Days passed since the tragedy, officially deemed a gang clash and closed.
The Ancient One remained busy across the world, occasionally bringing Bulkathos fine wines from distant lands, lingering briefly.
As for the boy.
"Jill, you're far from ready to forge!"
Bulkathos watched Jill struggle with a hammer, gleefully chugging a bottle, savoring the liquor's burn down his throat.
"Uncle! When will you teach me to be strong?"
Jill laboriously set the hammer by the anvil, hands on hips, blue eyes gleaming with hope.
"Before becoming a warrior, you go to school!"
Bulkathos slammed the empty bottle on the table, its clink resounding.
This kid was unusually sharp—whenever Bulkathos planned to hunt down those thugs, Jill appeared at the door.
He suspected the Ancient One had cast some spell to alert the boy whenever he meant to leave.
Though Bulkathos could sense energy, he was helpless against hidden magic.
Even at the barbarians' peak, countless warriors fell to demons' obvious spells.
No one expects barbarians to be spell-sensitive; they're born brutes.
"Why school? I want to be as strong as you—no, stronger!"
Jill's bold words drew a hearty laugh from Bulkathos, shaking the humble house, dust drifting down.
"I like your directness! But barbarians aren't brainless!"
Bulkathos's face turned serious, eyeing Jill.
"You may never know waking each day to face slaughter, or survive easily in this world with sheer strength like me!"
His gravity unsettled Jill, who'd already grasped Bulkathos's straightforward nature.
"You'll live in this world. If you don't want to be like those damned thugs, your best path is to study hard!"
Bulkathos hadn't decided whether to let Jill face barbarian trials, but that choice was far off.
Even in Sanctuary, children waited until sixteen for such training.
At eleven, Jill was far from ready.
"Listen, kid! If you still want to be a warrior at sixteen, I'll consider training you. Until then, study well—aim for that Ivy-whatever school, got it?"
Bulkathos spoke sternly, earning Jill's eye-roll.
"It's the Ivy League, and by the time I get in, I'll be nearly twenty!"
Bulkathos's Earthly memories had faded; he recalled basics like money for goods but forgot trivial details.
Even firearms only came back to him upon seeing them.
"Now clean up, then we eat!"
Bulkathos felt no embarrassment—why should he?
Could it be worse than Karasim's monk landing a flurry strike in "close contact" with Aranea's spider?
Since Jill moved in, Bulkathos had brightened, life gained joy, and he slowed his weapon forging.
The smithy was cleaner too—no more floors dusted with charcoal ash counting as clean.
And Bulkathos finally got used to sleeping in a bed.
"What's for dinner? That same pizza place?"
Jill's tone dripped with disdain. As a newcomer, Bulkathos hardly knew local cuisine.
He'd found the pizza joint while shopping for supplies with Jill.
"No, tonight I'll show you my cooking!"
Bulkathos stroked his beard, excited.
As a warrior, he mostly ate rock-hard black bread, durable and imperishable.
Even Sanctuary's rats shunned it, so a stockpile ensured long-term food.
Perfect, right?
But barbarians had their delicacies, just no time for them on the battlefield.
"What? That man-killing black bread?"
Since their first meal, Jill doubted Bulkathos's palate, suspecting he loved liquor for its burn alone.
"No, meat! Barbarian-style barbecue! We only make it for the annual ancestor ritual!"
Bulkathos boomed.
Outside the smithy, the Ancient One smiled at his hearty laugh.
She left a square box outside and departed.
She was still busy worldwide—just now, she'd thrashed Mephisto in Serbia.
Next, a heart-to-heart with Dormammu.
Bulkathos sensed her arrival and knew why she left.
But how could he stop a warrior from the battlefield? This world wasn't his fight anymore.
"Are all barbarians like you?"
Jill looked at Bulkathos, inviting a story.
"Of course not! Are all your classmates like you?"
Bulkathos shot Jill a perfectly timed sneer.
Teasing the kid had become his favorite pastime.
"Each has their quirks—like that overly cautious guy.
Before every fight, he'd carry six or seven weapons and three armor sets. Said weapons might break, be stolen, or lost; armor needed a spare and a spare's spare.
If you lose a weapon to an enemy, what kind of warrior are you? Though he had a point about damage."
Bulkathos recalled his twin blades, broken.
They'd served him years, unmarked by demons, so he never considered damage.
If the Dark Soulstone's explosion hadn't sent him here, how could he have faced Malthael with broken blades?
He grabbed a cheap beer, yanking the tab and gulping it like mouthwash, its faint alcoholic taste barely satisfying.
"Really, you won't see your father?"
Bulkathos hesitated, looking at Jill.
(End of Chapter)