What happened when an ordinary human drank blood that was seventy percent Pit Lord essence?
The transformation was horrifying.
Their bodies swelled with muscle, growing taller and broader as every physical attribute shattered human limits. Sickly green fel scars spread beneath their skin like glowing veins. Their fingernails lengthened into claws, their teeth sharpened into fangs, and jagged bone spikes erupted from their forearms, elbows, knees, and spine.
None of that was unexpected.
Rom had undergone a similar transformation after drinking blood diluted to fifty percent concentration.
The seventy-percent version looked much the same from the outside, save for another four inches of height and an even more imposing physique.
The real differences lay beneath the skin.
They were vastly stronger.
Far more violent.
And the cost was staggering.
Their lifespan dropped to roughly a month.
True disposable soldiers.
If the fifty-percent variant merely made someone irritable and bloodthirsty, the seventy-percent version erased nearly every trace of reason.
Pit Lords themselves were brutal creatures, but they still possessed enough intelligence to communicate.
These creations did not.
The overwhelming flood of fel energy burned away rational thought, leaving behind nothing but endless rage, slaughter, and destruction.
There was another, subtler change.
Any Warlock, Demon Hunter, or Hunter capable of sensing creature types would no longer identify them as human.
They had become demons.
Fel energy possessed an insidious property.
Given enough exposure, virtually any flesh-and-blood race could eventually be transformed into demonic life. The eredar of Argus had long since crossed that threshold, while Warlocks and Demon Hunters could temporarily assume demonic forms by channeling enough fel.
Compared to the hardy orcs of Draenor, Earth’s humans were remarkably fragile.
Seventy-percent Pit Lord blood was simply too much.
The transformation into demons was inevitable.
For Evenson...
That was excellent news.
Commanding demons wasn’t merely something Warlocks could do.
It was practically part of the job description.
With the proper spell and ritual, weaker demons could be enslaved with remarkable efficiency.
Using the demonic summoning circle created by Habus, Evenson arrived in the Afghan desert without incident.
Capturing a five-man terrorist patrol searching for Tony Stark proved almost laughably easy.
There was barely enough resistance to call it a confrontation.
The patrol leader barked something in Pashto while leveling his AK-47.
His voice carried equal parts suspicion and fear.
A casually dressed young man wearing nothing but a T-shirt and jeans had somehow appeared in the middle of the desert before dawn.
Nothing about that was normal.
"I have absolutely no idea what you’re saying," Evenson admitted.
"But I can make a pretty good guess."
He cleared his throat.
Then, in flawless English and with all the theatrical seriousness of a Saturday morning supervillain, declared,
"I am your new master."
"I will grant you unimaginable power."
"All I ask in return is that you perform one task for me."
The terrorists stared blankly.
Naturally.
None of them understood a word.
The patrol leader frowned and replied in Pashto.
"Forget him."
"Kill him."
"He isn’t Tony Stark."
"He found us."
"And he’s another English-speaking bastard."
The rifles came up.
The patrol leader took careful aim.
"Hold still."
Evenson sighed.
"No appreciation for dramatic entrances."
He rolled his eyes.
"Fear."
The spell erupted silently.
No visible shockwave.
No burst of light.
Only a faint breeze that stirred the desert sand as invisible psychic force spread outward from Evenson in every direction.
The effect was immediate.
The terrorists froze.
Their expressions twisted into pure, animal terror.
A heartbeat later, every one of them erupted into hysterical screams.
Their rifles slipped from trembling hands.
They collapsed onto the sand, shaking uncontrollably.
Foam gathered at their mouths.
Their bodies completely lost control.
Fear was one of a Warlock’s signature abilities.
Against seasoned warriors or individuals with exceptional willpower, the spell usually provoked only a momentary hesitation before they fought through it.
These men...
Were neither.
Ordinary humans possessed neither the physical resilience nor the mental discipline to resist.
Instead of fleeing in panic...
They simply broke.
Completely.
Honestly, it made Evenson’s life easier.
At least he wouldn’t have to chase anyone down afterward.
He reached into his bag and removed five vials of concentrated Pit Lord blood.
Then he looked at the writhing terrorists.
"..."
"...Seriously?"
Between the drooling...
The foam...
And the far less dignified consequences of overwhelming terror...
Evenson stopped in his tracks.
"That’s disgusting."
He wanted to administer the blood.
He also wanted to remain at least a little farther away from... all of that.
After a few seconds of uncomfortable indecision, inspiration struck.
He snapped his fingers.
A brilliant violet summoning circle bloomed beneath his feet.
Arcane symbols rotated through the air as streams of purple energy converged into a glowing cube suspended overhead.
The ritual lasted only two seconds.
Space rippled.
Then a massive blue figure emerged.
Its lower body dissolved into swirling shadow instead of legs. Broad shoulders supported enormous muscular arms wrapped in glowing rune-inscribed bracers. Its face possessed only a mouth and two brilliant green eyes burning like spectral lanterns.
A Voidwalker.
Or rather...
Doom.
The rotund blue "fat man" appearance he usually wore was merely a convenient disguise.
This was his true form.
Doom spoke in his usual solemn tone.
"I... come... from... the Void."
It seemed to be the only sentence he knew.
"Doom."
Evenson pointed toward the terrified terrorists.
"Open their mouths."
"And try not to crush their heads."
"I... come... from... the Void."
The Voidwalker floated toward the nearest terrorist.
One enormous hand grabbed the man’s jaw.
Crack.
Evenson winced.
"...That sounded painful."
He instinctively rubbed his own chin.
It sounded suspiciously as though Doom had dislocated the man’s jaw.
Still...
The mouth was open.
Mission accomplished.
Evenson uncorked a vial and poured the concentrated Pit Lord blood down the terrorist’s throat.
Doom casually dropped him back onto the sand.
The process repeated four more times.
Within minutes, all five terrorists had received the serum.
Then the pair simply waited.
The changes came quickly.
Bones cracked.
Muscles expanded.
Fel energy erupted beneath the skin.
The five men writhed violently before their bodies finally stabilized.
Evenson’s eyes lit up.
"They became full demons?"
He smiled.
"That’s even better."
Without hesitation, he cast Enslave Demon.
Freshly transformed.
Completely mindless.
Consumed by endless bloodlust.
The newborn demons had no chance whatsoever of resisting a Warlock’s control.
Besides...
The command he intended to give them aligned perfectly with the only instinct remaining in their shattered minds.
Evenson smiled faintly.
"Destroy all living things."
"Destroy everything."
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