"Out with it. What else is there that I don't know? I have no intention of missing this 'Rift' you keep speaking of."
Rorschach glanced sideways at the grinning Vorusk, his patience wearing thin. His temper had been ground down to almost nothing. In the face of these utterly unreasonable legends, his stubborn adherence to his own principles often felt laughable and awkward.
"The Rift still requires time to prepare. There's no need for such anticipation," Vorusk replied without looking up. He was currently flipping through Rorschach's journal as if it were a gripping mystery novel. "Trust me, you won't enjoy the battle ahead."
Vorusk seemed to have temporarily forgotten his original purpose for manifesting, absorbed in the scribbles of the man beside him.
"A battle that brings no anticipation? Then what's the point?" Rorschach stood beside his own corpse, his expression contorted.
A meaningless battle? The phrasing was baffling. One fought for survival or to uphold one's will—those were reasons he understood. But a fight for the sake of fighting was beyond him. He decided to stop overthinking it; time brought answers as surely as it brought forgetfulness.
"Before we focus on that, you still owe me an explanation." Rorschach gave his own cold body a nudge with his foot. A bizarre, skin-crawling sensation washed over him.
Kicking my own corpse... It felt like something was wrong with his head. It reminded him of that man who had pestered him years ago—the one he'd eventually thrown down an elevator shaft.
"An explanation? You mean about Joritz?" Vorusk finally looked up from the journal. His eyes, large as brass bells, fixed on Rorschach with a glint of contemptuous amusement.
A Barbarian offering an "explanation"? That was a punchline in itself. It reminded him of the days when Kormac would shout at the top of his lungs, "By the Light, do you see that enemy before us?"
At first, recruits took it as a helpful warning. After several of them nearly died while distracted by the shout, the phrase became something that made every veteran grind their teeth.
"It was simply to let you know exactly what kind of things we are up against," Vorusk said. "When everything around you can become an enemy, can you still strike off the head of a friend without hesitation?"
Vorusk suddenly thought of Raekor. He wasn't sure if Raekor would do the right thing when the time came. He didn't dare dwell on it; it would lead to a tragic end, and some things were better left unexamined.
"That is not an explanation, Vorusk," Rorschach's soul said, his voice dropping to a freezing temperature.
What is this? Deflection? Rorschach pressed on. "We deserve the truth!"
Flickers of wrathful flame erupted from his spirit.
"Not bad. It seems you've finally developed a bit of Bul-Kathos's spirit. That's good, kid!" Vorusk snapped the journal shut and stepped toward Rorschach. His gaze remained mocking, but his tone wavered with a hint of something else.
"Have you not noticed the uniqueness of your own soul? After inheriting the blood of Bul-Kathos, you have become a Nephalem through and through. An ordinary human soul could never continue to exist in this environment."
"And? That is still not the answer I seek." Rorschach was growing impatient, the flames on his soul expanding.
"Young man, that Rift is a grand gamble. The stakes are a chance at godhood. And you... you are our contingency—the hidden hand we've prepared. If we lose, you will become the next Bul-Kathos. You will stand where he stands now, using your life and your will to fight those... things."
Vorusk's voice was steady and serious, though he didn't seem particularly worried. He believed Bul-Kathos would not fail. A man bearing that name had never truly been defeated. A "Seed of Hope"? That was merely a final option.
"Allow me to interrupt," Rorschach said, frowning. A hint of pity for Bul-Kathos entered his voice. Perhaps, not knowing the full scope of the situation, he didn't yet understand the weight of such a resolve. "Did the original Bul-Kathos also walk a path of danger with no other choice?"
"What are you pitying?" Vorusk countered. "Would you retreat if you knew the path ahead was filled with death? No, you wouldn't. So how could Bul-Kathos? As for the answer you want, I'll give it to you now! Joritz claimed he was a Barbarian who challenged fate. In truth, Raekor was the first to try. She simply failed."
Vorusk paused, organizing his memories. The business with Joritz was ancient, buried deep. Fortunately, he didn't have to explain much about Raekor. As Bul-Kathos's heir, Rorschach's soul would naturally receive the echoes of the ancestors once it left its body. It was an efficient system, though it transmitted information rather than direct experience—otherwise, it would have been too easy.
"Raekor's soul was missing only a tiny fragment," Vorusk continued, seeing that Rorschach had received the information. "But a soul that is incomplete is incomplete regardless. Because of Joritz's actions, Raekor became a failure. I witnessed it myself. And your 'death' was merely to make you understand what you are truly facing. Tell me—now that your soul has felt the protection of this Holy Mountain—do you still think that bastard Tyrael is some righteous savior?"
Rorschach fell into deep reflection. He hadn't realized that his spirit had become somewhat compliant in Vorusk's presence. Though the method was questionable, the word of the Immortal King carried weight. Furthermore, with Bul-Kathos still present, the Immortal King's will wouldn't be accepted by all Barbarians without good reason.
"Justice... is wrong?" Rorschach muttered.
Vorusk laughed from the bottom of his heart. "Justice is always justice. There is no right or wrong in the concept itself. But Tyrael represents only the justice he perceives. Tell me, is it wrong to hold onto one's convictions?"
Vorusk slammed the journal onto Rorschach's corpse. Instantly, bursts of light began to radiate from Rorschach's soul. He finally began to understand what it felt like for Tyrael to perceive justice as being omnipresent.
A look of satisfaction crossed Vorusk's eyes. His efforts hadn't been in vain.
"Yes! Exactly! Bul-Kathos didn't choose you just because a fragment of Tyrael was lodged in your soul. You are very similar to him. He is Judgment, and you are a part of this world's Justice. Only like this can you serve as a sturdy cage. Only like this can you see the path to becoming a god!"
Vorusk spoke with genuine excitement. He had expected Rorschach to realize this sooner, rather than right when he was about to give up on the boy. Justice needed an anchor. Moreover, the standard of justice was never uniform across the universe.
"I am... humanity's justice? Justice should be sublime, hanging high like the morality in one's heart or the stars in the sky. It shouldn't be represented by some person." Rorschach looked at the radiance of his soul, perplexed.
Representing justice? Humanity didn't have the audacity to wear justice like a mask. No one could bear the weight of that name. Perhaps that was why Justice had to be an Archangel.
"So, you thought of an escape plan before giving it your all? That doesn't sound like the Barbarians I know." Rorschach snapped back to the present, questioning the "final contingency."
"Charging forward blindly? Victors can use flowery words to record their pasts, much like how you portray yourself as a noble saint in your journal. But tell me—are you truly noble? Where are the noble people? Where are the invincible beings?"
Vorusk's voice still carried that edge of disdain. Flaws were often looked down upon as imperfections. But what was "perfect"? Nothing was. Rorschach had already gained enough.
Vorusk took a health potion from his belt and smashed it against the chest of Rorschach's corpse. The body began to knit back together. Once the soul returned to that vessel, a man-made "miracle" would occur.
His goal was achieved: a Rorschach with a steadfast will, prepared for anything, and truly contemplating the nature of justice. Perspectives could shift, but justice existed regardless of one's stance. Knowing that was enough.
"What will happen to Joritz?" Rorschach's soul shouted, resisting the powerful suction pulling him back into his body. He couldn't help but care about the man who had delivered that fatal blow. The memory of that overhead strike still made his spirit shiver. He didn't want to change fate or seek revenge; he simply wanted to know the ancestor's end.
"A mercy that resembles a release." Vorusk spat on the ground and turned to leave. He still needed to keep an eye on Zoltun Kulle.
Vorusk wasn't entirely sure what Joritz would face, but he knew what decision Raekor would make. Or rather, he had a good guess. But it didn't matter. Was the Immortal King not there to deal with things that went wrong?
As for the Rift? It wasn't a Rift at all. It was the disaster of another world, preparing to repeat itself.
"Raekor... what have I done?"
Joritz's eyes were bloodshot as he stared at her. He found the outcome hard to accept. Raekor had already told him: his transformation had not escaped Bul-Kathos's notice.
When he chose to be Vidal, he was the trusted companion Bul-Kathos relied on. But the moment he shed that identity and appeared as Joritz, he was a corrupted enemy. He was no different from the kinsmen who had become executioners during the war.
"What have you done? You made a sacrifice for your beloved."
Raekor lay on the stone bed, refusing to turn and look at him. Her voice trembled, yet remained resolute. She was wavering under the weight of her emotions, but it would not change her final act.
"Was I wrong, Raekor?" Joritz's voice was airy, almost disbelieving.
It was the first time she had ever heard him sound so uncertain. The man known as a "Warrior" had never spoken with such hesitation.
"As your lover, I am moved. Joritz, my husband... I thank you from the bottom of my heart for everything you've done for me. I love you, in the past and for all time."
Raekor still didn't turn. The trembling in her voice was now uncontrollable—a sob from the depths of her soul, fueled by the terror of a final parting.
"Then, Raekor... did I save you? From the hands of fate?"
Joritz moved closer, slowly lying down on the stone bed beside her. This was how they had spent the coldest winter nights of their youth. Huddled together, sharing their body heat. On a battlefield of blood and steel, only this small room provided a sliver of peace.
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