Madawc's hand tightened. The charred flesh of his arm groaned under the strain. But fueled by Madawc's strength, the shoulder plate connecting the angel's wings was wrenched away. Half of the wings of light fell to the ground, dissolving into a brilliant azure radiance that seeped into the mountain beneath them.
Finally, Madawc's arm fell away, completely spent. Facing an Archangel, Madawc wanted to leave a scar. This resentment toward the angels was etched into the heart of every Barbarian who had lived through that war.
"Tyrael?" Johanna's voice was filled with shock. Not even she had expected Madawc to do this.
Tyrael's hood slowly slipped back. Deprived of half his angelic symbol, Tyrael revealed the face that Johanna found so familiar. A second later, he snapped awake.
"That was... unexpected."
Tyrael looked at his missing wing, his dark face showing a hint of surprise. He reached up and pulled his hood back over his head. This time, there was no darkness beneath it. One wing of light unfurled behind him before slowly curling inward. The severed wing was gone, fully absorbed into the mountain's power.
That energy flowed rapidly through the earth before manifesting on Rorschach's back. Rorschach was now qualified to succeed Judgment.
By stripping that power from Tyrael's consciousness, Madawc had awakened the wavering justice within Rorschach. Once Bul-Kathos performed the ritual, he would truly become the Immortal King.
Madawc had foreseen this. He might not have known the exact mechanics, but he knew the Sacred Mountain possessed a will—a will as pure as a Barbarian's.
"Madawc, as a Prophet, you should understand what your actions represent," Tyrael said evenly. He wasn't angry. This was merely an avatar of his consciousness, though it represented the essence of Justice.
"I am already dead. I am no longer the Prophet guiding the Barbarian path. My actions represent only myself!"
Madawc shoved Tyrael aside, then reached into the ground where the angel had been standing to pull out a bottle of strong liquor. He began to gulp it down as if the previous attack had never happened—or rather, as if it no longer mattered.
"Can you alone bear the enmity of the High Heavens?" Tyrael asked. He looked at Madawc as if seeing him for the first time.
The High Heavens had arrived in this world; any who harmed an Archangel would face retribution. It was the counterpart to the protective power of the Burning Hells. Especially now, when the Heavens were anchored by Tyrael's sword, El'druin.
"Bul-Kathos protects me," Madawc said dismissively, tossing the half-empty bottle into Tyrael's arms. Tyrael didn't refuse, pouring the remainder into his mouth.
This "divine retribution" couldn't be stopped by an Archangel's will; it was inevitable. If Madawc were alive, the damage would be negligible. But as a weakened soul, the price was high.
"I look forward to the birth of the Immortal King," Tyrael's voice rumbled, even as he drank. Having lived as a mortal once, he still carried a certain nostalgia for human sensations. If he could be human again, he wouldn't eat a whole day's worth of food in one sitting. This world was much kinder and more vibrant than their own.
"When that time comes, you can go keep Imperius company!"
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