"It seems my brothers have done something… rather interesting. Don't you agree?"
Diablo, wearing the weathered, ancient face of Cul Borson, spoke with an air of profound boredom. He was addressing the flickering phantom of Oblivion.
Oblivion was attempting to convey news, but he was never one for directness. Diablo, in turn, toyed with the entity, throwing out guesses as a way to kill the endless, stifling time.
"You don't seem at all grieved by the fate of your kin," the phantom remarked.
The image of Oblivion was merely a projection cast into the heart of Asgard—a visual echo capable of communication, but unable to manifest its true, cosmic power. The entity's will drifted before Diablo, tinged with a faint, cold curiosity.
Oblivion shifted aside slightly, revealing the "screen" before him.
Through that deliberate opening, Diablo watched with ease as the events involving Bul-Kathos, Johanna, and Tyrael unfolded within the depths of Hell. When the scene played out where Baal's hand thrust through Mephisto's chest, Diablo's eyes flickered with a strange light.
The Seven Great Evils?
Who truly cared for such a title? Even Belial, the weakest among them, would never willingly share power with another.
Still, Diablo hadn't expected Baal's betrayal to come quite so swiftly. It was fast enough to catch even the Lord of Terror off guard.
Was it possible for Heaven, Hell, and the Nephalem to coexist?
Perhaps.
In the face of Malthael, the three factions had found a common enemy powerful enough to force a tentative truce. But that premise relied on Malthael remaining a dominant threat—not turning into a pile of drifting ash in a single, violent moment.
"Why should I be grieved?" Diablo asked back, a playful, mocking smile curling his lips as he looked at Oblivion.
Oblivion fell silent.
Why feel grief? To lose a brother who had been at one's side since the dawn of time, to find the very memory of their existence erased from the present… why wouldn't one feel sorrow? Oblivion's emotions were not complex, but they were far from simple.
"We were prepared for this from the beginning," Diablo said, standing up and towering over the phantom. "In the end, there is only room for one victor."
On the path to becoming a Creator, there could be only one winner. All other existences were merely fuel—sustenance for the one who would transcend.
Even now, Diablo hadn't quite decided what kind of world he would create once he achieved godhood. A world saturated in fear? How would that differ from his current domain? What else would he need to add?
Diablo couldn't be bothered to think that far ahead. Right now, his primary goal was simply to survive the shadow of Bul-Kathos. That powerful Barbarian had a notorious history of being… blunt when dealing with demons.
Diablo had no desire to feel the sensation of a dull blade hacking through his flesh again. When Bul-Kathos had split his skull open in their previous encounter, Diablo had felt fear for the first time.
Though he was Fear itself, that was the first time he had truly felt the suffocating shroud of terror from the perspective of the victim. It was a complex, strangely alluring sensation.
Who can truly claim to know themselves? Enveloped in that moment of absolute dread, Diablo had understood fear more intimately than ever before.
But he didn't plan on experiencing it twice.
"So," Oblivion said, his voice feigning indifference. "What are your plans now?"
Oblivion was currently preoccupied with King Leoric, though he had yet to find a clean way to end the existence of the Skeleton King.
"I plan to lend a hand," Diablo whispered. "In the upcoming trial—the Defense of Harrogath. How can the Three Prime Evils only appear as two mere shadows?"
He intended to give Bul-Kathos a surprise—and a taste of heart-wrenching regret.
The Worldstone and the spirits of the elders were all concentrated on the Holy Mountain of Harrogath. Between that and whatever Baal was brewing, Diablo saw no reason not to interfere. The only choice left was whether or not to reveal his hand to Bul-Kathos.
The identity of Cul was still useful; the world's endless supply of fear was currently funneling directly into him. However, exposing himself now would mean the end of his "development phase."
He wasn't quite ready to face Bul-Kathos in the flesh.
"I only care about when you will deliver what we agreed upon," Oblivion said tonelessly.
His figure began to fade into the shadows.
"The battle that saw the fall of Harrogath… my shadow was never absent from that tragedy. Bul-Kathos, are you ready?" Diablo murmured to himself.
A plan was forming.
He was already aware of the wager between Bul-Kathos and Tyrael. If Bul-Kathos was forbidden from interfering in the trial, how would he react when he saw the soul of Leah—his own kin—helping the demons slaughter his people?
Diablo could hardly wait to see it. If Bul-Kathos struck out, Tyrael would win the bet. And if that happened, would the mantle of Justice truly pass to the Barbarian King as promised?
Itherael wouldn't miss such an opportunity to tip the scales. Diablo was certain of it.
"I have to ask… what exactly is a Rift?"
Spider-Man finally succumbed to his curiosity. He looked toward Matthew Murdock. Compared to Rumlow, he trusted Daredevil a bit more.
"What is a Rift? You'll know once you're inside," Rumlow grunted, wiping his mouth.
The memory of his first time entering a Rift still sent a chill down his spine. Coming face-to-face with utterly alien monsters, a man had two choices: find a way to hack the damn thing to death, or pray he was the luckiest bastard alive.
You never knew what horrific tricks those monsters had up their sleeves. One wrong move, and the scales of battle would tip into a total slaughter.
"Do people… die in there?" Spider-Man asked, lifting the bottom of his mask to stuff a piece of roasted meat into his mouth. His voice was muffled and uncertain.
That was the heart of the matter.
Matthew turned his sightless gaze toward Peter. After a long silence, he nodded.
"They do."
Spider-Man didn't flinch. No one wanted to die, but death didn't care about a hero's intentions. He just wanted to gauge the level of danger they were walking into.
"Die? Well, that's fantastic news!"
Mr. Immortal, Craig Hollis, came walking over, rotating his wrists with a cocky swagger.
"Mr. Immortal" was the alias he had given himself. He had originally wanted to go by "The Immortal Iron Fist," but Cassius—the Barbarian looking after him—had shut that down with a look of pure, unadulterated contempt.
"Who's this?" Spider-Man asked, looking to Rumlow or Matthew for an answer. Craig's arrival was news to both of them.
"Hey, kid! You can call me Craig! Or 'Mr. Immortal' if you want to be professional. I've heard of you—New York's friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, right?"
Craig's loud introduction prompted a strange, twitchy reaction from Peter. The boy began to mutter under his breath—a habit of nervous rambling he couldn't seem to kick.
"The Great Lakes Avengers? That eighteenth-tier superhero team that got a cease-and-desist from Mr. Stark's lawyers? Didn't you guys change your name to the Great Lakes X-Men later?"
Spider-Man felt a headache coming on. He didn't understand how all these people—who should have never crossed paths—were being pulled together on this snowy mountain. But he couldn't deny he was intrigued.
He had talked to Deadpool once back in his own world. Though that conversation had been a chaotic mess, it had left him with a healthy wariness of the Great Lakes crew. No one wanted to be defeated in some bizarre, cartoonish way.
"Everyone dies eventually," Rumlow said in a low, gravelly voice, chugging from a can of beer.
It was his way of preparing for battle. He had come to terms with his fate: either he would live to continue his atonement, or he would die on the path to redemption. Worldly desires no longer held any sway over him.
"Not me. I'm immortal. Haven't died once since the day I was born!" Craig boasted.
"Hey, mate! What a coincidence! Me neither! I've managed to stay alive since birth too!"
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