced. But the dead were gone, the world had changed, and there was no return. He let go of the past.
No cheats, no golden finger. Just a normal child. Leaving the great, peaceful motherland, he behaved with utmost care, masking himself as an obedient darling.
In a quiet fishing village of Westmarch, he lived ten happy years. Loving parents, an adoring little sister, and kind neighbors.
That peace shattered when he turned ten.
One bright morning, breathing the sea's salt, he ran into the forest to visit a reclusive old hermit. It had taken much effort to earn the bear-like elder's approval.
On the way, a flash seared the sky. Pain stabbed his eyes, blinding him. He collapsed, clawing the ground to crawl toward safety. His head struck a rock, dizziness swept him, and he curled beneath it, praying for survival. A roar of thunder followed, and he lost consciousness.
When he woke, he was in his bed. Outside, the sunset bled red across the sky, northern flames lit the horizon, and smoke blanketed the world. Only one thought filled him: apocalypse.
Days later, regaining strength, he sought the old man. News spread: the Arreat Mountains had exploded. The cause unknown. Now the range was a crater, and the Barbarians nearly extinct.
Cause unknown? He knew better. This was Diablo II's ending cinematic. Barbarians had guarded the Worldstone for generations. But when Baal corrupted it, Tyrael feared Hell's dominion and, after the heroes defeated Baal, struck it with his sword—shattering the Worldstone. And Leo, in this world, had been caught in the fallout.
This was Diablo's world. Here, human life was worth less than a dog's. To demons, mankind was just another herd animal.
Night after night he woke in terror, clutching his blanket like a shield against the dark.
One evening, staggering home, his mother Aisha intercepted him, equal parts worried and angry:
"Mephisto, Baal, Diablo—the Three Prime Evils have already been banished by the heroes. Why drive yourself so hard? Do you want us to attend your funeral?"
He couldn't answer. How could he tell her they'd return in twenty years, stronger than before?
His father, Tem, mistook his silence for youthful rebellion. To comfort his wife and assert his wisdom, he shared tavern gossip:
"The four heroes who survived Baal formed an alliance among nations. With the world at peace, economies thrive. Training camps are built across every realm, gathering youths to forge elites, sent to secret bases for even greater instruction—even in mystical arts."
He nodded for emphasis: "Yes, with mankind united, we are stronger than ever."
Leo froze. A soldier himself, and a player who knew Diablo II, he understood armies meant little before High Demons. But his father had said it clearly: training in mystical powers.
Worldwide recruitment, cultivating mystical power? That wasn't in Diablo II. Was this Diablo III's plotline? He barely knew that game.
Regret stung. Why hadn't he played all three?
…
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