Forging, beyond mere masterful skill, demanded immense patience and a robust physique.
Without them, any blacksmith would collapse under the grueling ordeal, let alone achieve any worthwhile result.
For Bul-Kathos, however, forging was akin to child's play—a leisurely diversion. The material refinement he was currently undertaking could even be called a form of relaxation.
"The fifteenth ingot."
Bul-Kathos murmured to himself, tallying the refined metal blocks he'd completed.
By his estimation, the heavy weapon named "Bul-Kathos's Blood of the Warrior" would require around thirty such ingots.
As for the materials to infuse magical power, it wasn't yet time to add them.
After all, forging was never a task completed in haste, and since this weapon was destined for his own use, he approached the preparations with even greater care.
As the forging progressed, the sky gradually darkened. The Supreme Sorcerer had slipped away from the modest smithy at some point—perhaps off tending to her duties once more.
"Guardian of the world? What a grand title," Bul-Kathos remarked with a mocking edge.
He had borne similar epithets in his time. Yet, in the face of death, even the mightiest warriors proved utterly powerless.
Perhaps the departed souls could one day triumph over death itself, but Bul-Kathos had no inclination to test such notions.
The food on the table had cooled, though in the sweltering heat of the forge, it retained a faint warmth.
A simple sandwich of bread, meat, and vegetables—it wasn't a dish meant for refined palates.
Barbarians weren't a people who chased gourmet delights; for them, anything that filled the belly sufficed.
With a resounding "Bang!", the door to Bul-Kathos's smithy was flung open in a brazen manner.
A dark-skinned figure in a jacket sauntered in with arrogant swagger.
"What do you need?"
Bul-Kathos's massive hand clutched the sandwich, making it look comically diminutive.
As for the rude entry, he paid it no mind.
Back when he was a raw recruit, the sturdy, heavy wooden doors of Mount Harrogath often required a forceful charge to budge.
For Bul-Kathos, smashing through doors was commonplace—especially since what lay beyond was usually a horde of demons.
Who cared about demonic sensibilities? Knocking politely would have been a farce.
A mere kicked-in door hardly stirred him.
"Barbarian's Hammer? What kind of name is that? You got a permit to run this shop?"
The intruder spat the words with brazen insolence, yet he exuded no aura of strength—weak by the standards of any world.
Clearly, this wasn't a customer. Bul-Kathos understood that much.
Rising to his full height—over two meters tall—Bul-Kathos revealed his bare, scar-riddled, muscular torso to the intruder's gaze.
"So, you're here to cause trouble."
Bul-Kathos crammed the last bite into his mouth, dusted off his hands, and strode toward the cocky fool.
Since stepping onto the battlefield, no one had dared provoke him face-to-face.
Even the Lords of Hell afforded a modicum of respect to the brave. This brazen challenge was a novel experience for him.
As Bul-Kathos's inhumanly robust frame advanced, the thug began to tremble uncontrollably.
This punk might have been part of some gang, perhaps even with blood on his hands.
But such petty exploits offered no shield against the King of Barbarians—not even if he drew his pistol.
"Stay back!"
The thug's voice quivered as he brandished the gun like a crude poker, fumbling in panic and forgetting to flick off the safety.
Confronted by Bul-Kathos, who towered two heads above him, and that body etched with scars, the thug regretted not scouting the place before running his mouth.
"So this is a firearm? I've heard of them and been curious, but pointing a weapon at me turns this from mere provocation into something else entirely."
Wielding a weapon against a barbarian was a declaration of war.
No matter how feeble the foe, a barbarian would honor the fight.
Whether they unleashed their full might, however, was another question.
Just as humans in this world wouldn't draw a gun to swat a common ant,
a barbarian wouldn't arm to the teeth to crush a weakling who couldn't even scratch his hide.
"Then repent to Malthael!"
Bul-Kathos cared nothing for the thug's motives or any "trouble" that might follow.
In his eyes, this world's guardian—the Supreme Sorcerer—was merely a somewhat capable mage. Thus, no one here could best him.
His massive hand swung toward the thug's head with casual grace, like swatting an annoying fly.
Though barbarians were masters of weaponry and empty-handed combat paled against a monk's specialized fists, this foe was a pathetic weakling—not even a match for a single zombie. This was more than enough.
Bul-Kathos's palm connected with the round skull, producing a muffled crack like a bursting watermelon.
A headless body slumped to the floor, blood pooling outward.
"I'm not much for cleaning up. This is a bit of a hassle."
Bul-Kathos eyed the mess with a frown.
On Mount Harrogath, the earth would embrace the corpse, transmuting it into natural energy to rejoin the world.
Here, he simply hoisted the body by the collar and tossed it into the still-roaring furnace.
The flames ignited the fats, crackling with pops, accompanied by a soul-searing stench.
"Hmm, this smell reminds me of those hellish scum."
Bul-Kathos bit his tongue lightly, took a swig of ale, and muttered nostalgically to himself.
He then scooped a handful of charcoal ash from the furnace's base and scattered it over the bloodstains to conceal them.
"That should do it."
Surveying the scene, which aligned with his notion of "clean," Bul-Kathos nodded in satisfaction.
"Food seems a bit short."
He settled on the floor, gazing at the vigorously burning forge fire.
The acrid odor of burning flesh evoked memories of endless days slaughtering inexhaustible demons.
Yet hunger persisted.
These past days, he'd sold nothing.
The "trinkets" he'd forged went to those frail mages, and his currency had been spent dry two days prior.
"Hope these gold coins of mine are usable—at least for some food."
As the flames began to wane, a heap of gleaming gold coins materialized in Bul-Kathos's hand.
The coins were plain, devoid of any engravings.
In a world where survival was precarious, stabilizing currency was challenge enough.
No need for anti-counterfeiting marks; if someone mined gold and minted coins amid humanity's struggles, more power to them.
In the world of Diablo, the strong naturally amassed endless wealth.
The fire finally guttered out, leaving nothing of the corpse in the intense heat.
Only the lingering, horrific odor in the poorly ventilated smithy hinted at what had transpired.
Bul-Kathos opened the door and hung a massive iron lock he'd casually forged.
The lock had no intricacies—just pull it apart with brute force.
Utterly lacking in technical sophistication, yet for this world's thieves, it might as well be an insurmountable barrier.
Who possessed barbarian strength?
This realm lacked Crusaders, and even a monk's power couldn't budge it.
No place could be safer than a room secured by this lock—unless intruders adopted the barbarian way of entry.
(End of Chapter)