Bul-Kathos was that kind of man. What has been will be again; what has been done will be done again. This wasn't the first time he had made such a choice.
"I cannot comprehend your struggle," Baal continued. "I cannot understand this 'nobility' you think you possess. I cannot even fathom why you would make this choice."
Baal felt the energy within the stone sphere compressing inward. Qual-Kehk's methods were slightly different from what he had expected. Controlling the direction of an explosion wasn't an impossible task, especially when a Barbarian was willing to throw his very soul into the mix.
Qual-Kehk wasn't trying to stop the blast; he was merely turning an erratic eruption into a focused one. Even if he couldn't control it all, he would ensure that this version of the Holy Mountain—one that existed only in the past—wouldn't be reduced to a bottomless abyss.
What Qual-Kehk was doing was like placing a single piece of tape over a collapsing dam. It felt like an effort, yet it seemed utterly meaningless.
"Heh... Baal. Humans were never meant to be 'great,'" Qual-Kehk replied.
His body began to crumble, bit by bit. Shards fell from his weathered face like pieces of a terracotta statue. Ordinarily, such a breakdown would reveal a brilliant soul beneath, but under the skin of the old General, there was only a void.
"Indeed," Baal said, his voice uncharacteristically calm as he addressed the Barbarian. "There is no such thing as greatness or miracles in this world. Everything happens as it must. Every beautiful thing exists only because someone, somewhere, paid the price for it."
"And what have you paid? You talk as if you actually appreciate beauty," Qual-Kehk spat, a bitter laugh escaping him.
What could a Lord of Destruction know of beauty? He had never cherished a single thing.
"Beauty only has value when it is destroyed. I am the one who gives beauty its meaning by ending it. So, what have you paid, Barbarian?"
Before today, Barbarians had always been a headache for Baal. They were howling madmen who charged him with axes, swords, maces, or even broken clubs. Civilized conversation didn't exist with them.
To a Great Evil, humans were a mix of pets, toys, and tools. One might vent to a pet, not because the animal understands, but because it cannot repeat what it hears to others.
"I am part of the price," Qual-Kehk said, hanging his axe back on his belt. His eyes wandered momentarily toward Liz.
He had seen many like her—souls shivering in the cold, empty as corpses. He had seen those who were driven to extremes by loss, becoming pawns of the demons. But Liz seemed... different.
However, Qual-Kehk no longer had the time to ask questions.
"Let me guess your obsession," Baal said through the sphere. "To see the Barbarians flourish again?"
"I have already seen it," Qual-Kehk answered.
He was surprised that Baal had guessed his heart's desire so easily. The moment he saw Raekor resurrected, the moment he saw Bul-Kathos standing on the precipice of ultimate success, Qual-Kehk knew the prosperity of his people was at hand.
He was a Barbarian—unrefined in lifestyle, harsh and violent as the winter wind in action. He might not have been "noble" by some standards, but he was a hero.
"To see Bul-Kathos become the strongest? Do you believe that power always leads to victory?" Baal wanted to laugh, but he didn't know how to manifest the emotion.
Pure Destruction left no room for other feelings. Aside from the instinct to survive, Baal had nothing. Yet, facing Qual-Kehk, he felt a rare urge to speak, even though both the listener and he were about to vanish.
"Because Bul-Kathos will win. He is the strongest," Qual-Kehk said, his voice brimming with pride.
When he had first met Bul-Kathos, he never imagined that the young man with the strange name would one day become the pillar of the entire race. At the time, Korlic, Madawc, and Talic were already legendary. Those three had protected their kin from the demonic tides since their teens; they had the aura of true power that the twenty-something Bul-Kathos, who spent his days training silently like a wooden post, lacked.
But Bul-Kathos had proven himself through victory after victory. Inheriting the name of the First Ancestor said it all. He was the hope that Harrogath had spent ages praying for.
"Very well. So today is the day you realize your wish and find release? To never be awakened again?" Baal asked.
The stone sphere began to throb. The explosion was imminent. Trapped within, Baal looked down toward the ground with a hint of mockery.
Where do Ancestors go once their final wish is fulfilled? Into the hands of Malthael, who stole the power of Death? Or do they become fodder for the world, returning to the cycle?
Neither. They become pure energy within the "Holy Mountain." Whether it was the Arreat of the past beneath their feet, or the mountain now named Harrogath, Barbarian souls served only as fuel. They provided a pathetic, negligible spark of power.
"You know," Baal continued, "even the collective souls of the Barbarian past are nothing against the explosion of the Worldstone. If my peak power was a hundred, and Bul-Kathos is now a thousand... then you, Qual-Kehk, were a mere thirty in life. As a ghost, what is left? Five? Ten? When you become fuel, the 'help' you provide will be less than a tenth of that. Is it worth it?"
Baal understood the essence of the Barbarian Holy Mountain. If all Nephalem throughout history had remained as ghosts like Zoltun Kulle, their combined strength could have toppled both the Burning Hells and the High Heavens. Instead, these fools chose to turn themselves into batteries for a tiny, insignificant Sanctuary.
"Existing for too long is its own torture. I am an old man; I should have slept long ago," Qual-Kehk replied, evading the question. His body was shattering.
He intended to vanish in silence. He knew the surviving Ancestors would simply shout his name in honor, happy that he had finally found his rest.
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