"I want to see my teacher!" Cassilias shouted hoarsely, swinging his axe.
"Oh." Kanuk, polishing his Aegis Pauldrons, ignored him.
Cassilias's fierce cries didn't disrupt his meticulous axe work. Barbarians roared in battle—nothing new. Kanuk let him vent.
"I said, I want my teacher!"
"Oh." Kanuk's reply was flat.
Cassilias wasn't sharp, which suited Kanuk. The Bull Tribe's chieftain wasn't a thinker. His reckless style led to the tribe's decline after Reiko's era, though it endured.
Kanuk donned his pauldrons, grabbed a black bread, and swung it. "Feels good," he mumbled. Unlike Matt, who wielded iron rods with precision, Kanuk chose bread to avoid accidentally killing Cassilias, whose body wasn't as tough as Luke's.
Bulkatho watched from a nearby rock, observing the chatty mage transform into a warrior. Not comforting, just nostalgic. Before Mephisto's arrival, barbarians training with ancestors filled New Sescheron. Now, only a few remained.
His senses tracked Matt's steady aura—no danger yet. Nephalem blood served as a teleportation beacon. A foe strong enough for barbarians to unleash upon was no threat, especially one lacking malice.
"Found a good punching bag. Interested?" Ancient One said behind him, smiling.
Cassilias, her troublesome disciple, had magical talent but lacked the wit to excel. The barbarian path might take him further—a win. After consideration, she decided Bulkatho needed a task. This "punching bag" wouldn't be obliterated, a lawful warrior who brought order.
"Payment for handling your apprentice?" Bulkatho stood, stretching.
"He was a warrior, passionate about battle," Ancient One said, offering a rare bottle.
She meant Odin, Asgard's king, who'd shielded Earth countless times. His body, strained by growing power, required periodic slumber to delay death. Weaker than Ancient One, now Dark Dimension's ruler, Odin's full might—unleashed at a cost—remained fearsome.
"Sounds tolerable," Bulkatho said, taking the bottle. To barbarians, "warrior" was high praise.
His voice carried across the mountain. "He's Odin, Asgard's king," Ancient One added, smirking.
"Odin? The hammer's father?" Bulkatho rummaged in his pack, pulling out a hammer crackling with lightning. Its warm, yellow head pulsed with energy.
Son of Odin, a legendary hammer often seen in Sanctuary's demon battles, usually dismantled for materials. The original rested in Bulkatho's pack. It unleashed lightning and amplified electric power, unhindered by the wielder's strength—a rare trait.
Ancient One eyed the hammer, surprised. Its aura surpassed Mjolnir's, resembling Thor Odinson himself.
"Maybe…" she muttered, troubled. Did Odin birth a hammer before Thor? The hammer's essence felt like Odin's bloodline.
"I've always wondered how he birthed a hammer," Bulkatho said, expression odd. Humans emerged head-first; was it hammerhead or handle for a hammer?
Ancient One, amused yet curious, agreed. She'd known Odin long enough to recognize his aura. She sent him a message: spar privately. Unlike Dormammu, Odin deserved courtesy. Challenging a cautious old warrior required tact, especially now that age had dulled him.
(Chapter End)
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