Mana coalesced behind Kulle, forming a towering image of himself to confront the mighty bull. Even in his spirit form, the power Kulle displayed was a match for the resurrected Raekor.
"Are you prepared to watch it all happen while remaining utterly helpless? No! You won't!" Raekor sneered. "You will struggle and fight, only to wail when Fate finally arrives! And then, you will do nothing but complain. You'll complain that the Archangels restricted the Nephalem! You'll complain that the Prime Evils suppressed us! You'll complain that the world was never fair! Zoltun Kulle, you have never known a moment of peace. You've never let anything go. Do you even know what your goal is?"
Raekor's spirit flared as she lowered her center of gravity into a combat stance. She did not believe she would lose to Kulle. And even if she did, she would accept it with her head held high.
Fate had shown Raekor the ending a thousand times. Through her struggle, she had learned what it meant to live with a clear conscience.
"Then come! Let us see if the 'glory' of your bull can defeat Me!"
Kulle's face remained devoid of any sense of crisis. Raekor's fury took the form of the bull because her entire life was inextricably linked to the Bull Tribe—to Joryz, to Kanuck, and to every common laborer of the tribe.
But Zoltun Kulle had never believed in anything other than himself. Even when manifesting his power, he would craft no other image. It would always be himself.
"Mooo-argh!"
The phantom bull behind Raekor solidified. Its massive hooves struck the stripped earth with a deafening crack.
Furious Charge!
Raekor raised the Fleshrender high. It was the first time she had initiated a charge in such a manner.
"Where is your standoff? Where did that legendary weapon go?" Kulle's avatar began to channel mana, forming a jagged piercer aimed directly at the bull.
No one was foolish enough to engage in a contest of raw strength with a Barbarian, unless they were a Barbarian themselves. Aside from Bul-Kathos, perhaps no one alive could outmatch Raekor in a head-on collision. Kulle chose a smarter path.
"That was Joryz's symbol! A piece of filth like you isn't worthy of us facing you together!"
Raekor roared as she crashed into Kulle's space. The crude Fleshrender pierced the chest of the ancient soul.
"Is this what you wanted? Hahaha!"
Kulle spoke with his usual mockery, completely ignoring the sensation of his chest being impaled. In the physical collision, he had lost—lost without any room for argument. But in the grand scheme, he was the victor.
His mana piercer had completely shattered the phantom bull. In the battle of spirits, the arrogant mage had crushed Raekor's glory.
"You were born of the Bull Tribe, but the tribe was never yours alone. Now, bring out The Standoff!" Kulle's tone suddenly returned to a flat calm, as if his curiosity had been sated.
"Joryz lost all his glory."
"Short-sighted! Do you wish to hear those words from me again?" Kulle's face twisted with displeasure.
The Standoff was not a legend forged by Joryz; he had merely earned its recognition. 'He who wields this is matchless against ten thousand,' read the inscription on its haft. Joryz was a "Hero," but he had relied on the weapon's power to become strong, only to eventually fall in defeat. Kulle was incensed that Raekor equated the weapon solely with Joryz.
A massive wave of mana erupted from Kulle, slamming Raekor back and pinning her to the ground. Despite the Fleshrender still buried in his chest, his face showed no pain.
"I told you, you cannot represent the Bull. Raekor, when have you ever lived for yourself? When you freed Joryz? Or when you killed Vida?"
Kulle's words lashed at Raekor's mind, a tactic favored by the Lords of Hell. To waver is to be weak. Not every Barbarian could compartmentalize emotion and combat as perfectly as Bul-Kathos. For him, it was a scar; for others, it was an impossibility.
"She can!"
A sudden battle cry rang out.
Kanuck appeared in the distance. Amidst the aftershocks of the explosion, his body was being stripped away like the skin of a potato, layers of "excess weight" being pared off and left on the ground. One arm snapped off in the blast, falling away.
Kanuck did not stop. His head leaned against his shoulder guard, his legs churning in a rapid, rhythmic sprint even as he lost the limbs needed to balance his center of gravity. His target: Zoltun Kulle.
"Hahaha! What a joke!" Kulle laughed, making no move to stop him. To his eyes, Kanuck's body wouldn't last long enough to reach him. The explosion was far too potent.
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