Dracula picked up a crystal glass, swirling the dark liquid inside. Blade could smell the copper—it wasn't wine. This Dracula wasn't the romanticized version, nor the king who wished to die at the hands of a human. He was a primordial monster.
"What do you want from me?" Blade asked. He didn't move. Against the Progenitor, resistance was a death sentence.
"I want to give you a taste of true power. Sadly, you are no longer a virgin, so you cannot be my bride. You shall settle for being a servant."
Dracula pricked his finger, letting a single drop of blood fall into the glass. With a speed that defied the eye, he pressed the glass into Blade's hand.
"Perhaps you'll be lucky enough to still walk in the sun," Dracula sneered. He turned to leave. As he stepped out, the two Weeping Angels behind him began to crack. With a silent, soulful shriek, they crumbled into dust.
Lately, Dracula had been busy. Some fool had posted a photo of a Weeping Angel on a paranormal forum, causing their numbers to skyrocket. 'That which holds the image of an Angel becomes itself an Angel.' He had tracked down the source and was now "visiting" everyone who had viewed the thread to prune the infection.
Blade stared at the glass. His soul was screaming. His body was starving for the drop of blood inside. He knew he had no choice. He drained the glass, the liquid burning like holy fire in his throat. He had always refused to drink blood, preferring synthetic substitutes to distance himself from the monsters he hunted.
But before the King of Vampires, he had no choice.
On Mount Arreat, Natasha and Hawkeye found Steve Rogers.
Steve was training with Qual-Kehk, the Master of Combat, though progress was slow. Qual-Kehk was a master of the shield, but his philosophy was simple: use the shield to create an opening, then crush the enemy's skull with your fist. Steve, while strong, lacked the explosive, bone-shattering power of a Barbarian.
"Captain, Fury wants you ready," Hawkeye said as they approached.
Steve wiped the sweat from his brow. Before he could respond, Qual-Kehk slammed a small wooden practice shield into the side of Steve's head. Steve hit the dirt, eyes glazed as he stared at the sky.
"I think that's enough for today," Qual-Kehk grunted, tossing the wooden shield aside and vanishing into the mist. He had little interest in training someone who wouldn't inherit the flame, only doing so at Bul-Kathos's request.
"Asgard has fallen," Natasha said, pulling out a bottle of vodka and taking a long swig. Only on the Holy Mountain did the Black Widow allow her guard to drop this far. "The survivors just landed in New Mexico. I'm trying to figure out how to tell Thor."
"That's… heavy news," Hawkeye muttered, running a hand through his hair. "So? What's the plan? Keep him in the dark?"
"I have to tell him. I just don't know how to say 'Your dad lost a fight and your mom is trapped in a void.'" Natasha took another drink.
"The world is spinning out of control," Hawkeye sighed, snatching the bottle from her and taking a turn. "Ever since the Great Evils showed up, everything is moving too fast. Parallel universes, fallen gods… it's a mess."
"I thought I finished my job after the Red Skull," Steve groaned, pulling his shield over his face as he lay on the snow. "I'm an old soldier. I should be collecting a pension, not fighting gods."
"Who's going to break it to the big guy?" Hawkeye asked.
"Maybe I should?" A voice chimed in from the shadows. Vieda, the spirit of the fallen merchant, appeared a few paces away.
"Vieda. You're lurking again," Natasha smiled, tossing him a bottle. Vieda couldn't drink it in his spirit form, but he collected them nonetheless—a habit from a life where he died penniless.
"Consider it a down payment," Vieda chuckled, heading toward the Temple of the Ancients where Thor was likely training with Volusk.
"Vieda claims he only has the soul of a merchant, but no one believes his lies," Hawkeye whispered. Even the Great General Qual-Kehk treated the spirit with a measure of respect.
At the gates of the Holy Mountain, a new traveler appeared.
He was a tall man, about six-foot-two, with a mop of curly blonde hair. Despite his height, he looked frail, weighing barely 160 pounds. His face was a mask of utter, hollow despair—the look of a man who had tried to end it all and failed.
"Young man, have you come here to die?" Madawc asked, narrowing his eyes. He sensed something repulsive about the traveler. It was the scent of death, yet the man had no "life" left in him. He looked like someone who had lost the world and found that even the grave wouldn't take him.
"Yes. But… well, I can't," the man said. "I've tried jumping off buildings, but I just wake up with a snapped neck and have to pop it back into place. I tried drowning, but I just took a nap at the bottom of a lake. Bleach tastes like lukewarm coffee. Bombs won't do it. It's like Death just… forgot about me."
The man was Craig Hollis. He was human, but he was a "Supreme Human"—an evolutionary anomaly. As long as his soul remained, his body would reconstitute itself from any trauma. He was immortal, not by choice, but by a glitch in the universe.
"How strange," Madawc muttered. "One who scorns life is himself scorned by death?"
"Why come to the Holy Mountain to seek your end?" Talic asked, his voice softer, more guiding than Madawc's.
"Someone told me… that here, I might be needed. That here, I wouldn't be left behind." Craig looked up, a flicker of hope in his dead eyes.
"What is your name?"
"Craig Hollis. Can I find what I'm looking for here?"
"If you want to die, the world is full of horrors that can shatter a soul," Talic said, his tone turning stern. To the Barbarians, physical death was just a change in state. But the death they fought—the corruption of the Hells—was the total erasure of the self.
"I don't want my soul destroyed," Craig whispered, collapsing onto the snow. Tears began to flow. "I just want to go where the dead go. But the door is always locked."
"You wish to enter the Realm of the Dead?"
The massive silhouette of Bul-Kathos appeared, standing over Craig like a mountain. "Why?"
Bul-Kathos looked at the young man. He saw the "perfection" of his physical form—a balance that granted him infinite life and regeneration but denied him the path of power. Craig Hollis was, in many ways, a mirror of a Nephalem. His life force was immense, but it was stagnant. Because the rules of Death didn't apply to him, his body was in a state of perpetual restoration.
"I…" Craig hesitated.
"Listen, boy. You cannot be a Barbarian. Your body is too balanced; it will not accept the polarized blood of our kin."
Bul-Kathos sat down in the snow beside him. The Barbarian, Demon Hunter, and Necromancer paths leaned toward the Demonic; the Crusader and Witch Doctor paths toward the Angelic. Only the Monks sought pure balance.
Craig's body was a temple of perfect equilibrium.
"I don't want to be a warrior," Craig said. "I just want to be equal in the eyes of Death."
"Then you must take your petition to Death herself," Bul-Kathos sighed. He felt a strange pull from the mountain. Arreat had guided this man here for a reason.
Bul-Kathos had been searching for a vessel to bring back King Leoric. He had the bones of Madhuak, which were enough to summon the Skeleton King, but he didn't want the mindless, life-hating monster that Leoric had become in his madness. He wanted the wise King of Khanduras, the man whose counsel could help him stand against the Prime Evils.
Looking at Craig Hollis—a body rejected by death, a soul seeking the grave—Bul-Kathos saw the perfect anchor.
But he hesitated. To bring Leoric back, he would have to steal this man's immortality. Even if Craig claimed to hate his life, even if he begged for the end, was it right to trade one soul for another? Life was the only thing that couldn't be measured or compensated.
"You may stay on the mountain for now," Bul-Kathos said, his voice heavy. "Perhaps here, you will find a different perspective. If you fear loss, know that on Arreat, there is nothing left to lose. You will not have to grieve here."
If the mountain accepted Craig Hollis, Bul-Kathos would not cast him out.
"Can I see Death here?" Craig asked, his voice a pathetic whimper.
Bul-Kathos reached down and grabbed a handful of snow. Beneath it lay the ash of Barbarians who had been erased when Malthael descended. "Death has left nothing but unquenchable pain on this ground."
Bul-Kathos looked at the man and felt a wave of conflict. How had this "Mr. Immortal" found the courage to climb the mountain? Was it the courage of a hero, or the dogged persistence of a man trying to find a way out?
The Barbarian King felt the threads of fate tightening. A perfect vessel, a tragic soul, and a King who needed to return. The pieces were moving, but the cost was yet to be paid.
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