"Ha, Matthew, today was a blast!" Luke Cage shouted, a rope-like belt around his waist. He'd passed the third stage of Madoc's trial, swarmed by endless spiders, forcing him to keep moving or be overwhelmed. Mimicking a barbarian's Whirlwind, he shredded the spiders, exhilarated, though he'd twisted his waist. Sprawled on a hard stone bed, he laughed. The tattered belt from the spiders made him feel nimbler.
"You're getting along with Madoc," Matthew said. He'd learned Madoc's name from Raekor and knew the ancestor was among Harrogath's strongest. Yet, Matthew felt no envy—his unyielding will earned Raekor's respect.
"Don't mention him…" Luke groaned, collapsing fully. He felt stronger daily, but facing Madoc was like day one—no progress registered. "You learning any skills?"
"Raekor's teaching me Charge," Matthew said, curious if Luke was too.
"Madoc says I need to master swinging a weapon first," Luke mumbled, face pressed to the bed.
On Harrogath, free from Hell's Kitchen's misery, Luke embraced the barbarians' straightforward, vibrant rhythm. Besides Matthew, he'd seen no other living souls. Matthew wasn't surprised. His superhuman senses dulled his focus on scouting, just as Luke's extraordinary strength didn't suit weapons.
"So you've started learning skills?" Luke jerked up, wincing from his waist.
"Just starting. Our bodies aren't pure enough, per the ancestors," Matthew said. Both admired the barbarians, aspiring to join them, but awakening true Nephalem blood was a distant goal. They couldn't yet harness rage's power. Extreme anger didn't burn out most minds—could it turn someone into a Super Saiyan? Perhaps for barbarians, but not them.
Only those who could wield rage as strength mastered Berserker's Wrath. Otherwise, it just fueled muscle for potent skills. Rage flowed outward; mastering it inward would awaken their Nephalem blood.
Children of angels and demons were destined to stand apart.
"It's been over two weeks. Wonder what's up with the Hand?" Luke mused, not bored despite leaving civilization. Street life, scraping for meals, held no glamour.
Matthew, busy with pro bono law by day and crime-fighting by night, found Harrogath relaxing. "Maybe they're still hunting us," he whispered, lying on the stone bed.
The Hand had largely given up. It was Matthew and Luke's first strike against them; their grudge wasn't deep. After half a month of no leads, the Hand eased off. Madame Gao coveted the axe that split her staff, but with no target, she could only dream.
Others sought them too. Matthew's friend, Foggy Nelson, grew anxious. Matthew often vanished for days, but never this long without contact. As a lawyer for the poor, he had enemies, and Foggy worried, even considering abandoning their firm. Luke, used to disappearing, drew less concern.
Unbeknownst to them, Madoc stood alone in the plaza before the Elders' Temple. He'd had high hopes for Luke but now saw he'd never be his heir. Barbarians weren't just a name—they weren't a primitive tribe without history. If any bloodline was noble in Diablo's world, it was the Nephalem barbarians. They chose this life, rich with civilization and glory.
Madoc, the prophet, fretted over the race's future. "Why can't Bul-Kathos be like Volusk? What hope lies in hammers, forges, and liquor?"
"You had a wife and son, but where are they? Either dead without glory or cowering, forsaking barbarian honor!" Volusk appeared, speaking to Madoc for the first time, his blunt words stinging.
"After you died, are barbarians done? We just need to fight for justice, united in purpose. Continuity doesn't matter. Bul-Kathos still exists!" Volusk removed his helmet, reclining on the temple's stone tiles, his lion-like golden hair gleaming against the gray.
(Chapter End)