At this moment, Rumlow's team of eleven had just recovered from the disorienting effects of passing through the portal.
It was clearly their first encounter with such a teleportation method, each of them feeling a lingering dizziness.
It was as if someone had struck them from behind.
Though every elite agent had undergone anti-disorientation training, this physical vertigo still took hold.
They stumbled, muzzles pointed downward to avoid accidental friendly fire.
By the time they fully regained their bearings, they found themselves in a labyrinthine prison, its paths branching in all directions.
This was a randomly generated environment within the secret realm, drawn from the barbarians' long history of battles and experiences.
"Captain!"
An agent whispered urgently, aiming his firearm at the dim corridor ahead.
As the team's scout, his danger sense surpassed even Rumlow's.
He could feel a heart-pounding pressure emanating from the barely visible darkness.
The sulfurous, bloody stench that permeated the space, a hallmark of demonic presence, went unnoticed by them.
Lacking the common knowledge of the Diablo world, they couldn't grasp what this odor signified.
"Prepare for combat."
Rumlow opted for verbal commands over tactical gestures.
The situation clearly wasn't one of stealth; the scout's actions indicated they were already under the watchful eyes of hidden threats.
Further concealment would be pointless.
Rumlow drew his pistol and a flashlight from his belt, illuminating the darkness ahead.
His team formed three rows, ready to fire.
At the center, Rumlow felt a rare sense of pervasive danger—a sensation he hadn't experienced since becoming the commander of the special operations team.
"If not for those ghosts…"
Rumlow preferred to attribute this feeling to the supernatural specters beyond comprehension, clinging to the superiority of firearms over melee weapons even in this unease.
The moment his flashlight beam pierced the darkness, his heart lurched.
A massive creature, at least three meters tall, loomed into view. Its girth nearly matched its height.
Its pale, corpse-like skin reminded Rumlow of a body he'd once seen, bloated after a week in water.
The wrinkled head was nearly featureless, save for an overly grotesque maw.
Its stubby limbs moved with a speed that belied its bloated frame, closing in rapidly.
In moments, the fifty-meter distance shrank alarmingly.
…
"Their luck is rotten—running into a Grotesque right off the bat."
The voice came from a barbarian ancestor eating in the plaza outside the Elders' Temple.
"What's a Grotesque?"
The Ancient One asked Bul-Kathos with keen interest.
Though she had glimpsed Bul-Kathos's epic battle history, creatures like the Grotesque weren't significant enough to linger in his memories.
Nearby, Jill, eyeing the Grotesque's hideous form, struggled to swallow his roasted meat, fighting a wave of nausea.
Tess, aiming a camera at Bul-Kathos, looked concerned.
"A common demon, a bit stronger than the usual goatmen or spiders, but only just."
Bul-Kathos stuffed a piece of roasted meat into his mouth, speaking in a muffled tone.
This was merely a low-tier secret realm; a Grotesque wouldn't faze him. Such a demon couldn't withstand even the breeze from his casual swing.
The manner of a creature's death didn't vary much with the strength used to kill it.
Whether Bul-Kathos unleashed a Whirlwind powerful enough to shatter the Black Soulstone or struck lightly, the result was the same—pulverized to dust. What difference did it make to the victim?
"Ha, mage! Ask Bul-Kathos, and you'll just get 'nothing worth mentioning.'
Grotesques are the first real challenge for newbies. They're tough, strong, and the worst part? When they die, they explode, spewing a mess of disgusting little snakes!
That blast's enough to send an unprepared rookie to the infirmary."
The outgoing barbarian soul speaking was Vydar, who had briefly interacted with Rumlow's team earlier.
Unlike the insular ancestors, he was far more sociable.
As a merchant in life, he wasn't like those ancient barbarians.
"Are there many such demons in Hell?"
The Ancient One's curiosity grew. From Vydar's description, she gauged that Grotesques weren't the lowest-tier demons.
From the visuals, she sensed they could easily dispatch her less capable apprentices.
Having faced Mephisto, a lord of Hell in this world, multiple times, she knew such a demon would at least be a mid-level leader here.
"Plenty—swarming like locusts, impossible to wipe out."
Bul-Kathos chewed his meat, then cracked open a cow's leg bone to suck out the rich marrow.
"That thing doesn't even have a name. Even a merchant like me could slaughter a bunch without breaking a sweat, and you're asking if they're common?"
Vydar, in his first conversation with the Ancient One, was stunned by her lack of "common knowledge."
Meanwhile, Rumlow's team opened fire on command.
A barrage of bullets, accompanied by muzzle flashes, struck the Grotesque, producing a sound like sticks hitting leather.
The bullets undeniably pierced its body, but no blood sprayed, nor were any visible wounds apparent.
The massive figure merely slowed, advancing resolutely as if unscathed.
"Grenades!"
Rumlow barked the order. The front-line agents each pulled a dark grenade from their belts.
After yanking the pins, they hurled them at the Grotesque, now less than thirty meters away.
For this elite combat team, throwing grenades accurately within a one-meter radius at thirty meters was no challenge.
…
"Those might slow the Grotesque a bit, but they're not enough to kill it."
Bul-Kathos analyzed, basing his judgment on the grenade's power he'd learned about online.
Though Grotesques were remarkably tough, the weakest of their kind couldn't entirely shrug off a grenade's damage.
(End of Chapter)
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