Baal fell silent. He had to admit, the offer was tempting. But that temptation itself brought a new kind of fear. The Lord of Destruction, who prided himself on his purity, felt himself being tempted by a human.
It is normal to feel revulsion toward a brand-new sensation. The more virtuous a person is, the more curious they are about sin—as long as they aren't the ones committing it. But those steeped in evil do not look at virtue with the same curiosity. They don't care about the outcome of "goodness," because they know the "good" are merely targets.
Baal feared the thought. Only a truly wicked being fears the "good," even if it is beautiful. He fled from the topic, choosing to wait for the end.
"Then let it end. I think Qual-Kehk's sacrifice will ensure that a few recruits survive the blast to see the truth," Bul-Kathos said, exhaling slowly. He lost track of how many times he had sighed today.
Baal did not respond.
Then, as if receiving a command, the giant stone began to unleash a tidal wave of force.
Elsewhere, Cassius stood across from a Mallet Lord. He cracked his neck, seemingly ready to charge in and deliver a thrashing even in his spirit form.
As for whether he was "breaking the rules" of the trial, Cassius didn't give a damn. If no one saw it, no one could use it against him. Besides, the other Barbarians were too busy fighting to care about his technicalities. It wasn't like they had a philosophical disagreement.
"Squeak... Cassius!"
The Mallet Lord actually made a sound, articulating Cassius's name. It made the Barbarian jump. Mallet Lords were massive demons never known for their conversational skills. Anything unusual was a red flag.
"Crush-Mace... what is it?" Cassius balled his fists, but this time, his knuckles didn't pop. His rhythm was off.
"What is the purpose of our awakening? To fight you again?"
The demon's voice matched its physique—a rocky, grinding tone that made it sound slow-witted.
"What? You're a demon. Don't you just want to smash things? Since when did you start thinking?" Cassius stepped back to get a full view of the creature.
It had many legs, each thick and hard as stone. Dried blood coated its surface like a grim patina. From its appearance, this Mallet Lord was a veteran of many wars.
"My kin die repeatedly. I die repeatedly. We die only to be brought back to die again. Is death the only destiny for a demon?"
The demon spoke with an eerie sort of melancholy. The question made Cassius's head throb.
"You're right about one thing—a demon's fate is to keep dying. But you got one thing wrong: you shouldn't have existed in the first place," Cassius said irritably, rubbing his temples.
Give me a break! Since when did demons become philosophers? Cassius's small brain was overheating. Thinking about such high-level concepts made his face flush; he much preferred "reasoning" with his fists.
"You are wrong!" the Mallet Lord roared, a sound like an avalanche.
"I gave you an inch and you took a damn mile!" Cassius bellowed. He dropped his center of gravity and lunged.
He wasn't a stranger to "counseling." He was once the Chief of the Great Bear Tribe, after all. He knew how to soothe children and guide young warriors. But mental health support for a demon? He didn't have the bandwidth.
Cassius's fist slammed into one of the demon's thick legs with the force of a mountain-cleaving strike. Cracks spider-webbed out from the point of impact. His fist was ugly—huge, scarred, and perpetually swollen.
"Humans never consider how a demon feels!"
The Mallet Lord swung a row of legs down toward Cassius in a rage. No matter how strong they were, these demons were slow, a flaw they compensated for with massive area-of-effect attacks.
"Screw you! You're a total idiot!" Cassius roared his Battle Cry.
He leaped to the side, raining down heavy blows. "You think you're the victim? How many humans have you slaughtered? Now you're complaining that we don't care about your feelings? I'll tell you what we care about—we care about whether or not you're trying to kill us!"
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