Autumn, 1275 (Kehjistan Calendar). Bastion's Keep, northernmost tip of Westmarch.
Perched at a high latitude and smothered in eternal snow, Bastion's Keep was the most remote, massive, and formidable fortress in all of Westmarch. Originally constructed to hold the line against the northern Barbarians, it had become a relic of a bygone era now that the Barbarian tribes were all but extinct—a "tear in the eye of time." Today, it served as a clandestine base, the closest outpost to the Arreat Crater, where the new generation of elites from every nation underwent secret training.
Before dawn, snowflakes the size of goose feathers drifted through the air. In the middle of the training grounds, a young man of medium build with black hair and tawny skin had been at his drills for hours. He breathed in the razor-sharp air, his brow and back already soaked with sweat despite the freezing cold.
As the sky began to pale, the training grounds gradually stirred to life.
A golden-haired giant, standing at least two meters tall, strode toward the youth, hailing him with a booming voice.
"Hey, Leo! Morning. Five years and you're still at it this early? Are you some kind of golem that never feels fatigue? But poor brother, it looks like no one's willing to spar with you again today."
Leo looked up at his friend. This man—Reinhardt—carried himself with a natural radiance, like a protagonist stepped out of a legend. In character, strength, and looks, he was top-tier.
In his time at the fortress, Leo had been obsessed with his cultivation, making only one true friend. Reinhardt was bold, his background was a mystery, and he often dropped secrets during conversation that ordinary people would never know. The two had bonded over a shared love for trouble; they had become "drinking buddies" after being caught and punished for smuggling alcohol into the fortress.
"Hart, with the 'Rookie King' standing right here, who else could I ask for?" Leo smiled. He stepped toward the weapon rack, pulling down a heavy tower shield and a short spear.
Seeing Leo ready himself, Reinhardt's face fell into a mock pout. "Your skin is thicker than that tower shield. Who else could put up with you? No wonder you have no friends, you combat maniac."
As Leo fell into a fighting stance, Reinhardt shouldered a massive two-handed greatsword, continuing his taunt. "Seriously, Leo, jokes aside—the world is vast and full of hidden powers. Calling me the 'Rookie King' is a bit much. Besides, I haven't managed to crack that thick hide of yours yet, have I? I truly look forward to the day I can claim that title for real."
Leo ignored the teasing. He and Reinhardt shared the easy rapport of old school friends who expressed affection through blunt insults.
"Hart, here I come! Watch yourself, unless you want to get poked somewhere unspeakable."
Seizing the moment while Reinhardt was still adjusting his stance, Leo tucked himself behind the tower shield and charged.
Reinhardt was a straightforward man. His combat style was hot-blooded and direct; he loved nothing more than a head-on collision of raw power. With a great shout, he raised his greatsword and delivered a massive vertical cleave. Leo knew him well—Hart was the strongest man among the recruits.
Don't tank it head-on.
Just as the blade was about to meet the shield, Leo slammed the bottom edge of the tower shield into the frozen earth. Man, shield, and ground formed a perfect triangle, using the earth itself to absorb the shock of the blow. Before Reinhardt could recover his momentum, Leo's short spear lunged out like a viper, aiming for the big man's legs.
Leo knew Reinhardt's weakness. As the fortress's top prodigy, Reinhardt insisted on meeting an opponent's strength with his own, seeking to crush them at their best.
"Hey! Leo! That turtle-strat is still as shameless as ever!" Reinhardt scrambled back a step, narrowly avoiding the "cowardly" thrust. Feeling a cold draft against his inner thigh, his expression turned serious.
Leo didn't waste breath on words. Against someone of Reinhardt's caliber, he couldn't afford to relax. He had to keep the giant off-balance. Shield bash, spear thrust, repeat.
Leo knew his own style wasn't flawless. A mobile opponent could wear him down and strike when his stamina flagged, or use a heavy blunt weapon like a maul to shatter his guard. But Reinhardt was too proud to dance around, and he refused to use anything but his two-handed sword. He would take every blow and try to hit back harder.
A horizontal sweep came whistling in. Leo braced his shield to deflect the force. Even with the ground absorbing the brunt of it, the sheer vibration from two consecutive heavy hits made his arms go numb.
Leo envied Reinhardt's natural talent. But for a man born mediocre, one had to find an edge.
His "edge" was the experience of two lifetimes. Drawing on the combat logic of Spartan warriors from his previous world, he had settled on the most efficient combination of cold weapons: the Great Shield and Short Spear. Thus, the "Turtle Style" was born. It had earned him a reputation at the fortress—though that reputation was often inseparable from the word "wretched."
Bash, defend, thrust.
In a flash, they had traded over fifty rounds. Leo's right arm was screaming with fatigue, but Reinhardt wasn't faring much better; the fabric of his trousers hung in tatters like old rags.
Sensing Leo's waning energy, Reinhardt caught a slightly sloppy block. He angled his strike perfectly to bypass Leo's leverage, preventing him from grounding the force. This time, the collision was bone-shaking. An irresistible surge of power slammed into the shield, which bounced back and cracked Leo across the forehead.
Leo went flying.
"Ha! Leo, that's match! You lasted two more moves than last time. Your progress is terrifying."
His head throbbed. The world spun.
Wait... that smell... A familiar scent of salt and fish filled his senses, and memories began to rush back like a rising tide.
The memories of his past life were blurry now. He remembered being fed up with the "pay-to-win" loop of modern gaming, unable to find the passion of the old days. By chance, he had started replaying a classic: Diablo II.
He had picked a Hardcore Paladin, guiltily installing a "PlugY" mod for a larger stash. Just a big warehouse for gear, he'd told himself, that's not really cheating.
He had reached Nightmare difficulty. While entering Nihlathak's Temple, he had been distracted, checking "Cain's Notebook" on his phone for data. When he looked back, he had already been dissolved by a Tomb Viper's bugged poison.
In Diablo II, those snakes were notorious. A bug caused their poison clouds to deal physical damage per frame. Since defense didn't mitigate physical damage—only hit rate—those clouds were a death sentence.
Just like that, his character was gone, turned into a hooded ghost in the hall of heroes.
The emotional shock, the heart palpitations, the sudden gasp for air... he remembered coughing up blood, the world going black, and then—nothing.
He woke up as an infant. Reborn.
He had tried to find a "cheat code" or a system, but found nothing. He was just a normal person. He had left the memory of his peaceful motherland behind and learned to play the part of a "good boy" in this strange, harsh land. For ten years, he lived a simple, happy life in a remote fishing village in Westmarch with loving parents and a sister who looked up to him.
That peace was shattered when he was ten.
It was a bright morning. He was heading into the woods to find a cranky, bear-like old man who lived as a hermit—it had taken a lot of effort to earn the old man's tutelage.
Suddenly, a blinding light seared the sky. His eyes burned; he was blinded instantly. Then came the tremors. The entire world seemed to heave. He fell, clawing at the dirt, desperate for safety. He hit his head on a rock and curled into a ball, praying to survive the roar of the world ending.
When he woke up in his own bed, the sunset through the window was the color of blood. To the north, the horizon was swallowed by fire and a mountain of ash.
The end of the world, he had thought.
Days later, he learned the truth: Mount Arreat had exploded. The Barbarians were gone. The mountain was now a crater.
He knew exactly what had happened. It was the ending of Diablo II. Tyrael had destroyed the Worldstone after it was corrupted by Baal.
This is the world of Diablo. A world where human life is worth less than a dog's.
For years, he woke up screaming from nightmares. He would wrap himself in his blankets, desperate for a sliver of safety.
Once, his mother, Elsa, caught him dragging his bruised body home after training. "The Prime Evils—Mephisto, Baal, Diablo—they were all sent packing by the five heroes! Why are you pushing yourself like this? Do you want us to attend your funeral?"
Leo couldn't explain. He couldn't tell her that they were only exiled—that in twenty years, the demons would return, stronger than ever.
His father, Tem, trying to play the wise patriarch, chimed in with tavern gossip. "The four surviving heroes who defeated Baal have formed an alliance. Every nation is setting up training camps for the youth. They're looking for elites to send to a secret base... I heard they even teach mysterious powers there."
His father nodded proudly. "Yes, humanity is united. We are stronger than we've ever been."
Leo was stunned. As a veteran player, he knew that conventional armies were just toys for High Demons. But... mysterious powers? A global selection of elites?
Was this part of the lore? Was this the lead-up to Diablo III? He bit his lip in regret. Why didn't I play through the third game when I had the chance?