Rumlow shrugged off Veda's words. Clashing with ghosts now wasn't wise.
Communication beat instant hostility.
Fury's voice in his earpiece urged more exploration of this mysterious place, and he saw no need to defy the director.
Hydra's time to emerge hadn't come; lurking required patience.
…
"Uncle, how did that overly cautious barbarian die?"
Jill, bored, watched Bulkathos roast the cow leg, sparking another story request.
Bulkathos, eyes on the meat, sprinkled spices, answering without turning.
"He overthought. On the battlefield, you rely on the weapon in hand.
When his broke, he reached for a spare, not dodging a demon's attack.
By the time he drew it, demons overwhelmed him."
Bulkathos saw no issue with preparation—a good habit.
But no matter how much you plan, surprises happen.
Better to smash through obstacles than plot escapes.
The Ancient One, unaware of the story's start, mused on its end.
Time's power had strengthened her, but when control slipped, it was too late.
Perhaps she lacked courage.
"That's a lousy story."
Jill's gaze shifted to the fragrant meat, muttering.
"To become a barbarian, do I face that trial?"
The Ancient One eyed Bulkathos, intrigued. Direct combat wasn't foreign to her kind.
But seeing the ancestors' battle fervor, she wanted to know more.
"Preparation's not bad, right?"
"For you, it's simpler. Your strength's beyond a rookie's.
Bring a weapon, start the trial at the Elders' Temple, and emerge a barbarian warrior."
Bulkathos answered briefly.
He found this world's mages, aside from odd tricks, fought much like barbarians.
"But wait a couple days. Today's the festival—ancestors get one day a year to feel alive."
Bulkathos stabbed an iron rod into the ground, took a blue hand-axe, and sliced a chunk from the roasting leg.
"This is done. Cut it yourselves; I'm watching the fire."
He tossed the axe to Jill, skewering the meat on the rod.
He didn't explain the trial—not stinginess, but facing unknown fears was a barbarian's path.
He'd braved every ancestor's secret realm, reliving their fatal battles, claiming their riches.
Only surpassing a fallen barbarian's strength made him King.
A recognized warrior faced lesser foes—mere imps and minor demons.
"Is there a secret realm for you?"
The Ancient One, smiling, sliced the cooked meat with the Pig Slaughter Knife, plating it for Jill.
Bulkathos turned, staring at her.
"All my battles are here. The festival ends after warriors challenge my realm.
But no living barbarian remains on this mountain besides me."
He ignored the charred patch on the leg, eyes fixed on her.
If she dared his realm, he'd welcome it.
But he hadn't decided what level to set or whether to share Nephalem power.
"Uncle, your meat's burning!"
Jill, mouth full, mumbled.
Bulkathos grabbed the axe, cut off the charred bit.
"You haven't learned to value weapons. Your training waits."
He stowed the axe, addressing Jill.
A warrior always knows their weapon's place.
Jill lacked that awareness—too early for training.
Jill, unfazed, chewed heartily, though disappointment flickered in his eyes.
He'd rather play dumb than burden others, clinging to childish acts.
Having faced death, he was no mere eleven-year-old; he'd grown.
"Can we try this secret realm?"
Rumlow's voice came from nearby, catching Bulkathos's mention of no living barbarians.
He'd heard the talk of secret realms clearly.
Barbarians don't whisper, and Bulkathos saw no need to hide it.
"You might handle the lowest difficulty, but go in together."
Bulkathos focused on the meat, not turning.
The Ancient One tasted a slice, chewing slowly.
Barbarian food wasn't gourmet, but for her long life, its unique flavor was novel.
(End of Chapter)