Diablo Chronicles Episode 27: The Light Aimed at the Heart of Hatred and the Names Left Behind

This is a newly written fan narrative based on the events of the original game. The characters' emotions, dialogue, and scene atmospheres have been reconstructed, and it includes major spoilers.

The Eclipse Shrouding the Skies of Scovos and the Shadow of Hatred

Above the skies of the Scovos Isles, a colossal black moon swallowed the sun. Where the midday light vanished, only a blood-red rim flickered ominously. A dense darkness dyed the leaves of the tropical rainforest black, settling heavily over the earth. In the suffocating silence, not even a breeze blew, and even the sound of the ocean waves subsided as if dead. People looked up at the sky, trembling with an inexplicable anxiety.

The eclipse that blocked the sun was no mere natural phenomenon. It was the shadow of despair that the Lord of Hatred was scattering across the world. As the darkness deepened, bloodshot veins began to bloom in the eyes of the Amazon warriors. Within the hearts of those who had dedicated their entire lives to sisterhood and honor, an inexplicable rage welled up. It did not take long for a minor grievance toward a neighbor to escalate into a murderous hatred.

An Amazon warrior standing in the street slammed her spear onto the ground, letting out a beastly shriek. Triggered by her cry, the clashing of weapons erupted throughout the city. Sisters who had fought back-to-back until yesterday now aimed their blades at each other's throats. In a chaotic hellscape of splattering blood and rampant screams, they forgot even why they were angry, entirely consumed by slaughter.

The Wanderer watched the horrific scene from afar, clenching their fists. The end met by those promised a false salvation was nothing but utter ruin. Mephisto had whispered eternal peace and power to them, but what returned was a madness of tearing each other apart. Before the Wanderer's eyes, an old warrior collapsed, pierced by the spear of her young disciple, shedding futile tears. The promise of salvation was nothing more than the cruelest of traps.

The stench of blood drifted on the wind, brushing past the Wanderer's nose. Toying with the hilt of the worn sword hanging at their waist, they suppressed the rising misery. To stop this madness, they had to sever its root. It was impossible to know how much time remained before hatred completely devoured the land of Scovos. Beside the Wanderer, the mortal Tyrael also stared at the scene of slaughter with a grim expression.

"This is the reality of the blessing he bestows upon the world." Tyrael's voice was low and dry, yet it was steeped in deep sorrow. In his dark skin, fully human face, and deep brown eyes revealed beneath his hood, the heavy responsibility and anguish he bore as a mortal sat in place of the radiant light of his past days as an archangel. The Wanderer nodded and averted their gaze. They could no longer just stand by and watch these meaningless deaths. There was a place they had to go.

Leaving behind the darkness-stained streets of Scovos, the Wanderer turned away. The death throes of the Amazons ringing in their ears seemed to hold them back, but they did not stop. The only way to save them now was to plunge a blade into the heart of hatred. The Wanderer's long shadow flickered heavily beneath the ashen sky. Thinking of the dagger kept in their breast pocket, they steadied their breathing.

In the bizarre twilight created by the eclipse, the Wanderer and Tyrael walked silently toward the depths of the forest. Tree branches scraped sharply against their shoulders, but neither showed any sign of pain. From afar, even the sounds of the forest beasts, driven mad by hatred and tearing each other apart, could be heard. Etching the fading screams behind them deep into their heart, the Wanderer marched silently toward the impending final battle.

Heavy Steps Toward the Pool of Creation

The steps of the two pushing through the dense tropical rainforest were heavy. The humid air choked their lungs, but what weighed them down was not the heat of the forest, but the weight of loss nestled in their hearts. With every step the Wanderer took, Lorath's final face flashed in their mind, making their heart sink. The image of the old scholar perishing at the hands of the corrupted Adreona remained vividly etched upon their retinas.

Tyrael, too, was mourning his former disciple in silence. The grief he felt as a mortal was fully conveyed in the way his rough hands occasionally clenched the hem of his worn robe. Looking at Tyrael's bent back, the Wanderer recalled the blood-stained smile of Lilith, who had sacrificed herself in their stead. The warmth of the red droplets of blood she left behind seemed to still linger on their fingertips. They had to ensure their deaths were not in vain.

The Wanderer felt the cool touch of the dagger kept securely in their breast pocket. That blade, restored through the ancient magic of the Horadrim, was their sole hope of piercing Mephisto. Even as they walked, they frequently caressed the hilt of the dagger, steeling their resolve. The faint vibration emanating from the sharp tip was transmitted through their palm. It felt like a final request left to them by those who had departed first.

As the forest deepened, the surrounding air grew strangely cold. It was proof that the Pool of Creation was drawing near. The sacred place, once called the origin of life, was now shrouded in dense fog, exuding an ominous energy. The moss covering the ground had lost its vitality, withered and gray, while the ancient trees were twisted into bizarre shapes as if screaming. The Wanderer gripped their sword hilt tightly.

"The energy of the pool has been corrupted. It is clear he has already taken his place there," Tyrael said, halting his steps and watching the foggy path ahead. The Wanderer nodded, scanning the surroundings for any presence. The silence of the forest was so absolute that it was goosebump-inducing. Exchanging glances, they hushed their footsteps as much as possible and cautiously slipped into the fog.

As they pushed through the fog, a hollow basin beneath a massive cliff revealed itself. At its center, the pool, which should have gleamed a deep blue, was boiling like a dark red mire. The toxic vapor rising above the water's surface emitted a pungent stench. Watching the sight, the Wanderer had to suppress the nausea welling up inside. It was unbelievable that the very source of the world had been so horribly defiled.

Around the pool, bizarrely mutated plants writhed like tentacles. Drawing the dagger, the Wanderer stepped close to Tyrael's side. From this moment on, a single moment of carelessness could lead to death. Taking a deep breath, they calmed their racing heart. Though Lorath's death and Lilith's sacrifice swirled in their mind, they could not let themselves be consumed by anger now. This was a moment that demanded cold reason.

Standing at the narrow path leading down to the pool, Tyrael closed his eyes. His lips parted slightly as he began to chant a forgotten ancient spell. Magic too immense for a mortal body to bear swirled around him, kicking up dust. The Wanderer kept watch on their surroundings while Tyrael opened the path, adjusting their grip on the sword. Finally, the tightly sealed barrier of the pool cracked open, gaping like a dark mouth toward them.

The Wanderer Confronts the False Prophet

The shockwave that erupted as the barrier tore pushed the Wanderer's body back violently. Kneeling on the ground, they kept their gaze fixed forward. In the center of the pool where the thick fog had cleared, a small altar floated upon the rotting water. And there stood a man. Though he bore the form of a dazzling light, that light held no warmth, but rather a sharp, blinding toxicity.

The man's face was exactly that of Akarat as depicted in the legends of Zakarum. His gentle features and sacred armor proved that he was once the great prophet who had led humanity to the light. Yet, in his eyes, instead of mercy, an endless abyss of darkness swirled. Akarat's noble vessel was nothing but a shell. What filled it was the Lord of Hatred, Mephisto.

Slowly rising to their feet, the Wanderer aimed the tip of the dagger at him. Mephisto, in the guise of Akarat, looked down at the Wanderer with a sinister smile playing on his lips. "Foolish mortal, can you cut down the face of the light you once worshiped?" His voice echoed bizarrely, as if mingled with the screams of thousands. Though the Wanderer shuddered at the malice in that voice, they did not halt their steps.

Tyrael followed behind the Wanderer, breathing heavily. Having spent too much power to open the barrier, his complexion was deathly pale. "That is not Akarat. He is merely desecrating his holy vessel," Tyrael cried out in a trembling voice. Etching those words into their heart, the Wanderer strove not to be swayed by the illusion before them. Even Akarat's soul, trapped within that vessel, must be suffering.

Mephisto raised his hand, summoning black lightning. The destructive power extending from the fingertips of the holy prophet struck at the Wanderer's feet. Dirt and stone fragments flew in all directions, scratching the Wanderer's cheek. Rolling to evade the attack, the Wanderer leapt off a rock at the edge of the pool. They charged with their sword raised, single-mindedly intent on shattering Mephisto's arrogant smile.

Akarat's vessel was astonishingly fast and powerful. The Wanderer's strikes either sliced through empty air or bounced off an invisible barrier. Mephisto toyed with the Wanderer with leisurely movements, as if dealing with a child's play. "Your companions died in vain. This world is already submerged in my hatred." Mephisto's whispers burrowed into the Wanderer's ears, attempting to cloud their mind.

Clenching their teeth, the Wanderer pushed away Mephisto's auditory hallucinations. Lorath's death was not in vain. Lilith's sacrifice was not meaningless. Applying strength to their sweat-slicked palm, they adjusted their grip on the dagger's hilt. Even if the opponent's power was overwhelming, they had nowhere to retreat. The Wanderer focused all their senses on tracking Mephisto's attack patterns, searching for a gap to exploit.

Just as Mephisto was about to unleash a massive blast of black flame once more, Tyrael squeezed out his remaining strength to deploy a shield of light. The black flame collided with the shield, erupting in an ear-splitting explosion. Though Tyrael coughed up blood and fell to his knees, that brief opening was enough for the Wanderer. Pushing through the aftermath of the explosion, the Wanderer lunged like a beast. In their eyes, only the resolve to pierce the chest of that false prophet flashed.

The Scar of the Dagger and the Revealed True Form of Hatred

The Wanderer's body cut through the air, diving into Mephisto's embrace. The invisible barrier protecting Akarat's vessel shattered like glass the moment it touched the tip of Lilith's dagger. For the first time, a flicker of bewilderment crossed Mephisto's relaxed expression. Not missing that split-second hesitation, the Wanderer drove the dagger deep. The sharp blade slipped through the gaps of the sacred armor, piercing the false prophet's shoulder.

With the sound of tearing flesh, dark red blood spurted into the air. A scream like a beast's roar erupted from Akarat's mouth. The Wanderer shuddered at the horrific resistance transmitted to the hand gripping the hilt. The toxicity spewing from the wound washed over them as if to burn their skin. With every breath, a searing pain scorched their lungs, but they never loosened their grip.

The wounded vessel of Akarat began to twist grotesquely. The sacred skin discolored to ash and cracked open, a red glow leaking through the fissures. The expansion of bones and muscles beyond human limits created a horrific cracking sound. Overwhelmed by the terrible mutation unfolding before their eyes, the Wanderer stumbled backward. It was the manifestation of a primal terror that human reason could scarcely bear.

Finally, Akarat's shell shattered completely, and the Lord of Hatred revealed his hideous true form. A colossal skeletal head, wings made of bone, and an endlessly flowing blood-red mist froze the surrounding air. The red glow emanating from Mephisto's hollow eye sockets pierced through the Wanderer. Barely keeping their legs from giving out, the Wanderer aimed their sword forward.

As Mephisto swung a massive scythe of bone, the air tore open, and a sharp whistling sound struck their ears. The Wanderer reflexively ducked to evade the attack, but broke into a cold sweat upon seeing the rock where the scythe had grazed sliced through like tofu. It was clear that a single graze would mean death. Though terror gripped their heart, the Wanderer exhaled a ragged breath and suppressed their fear.

Relying on instinctive judgment, the Wanderer rolled into Mephisto's blind spot. The colossal demon's movements were large, leaving minute gaps between attacks. Kicking up mud from the ground to obscure Mephisto's vision, the Wanderer swung their sword toward the joint of his bone wing. A sharp clang of metal meeting bone rang out, and a tingling pain spread through the Wanderer's arm.

With an irritated shriek, Mephisto spewed a blood-red mist toward the Wanderer. Seeing the plants touched by the mist instantly burn black, the Wanderer hastily retreated. Holding their breath, they struggled to escape the mist's range, but a portion of the toxicity brushed their collar. A groan escaped them from the pain of festering skin. To forget the pain, they bit their lip hard enough to draw blood.

Standing at a distance, the Wanderer caught their ragged breath and glared at Mephisto. Even before the overwhelming disparity in power, their gaze never faltered. Fear still wrapped around their entire body, but it was no longer a shackle that paralyzed them. Using fear as a driving force for survival, the Wanderer gripped their sword once more. The true battle was beginning now.

The Final Struggle of Mortal Will

Mephisto's massive bone scythe fell once more toward the Wanderer's head. Twisting their body, they avoided the blade by a hair's breadth, but were thrown by the impact of the strike hitting the ground, rolling into the mire. Their vision blurred from a pain that felt as if every bone in their body was breaking. Spitting out the metallic blood pooling in their mouth, they barely raised their head, only to see the colossal shadow of the approaching demon completely cover their vision.

"Your struggling is meaningless. What can you hope to change with the paltry will of a human?" Mephisto's mockery burrowed into the Wanderer's mind. Straining their trembling legs, the Wanderer staggered to their feet. Perhaps the demon was right. The mortal body was so fragile, and they could not be certain if a single dagger in their hand could end this colossal despair. Despondency began to creep in.

Just then, the Wanderer seemed to hear Lorath's raspy voice in their ear. The bent back of the old Horadrim, who had sought knowledge to protect humanity, came to mind. And the final decision of Lilith, who had severed the blood connection to save them, flashed through their thoughts. They were not perfect and sometimes made mistakes, but to the very end, they fulfilled their responsibilities as humans, or as beings who loved the world. Their deaths could not be in vain.

Squeezing their eyes shut and opening them, the Wanderer steadied their fading consciousness. They did not try to deny the surging fear and despair. For it was an entirely natural emotion that a fragile human could not help but harbor. Yet, instead of kneeling to the darkness, they chose to use the pain as a stepping stone to rise again. Gripping the hilt of the dagger at their waist until blood nearly welled in their palm, the sharp pain jolted their fading mind awake. They swore to themselves that they would retreat no further.

The blood-red mist spewed by Mephisto enveloped the surroundings. Suppressing their coughs, the Wanderer ran through the fog. Though the bone scythe grazed their flank, leaving a deep laceration, they did not even scream. They kept their eyes locked solely on the red, burning heart in the center of Mephisto's chest. Blood flowed down, soaking their trousers, but their steps grew faster and more resolute.

Stepping on a fragment of rock rising in the middle of the pool, the Wanderer leapt into the air. Mephisto swung a massive arm to intercept them. Curling their body in midair, the Wanderer narrowly slipped between the demon's bony joints. Though sharp bone shards tore at their shoulders and thighs, they ignored the pain and extended their arm. Their gaze was locked solely on the red heart revealed through the gaps in the demon's breastplate.

"This is the choice of humanity!" the Wanderer screamed at the top of their lungs, putting all their weight into the hand gripping the dagger. Within their cry lay Lorath's lament, Lilith's sorrow, and the resentment of the countless souls who had died in Scovos. For the first time, a look of shock appeared in Mephisto's eyes. The demon tried to strike the Wanderer away, but it was already too late. The Wanderer's dagger plunged like lightning into Mephisto's chest.

The moment the tip of the dagger pierced Mephisto's breastplate, a blinding flash exploded. Enduring a recoil that felt as if it would break their wrist, the Wanderer drove the hilt in to the very end. The ancient magic emanating from the blade that pierced the demon's heart swirled madly, spreading through Mephisto's body. Drenched in the boiling blood of the demon, the Wanderer completed the final strike.

The Lord of Hatred Banished to the Void

As the dagger pierced his heart, Mephisto's massive frame twisted convulsively. The red light spewing from the wound instantly turned into pitch-black darkness, beginning to suck in the surrounding air. To avoid being swept away by the bizarre suction, the Wanderer let go of the hilt and rolled backward. Raising their head while lying prone on the ground, they saw an endless black hole opening in the center of the demon's chest.

Mephisto's scream was no longer a sound. It was a horrific vibration that seemed to tear space itself apart. It was different from past defeats, where he returned to Hell to await resurrection. The dagger, combining Lilith's blood and Horadrim magic, was dragging the demon's soul not to Hell, but into the endless abyss of the Void. Mephisto's vessel was sucked into the black hole, distorting hideously.

"You... dare... to me...!" Mephisto's death rattle struck the Wanderer's mind, but the voice gradually grew distant and faint. The demon's bone wings broke, and his skeletal head distorted as they were sucked into the Void. The Wanderer watched the process of destruction with bated breath. The more the Lord of Hatred struggled, the deeper and tighter the swamp of the Void bound and swallowed him.

When the last trace of Mephisto finally vanished into the black hole, the horrific vibration lingering in the air ceased. After the rift of the Void closed with a single thunderous crack, a heavy silence settled over the Pool of Creation. The rotting ripples of the pool grew calm, and the dense toxicity began to slowly disperse. The tension in the Wanderer's body released, and they collapsed spread-eagled on the ground.

Through the ash-colored sky, a single faint ray of light filtered in. The eclipse was ending. Exhaling ragged breaths, the Wanderer looked up at the cloudy sky. It was over. At least for now, the incarnation of hatred that sought to devour the world was gone. Yet, in their heart, only a heavy fatigue resided instead of the joy of victory. They knew that this battle did not mean the eternal end of all evil.

From afar, the sound of Tyrael's staggering footsteps drew near. The Wanderer forced themselves to sit up and greet him. Tyrael's face was also covered in wounds and looked exhausted, but a light of relief flickered in his brown eyes. The two looked at each other in silence. No grand congratulations or words of comfort were needed. Only the fact that they had survived, and that they had averted immediate ruin, mattered.

Picking up the worn sword fallen on the ground, the Wanderer slowly stood up. Though their wounded body screamed in pain, their two legs stood firmly upon the earth. Mephisto had been banished to the Void, but countless scars still remained upon the world. The remnants of hatred left by the demon would not easily vanish. Wiping the blood from their hands, the Wanderer gauged the weight they would have to bear in the future.

"There is a place we must go," Tyrael broke the silence in a dry voice. The Wanderer nodded. They still had work left to finish. They had to liberate Lorath's soul, which must be suffering in the swamps of Hawezar. Taking one last look back at the pool that was beginning to clear, the Wanderer dragged their limping legs and began to make their way out of the forest. A faint sunlight shone down upon their retreating figures.

The Burning Tree of Whispers and the Liberated Soul

The wetlands of Hawezar were still filled with sticky fog and the stench of rot. After a bitter struggle, sinking deep into the mire with every step, the Wanderer and Tyrael arrived before the Tree of Whispers. Countless heads hanging from the branches of the colossal ancient tree mumbled in bizarre voices. Amidst that horrific chorus, the Wanderer searched for a familiar face. They saw Lorath's head hanging from the lowest branch of the tree, his eyes closed.

Facing Lorath's pale face, the Wanderer halted their steps. The lips of the old scholar, who had once wracked his brains to save the world, were tightly shut. The cursed roots of the tree dug into his neck, binding his soul. Feeling a heartbreaking sorrow, the Wanderer clenched their fists. It was utterly devastating to see their companion reduced to an appendage of this horrific tree, unable to find peace even in death.

Tyrael stepped to the Wanderer's side and let out a heavy sigh. "This cursed tree has coveted souls for far too long. It is time to break its chains." A firm resolve resided in his voice. The Wanderer nodded and pulled a torch from their waist. The only way to end the horrific contract made with the Tree of Whispers was to reduce this ominous ancient tree to ashes.

As the Wanderer lit the torch, the heads hanging from the tree snapped their eyes open all at once, beginning to shriek shrilly. "No! Do not burn us! We hold knowledge!" Hundreds of voices mingled, echoing as if to tear the Wanderer's eardrums. Their screams, like auditory hallucinations, tried to shake the Wanderer's mind, but they remained steadfast. This knowledge was nothing but a curse bought at the cost of too many sacrifices.

Holding the torch high, the Wanderer approached the thick roots of the tree. As they tossed the flame onto the dry moss and rotting bark, the fire instantly slithered like a serpent, beginning to devour the ancient tree. Acrid smoke rose, pushing back the swamp fog. The screams of the tree as it burned were as horrific as the death throes of a living beast, but the Wanderer did not take a single step back, watching the scene unfold.

The moment the flames reached the branch where Lorath's head hung, the Wanderer held their breath. Red fire enveloped the old scholar's face. They feared a painful scream might erupt, but surprisingly, Lorath's expression appeared peaceful. As the binding roots of the tree burned and snapped, a faint smile seemed to spread across his tightly closed lips. It was the peace of one who had finally found eternal rest.

The countless souls bound to the tree began to scatter into the air along with the flames. Swarms of translucent light embroidered the night sky, flying toward freedom. Within that swarm of light, the Wanderer saw Lorath's soul gently rise. The soul circled the Wanderer and Tyrael once before quietly vanishing into the far reaches of the dark sky. Though he had not regained his flesh to live again, he was finally free.

The colossal Tree of Whispers burned through the night, dyeing the swamps of Hawezar red. By the time the morning sun rose, only blackened ashes remained. The Wanderer and Tyrael stood before the remnants of the tree turned to ash, offering a silent tribute. Though they felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted, the void of loss still left a cold ache in a corner of their hearts. Burying Lorath's final peace in their hearts, they turned back once more.

The Responsibility of Those Left Behind and a New Morning

What welcomed the Wanderer upon their return to the Scovos Isles was a ruined city and wounded people. The eclipse had ended and Mephisto was gone, but the seeds of hatred he had sown were not entirely uprooted. A small remnant of those still unable to escape the madness were plundering the outskirts of the forest. Without a moment to rest, the Wanderer had to grip their sword again and join the Amazon warriors in clearing out the remaining threats.

In the plaza before the ruined temple, the Wanderer deflected the spear of the last remaining corrupted warrior and subdued her. From the eyes of the warrior, who was breathing heavily and covered in blood, the red madness finally cleared, and futile tears flowed down. Instead of killing her, the Wanderer sheathed their weapon and extended a hand. What this blood-stained land needed now was not more slaughter, but the courage to forgive one another and rise again.

On a seaside hill dyed red by the sunset, the Wanderer and Tyrael stood side by side. The sound of the waves rolled in gently, as if comforting the wounded earth. The Wanderer looked at the small stone graves erected on the hill. There slept the countless nameless warriors who had perished in this horrific struggle. The price of victory was far too harsh, and a heavy sorrow rested upon the shoulders of the survivors.

The Wanderer closed their eyes against the sea breeze. One by one, unforgettable names drifted through their mind. Neyrelle, who had borne too heavy a burden at such a young age; Lorath, who had never let go of wisdom and humanity to the very end; and Lilith, who had protected them at the cost of her blood. Without their sacrifices, looking at this sunset now would have been impossible. The Wanderer etched those names deeply into their heart.

"The price we paid is far too great," Tyrael murmured in a bitter voice. Deep wrinkles were etched into his face as he lived his mortal life. The Wanderer nodded and replied, "We must survive, if only to ensure the sacrifices of those left behind were not in vain. It is our responsibility now to tend to this world they gave their lives to protect." The Wanderer's voice was calm, but it held an unyielding, firm resolve.

The people of Scovos were struggling to rebuild their ruined homes, wipe down the blood-stained streets, and reclaim their daily lives. Someone wailed over a lost family member, while another embraced a surviving neighbor in relief. In that landscape where despair and hope intersected, the Wanderer saw the persistent vitality of human existence. Even the demon's hatred could not completely break the human will to rely on one another and rise again.

Caressing the worn sword at their waist, the Wanderer began to walk down the hill. Tyrael followed silently behind. It was impossible to know what hardships awaited them on the path ahead, or when the wounds remaining in the world would heal. Yet, they would not run away; they would fulfill the responsibilities given to them. To keep the embers of hope, written in blood by those who departed first, from dying out—that was the destiny of those left behind.

The sun vanished completely beyond the sea, and stars began to appear one by one in the deep blue night sky. Though the Wanderer's steps were weary, they never faltered. They slowly made their way toward the village, where the sound of rebuilding hammers could be heard. The world was still imperfect and scarred, but upon those wounds, new life was quietly sprouting. The long night had passed, and a quiet peace had finally arrived.

Sources Consulted

Blizzard · Neyrelle's Memorial Records

Blizzard · Vessel of Hatred Campaign and Scovos

GameSpot · Blizzard Developers' Vessel of Hatred Interview