Beneath the city of Piltover, in the depths of Dredge Prison, the air was thick with death. People screamed as illegal augmentations were performed on them.
In one such chamber, chains dangled above a surgical table. Test tanks lined the walls, each containing a living human floating in green Chemliquid. They scratched at their throats in agony, somehow able to breathe yet trapped in immeasurable pain.
The chains rattled again as a man struggled, bound to the table with iron shackles. A demented scientist forcefully jammed a tube of Chemfluid into his chest; a sharp hiss filled the room. The man's agony intensified and the other test subjects could only watch in fear through the glass.
A limp hand flopped over the side of the table. From the shadows, a massive entity watched, its sneer dripping with disappointment.
"He was not strong enough. None of these pathetic creatures are."
A thunderous explosion tore through the room. The scientist's upper torso vanished in a mist of gore that splattered against the walls.
The creature who remained was part machine, part man. His lower body resembled a mechanical spider and a breathing mask fed by Chemtech tubes kept his rasping breaths steady. His right arm was a colossal gun that was smoking, capable of punching through solid iron, while a thin slit ran the length of his torso with something inhuman grinding within.
Terrified minions scurried in, their bodies twisted and malnourished. Without hesitation, the creature's massive hand, its palm the size of their heads, closed around one skull and crushed it effortlessly.
"Clean up," he growled, dropping the corpse. "Or you will join them."
His heavy augments clanged against the metal floor as he left, the iron doors slamming shut behind him.
The minions worked in a frenzy, knowing their lives depended on it. They scrubbed at the blood and viscera, shoving what they couldn't mop into nearby drains.
Then, silence.
The lights flickered, and the room grew dark.
Whispers slithered through the air and faint screams echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once.
BOOM!
The surgical table erupted, flinging debris and bodies across the room. In its place hung a large, oval rift. A crystalline blue portal framed by skulls wearing pained emotions.
Arcs of black lightning cracked through the air, scorching the walls.
One minion cowered in a corner, trembling as the whispers clawed at his mind. He peeked out just long enough to see a dark figure step from the portal, cloaked in black robes and wearing a hideous mask.
"A dream," the figure murmured, voice echoing through the chamber. "A terrible dream this must be for you. But a wonderful one... for me."
"A–AGH!"
The minion's body convulsed. He looked down to see a jagged bone spike burst through his chest. His head rolled back lifelessly catching one last glimpse of dozens of others, impaled just like him.
The figure chuckled darkly.
"Let's see how fast I can clear this level before I wake up. This must be... the Halls of Agony? In Leoric's Manor? I don't remember there being test tubes though... Must be new season flavor."
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~Moments Ago~
"I'll go back to Diablo II: Resurrected in a bit…"
Xander hummed while grinding through Diablo III.
Diablo IV was fun, sure, but it lacked the addicting endgame loops. The graphics were great, but something about the soul of it was missing.
Diablo II had the lore and atmosphere down perfectly.
Diablo III, though… that one had the addicting gameplay loop down. The endless grind, the flood of big numbers, and just enough Torment levels to fuel his masochism.
Graphics didn't matter. What mattered was feeling powerful ingame, the mountains of loot, and watching his screen light up like a slot machine from Hell.
If only they'd kept the vibe of II and IV, but with III's gameplay loop…
He sighed, starting up a new Necromancer on Torment VI. No gems. No gold. New season. A clean slate.
It's gonna take hours to get strong enough to survive Captain Daltyn without dying instantly…
Didn't matter. The grind was the fun part.
Diablo IV's gear looks so gay in comparison, he thought bluntly. It just has prettier graphics. If III had modern visuals with its gear design, it'd be perfect.
He'd already cleared the game as a Necromancer, Sorcerer, Barbarian, and Crusader. Couldn't get into Witch Doctor or Rogue even though pros made Rogue look god-tier, the abilities just didn't feel right.
"Necromancer's the easiest to level," he muttered, "but squishy as hell…"
After about ten minutes, he entered Tristram. He kited the tavern zombies, cleared them, and managed to buy a pair of rare pants to boost vitality. Just enough HP to survive a hit or two.
The Wretched Mother, I'll lure her into Tristram so she gets auto-slain. No loot, no XP, but I run past and grab the dungeon rewards before slowly clearing to Old Tristram.
Why was he like this? Why did he enjoy it so much?
He didn't like Dark Souls but he loved pushing max difficulty in games like Diablo or Doom, and even city builders. It was selective masochism.
It just feels right, he mused. A game about demons should be brutally hard. The pain makes the payoff sweeter when I hit max level.
In the background, Arcane Episode 3 had just ended. He was rewatching it while grinding.
"Ah, shit…"
Almost three in the morning.
Grumbling, he parked his Necromancer in Tristram, shut down his PC, and flopped into bed. He needed at least a few hours of sleep before work tomorrow. The grind could wait.
----------------------
~Now~
A powerful sensation tore through Xander's body. Instantly, instinctively, he knew.
Lifting his hand, he felt the pull of power, then heard it: the sickening crunch of bone. A spear of bone erupted from his palm and shot forward, impaling one of the dead minions and creating a blood mist.
He stared.
"Level two, huh?" he excitedly whispered. "This is awesome!"