Donning his coat, Bul-Kathos strolled slowly through the nighttime city, its state catching him off guard.
Though he'd been here for two or three days, the stark contrast—bustling prosperity by day, chaotic disorder by night—still astonished him.
Humans, untouched by the crises of a perilous world, always grew this complicated.
Given idle time to ponder, they could never settle into peace.
"I think that's a barber shop over there?"
Bul-Kathos eyed the storefront across the street, murmuring with hesitation.
As everyone knew, Nephalem never bothered memorizing paths. With their "Town Portal" magic, there was no need to recall how they'd arrived.
In a world teeming with demons, they only needed to remember the places they hadn't yet visited—spots ripe for slaughtering those loathsome fiends.
"Hey, Luke, I hear you've been doing alright lately!"
Under Bul-Kathos's gaze, a flippant voice emerged from the shadowy corner untouched by the streetlamp.
If these types stuck to the darkness, even demons might struggle to spot them for a moment.
Bul-Kathos watched the speaker, pondering inwardly.
That is, if he kept his eyes and mouth shut.
"Sheet, you bastard, I told you—if you show up at the old man's barber shop again, I'll break your legs!"
A towering figure raised his fist, bellowing discontentedly at the initial speaker.
This man named Luke was tall and robust, standing only half a head shorter than Bul-Kathos, his build just a size smaller.
For a human, he was impressively strong.
"A fine warrior—roughly on par with a young barbarian fresh to the battlefield."
Bul-Kathos assessed the burly black man thoughtfully.
"Those frail mages would probably shit themselves if they ran into him."
A warrior's strength—or lack thereof—was laid bare before Bul-Kathos.
In his lifetime, he'd witnessed countless mighty fighters; natural talent held no secrets from him.
"I wonder if he could earn the ancestors' approval. He looks like prime material for a barbarian."
Bul-Kathos stroked his thick beard, savoring the comfortable curl it had taken from the forge's heat.
"Whoa, whoa! Luke! I know you can fight, but how long can you protect that old geezer? You know who really runs this street!"
The threatened punk showed no fear, backed as he was by the local gang.
"I know the old man's got respect—no one's usually dumb enough to mess with him. But if trouble comes knocking, it's gonna be big."
The short guy's posture grew increasingly ridiculous, his hands flailing wildly in front like some bizarre dance rehearsal.
Or perhaps he thought it boosted his intimidation factor?
Like a cat puffing up its fur to appear larger in danger?
"But you won't get past me!"
"Come on, Luke! You're just the barber shop's janitor. My boss said if you turn a blind eye and head back to bed, he'll give you a grand!"
"Think about it—just go sleep it off, and that thousand bucks is yours!"
The shorty drawled with exaggerated flair.
Bul-Kathos's interest piqued—not in the promised thousand dollars, but in the black giant's evident intent to fight.
The swung fist lacked technique, serving no purpose in gathering power—like a burly veteran bullying a green recruit with raw strength.
Bul-Kathos had seen such scenes countless times at the Sescheron Fortress.
Yet, from the big guy's eyes, Bul-Kathos discerned his aim wasn't mere chastisement of this clown.
It matched his words: a resolute glare intent on shattering legs.
A natural-born warrior who doesn't know how to fight?
For Bul-Kathos, nothing could be more intriguing.
"Young man, you should plant your feet firmly, twist your hips, then shift your shoulders, and finally punch."
Bul-Kathos's voice boomed like thunder across the street.
"At the very least, lead with the shoulder sway before striking—that's how you generate real power."
As he spoke, half the lit windows in the surrounding apartments snapped off in an instant.
Bul-Kathos could hear the chaotic bumps and muffled grunts from those rooms—someone stumbling into furniture in the dark, no doubt.
"I know that, but I just want to break his legs, not kill him."
The burly black man lowered his fist irritably, addressing Bul-Kathos.
"Old timer, right now you should be worrying about your own safety, not my punching form."
Bul-Kathos was taken aback by Luke's words.
Not the part about safety, but the "old timer" label.
Bul-Kathos, with little concept of lifespan, never imagined being called an "old man."
Catching sight of a silvery-white strand drifting into view on the wind, realization dawned.
The lingering effects of death hadn't faded yet, reminding him of Malthael's loathsome visage.
An indefinable tension enveloped the not-so-narrow street.
"You there, old coot! You're not the geezer running the barber shop, and no one's gonna stick their neck out for you against us!"
The punk who'd nearly had his legs broken yelled at Bul-Kathos, as if only a voice louder than thunder could bolster his nerve.
Bul-Kathos saw through his bluff in an instant—perhaps this "us" was just him alone.
Luke stood silent on the side, making no move to intervene.
Sheet was right: in this district called Hell's Kitchen, no one would step up for a stranger.
Even the kindest soul wouldn't lend a hand.
Because Hell's Kitchen was a feeding ground for demons—there were no good people here!
Seeing Bul-Kathos remain wordless, the little punk nearly forgot that thunderous voice from before.
"Old man! This is Hell's Kitchen! The source of food for demons! You dare raise your voice here—you must be ready to be served up on a devil's plate!"
The shorty persisted with his arrogant taunts, oblivious in the night to Bul-Kathos's eyes, now blazing with murderous intent at the phrase "served up on a devil's plate."
"You say I'll be served on a demon's table? Then tell me—which demon hungers for this meal?"
Thunder rolled once more, extinguishing the remaining lights this time.
The denizens of Hell's Kitchen—even a bespectacled old lady knitting at home—could whip out a double-barreled shotgun and blow someone's head off in a heartbeat.
The word "demon" struck Bul-Kathos as the deepest hatred!
He bore no grudge against Malthael, who had brought him death, nor resentment toward the aloof angels of the High Heavens who refused aid to humanity.
Demons were different!
Demonic footprints scarred every inch of Mount Harrogath, trampling the corpses of countless barbarian warriors.
Demons had greedily drunk the rage-filled blood of barbarians, savoring human flesh.
Now, this fool invoked demons to threaten Bul-Kathos.
He would not die swiftly!
Bul-Kathos would stake his beard on it!
(End of Chapter)