Galthor's father had been the ChainLord of Shatterpeak Range, a city within the Dustspire District. The title of ChainLord was little more than a mockery as they noble slave at best.
For the Barbarians were an enslaved race.
The territory of Shatterpeak Range was rich in rare metals, and the Barbarians spent their lives mining it, generation after generation. It was how things had always been and, as far as the overseers were concerned, how things would always remain.
For the Barbarians had no god.
Until Galthor's father, ChainLord Vorgul Stronghide, dared to rebel.
He fed the slave villages more than their usual rations, keeping the elders alive instead of letting them starve.
He secretly trained his men in essence cultivation and built a hidden base deep within the mines. His dream was simple yet it impossible, to free his people from the chains that bound them.
But everything collapsed when the dwarven Overseer of the Dustspire District discovered his schemes. And the betrayal came from none other than Galthor himself.
The body's former owner was pathetic, cowardly, and eager to curry favor with the oppressors, had no honor. He betrayed his father's secret in a drunken stupor when they fed him drinks.
Trading rebellion for crumbs from the master's table.
And the judgment had been swift after that.
His family was butchered. His mother mutilated before death. His sisters suffered fates too cruel to voice. His brothers were hacked apart, and his father was turned into a bloody necklace.
The flood of memories overwhelmed Galthor. His body swayed, face blank, until at last his eyes sharpened.
Anger rose.
Replacing the blankness.
Anger at being reborn into a broken world. At awakening in the body of a race shackled just as he had been in his previous life. Anger at the useless boy who squandered what Galthor had once yearned for, family, sunlight, the freedom to move, the chance to fight!
We only truly know the value of things when we have lived without them.
But then determination followed. It came slowly, but it steadied him. So what if he had been reborn as the lowest of the low? So what if he had no worshippers?
This time, he had Divinity. This time, he had the ability to fight. To walk beneath the sun once more.
He turned inward, focusing on the memories now his own, the memories of the fallen Barbarian God. And there, within him, he sensed it—his Divine Core.
Galthor returned to the present.
"...Why are you so stubborn? You are already a Master essence user. If you submit and join the Scourgers, you'll advance further. You may even receive a blessing," the leader said coldly.
Brakthar bared his teeth. "Scourger? Kin-killers. Betrayers. You enslave your own people. You want me to join you? Over my mother's grave!"
The leader's expression turned flat and merciless. A red aura of savagery flared around him, bloodlust thickening the already poisoned air of the tunnel.
"Then you leave me no choice."
Galthor took a slow breath. This was about to turn ugly. He could feel his Divine Core, but it was hollow, no faith aura flowed within, no worshippers to anchor him. At best, he was the equivalent of a Lesser Spirit, the lowest rank a god could sink to. Without followers, he would wither away in days.
But even so, a god was still a god.
The red-haired barbarian raised his war sword, his voice harsh as he gestured behind him. "Do not interfere. This is a battle between essence masters."
The command made his subordinates flinch back. Even the beasts lurking in the shadows slunk away, tails between their legs.
Brakthar tightened his grip on his sword. His eyes hardened like stone, and the red glow of essence deepened around his blade. "Come. Test yourself against me."
The leader laughed. "Then as Barbarians, let us fight in our way. Brakthar, I will meet you with my full strength!"
Then he began whispering.
He whispered rapidly, words tumbling from his lips before bowing low.
Galthor watched, jealousy twisting in his chest.
For as the red-haired barbarian prayed, a silver line of light appeared, stretching from him into the unseen distance.
A line only Galthor could see.
The connection between a worshipper and a god.
Yet something about it seemed…wrong. Before he could study it further, the line flared brighter. The barbarian raised his sword high, shouting:
"God Emberhand! Grant me your blessing!"
His blade ignited, glowing molten red like liquid fire. The tunnel's air blistered from the sudden heat.
Brakthar's face darkened. "You bow to a foreign god? I spit on you."
"What does it matter?" the red-haired warrior sneered. "We Barbarians worship strength above all. Is this not strength?"
"Strength comes from our own hands!" Brakthar roared.
"Fool. When our god still walked this land, we received blessings like any other race. But he is dead, and we are slaves. Should we let our best warriors rot for a dead god's pride? No...we seize power where we can! I bow to a dwarven god and wield his might. Let us see if your strength can stand against mine!"
Brakthar tensed, jaw tight.
And Galthor knew, divine instinct whispering like a warning, that Brakthar would die here. The blessing had tilted the scales too far, it is not a fight between essence masters!
'...I can't let the only barbarian who hasn't tried to kill me die. Not yet. I need him. If I can convert him, I'll have my first worshipper. My first faith. Without it, I'll vanish.. and who knows when I'll get a chance like this again..'
The air grew heavier as the two warriors' auras clashed.
Galthor narrowed his eyes and stepped forward.
"Why don't you fight me instead?"