THE DARK SAVAGE IN UNITED STATE

Conan the Barbarian leaned back, the snow crunching softly beneath his weight as he took another swig from the medicinal bottle. Its potent contents burned down his throat, blurring the cold sting of the Harrogath winds. He spoke with a gruff candor, his deep voice carrying over the snowy mountain peaks.

Conan we've never bothered to name my world. But if it needs a name, we call her Shao Kahn."

Storm, sitting cross-legged in the snow across from him, raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. The name resonated like a forgotten secret, heavy with mystery. "Shao Kahn? Tell me more about it," she urged, leaning forward slightly.

Conan smirked, his demeanor shifting. "Ha! You've earned my favor, Mage. Unlike Zatanna, always cloaking herself in 'nobility.' I've never been able to stand her. Too rigid. You, though—you're different. Your spells might not match hers, but you're far more grounded."

Storm allowed herself a small smile, though she could sense there was more beneath his words. "So, this world, Shao Kahn... What is it like?"

Conan stood, brushing snow off his worn fur cloak, and gestured for her to follow. "If you truly wish to understand, then come. Words won't suffice."

He led her along the winding paths of the Holy Mountain of Harrogath. Despite her earlier misstep in underestimating him, Storm trailed behind, her posture cautious, her gaze steady. The mountain roads were vast and harsh, dotted with jagged trees and unfinished structures that loomed like silent sentinels. To Storm, the rugged beauty of this place was unlike anything she'd ever seen.

"Here we are," Conan announced as they stopped before a grand structure—the Temple of the Elders. Its ancient stone facade seemed to pulse faintly with latent power. Inside was the vision of the First Immortal King and a relic of unimaginable power: Kanai's Box.

Conan's voice turned reverent. "This is where it all begins and ends. This vision," he said, gesturing to the faint image of the Immortal King, "is no more than an echo. A memory. The First Nephalem's story repeats for every visitor who comes here."

Storm squinted at the flickering image, but her attention was quickly drawn to the golden glow of Kanai's Box—a marvel suspended in midair. Its presence radiated power, sharp and intoxicating, like a song only she could hear.

"The real miracle here," Conan said, nodding toward the box, "is this. Kanai's Box. A treasure of the dark world. It can transform mundane materials into legendary artifacts, enhance the properties of existing items, or even draw the essence of legendary equipment to empower its wielder."

Storm's brow furrowed. "What of life? Can it create or restore it?"

Conan shook his head firmly. "No. Life is beyond its reach. But it can seal memories into gemstones, preserving knowledge in its purest form. Here, let me show you."

Reaching into a pouch, he retrieved a fist-sized octagonal ruby and casually tossed it into Kanai's Box. Storm watched as the box flared with light, its energies dancing around the gemstone. She felt the power it held—ancient and raw, a stark reminder of how little she truly knew about this world.

The illusion of the First Immortal King spoke in the background, recounting tales of barbarians and their eternal struggle. Yet Storm's focus remained fixed on the box. For a brief moment, a flicker of desire sparked within her. Such power could rival the Time Stone itself.

But just as quickly as the thought arose, she extinguished it. Her will remained unshaken, her discipline unwavering.

Conan chuckled, sensing her restraint. "You're stronger than most. When Zatanna first laid eyes on Kanai's Box, she couldn't resist its pull. She was far less... composed."

He turned back to the box, pouring fragments of his long and violent history into the ruby. The gem glowed brighter with every moment, holding within it the essence of his memories—of battles against demons, the clashing of steel, and the brutal lessons learned in fire and blood.

Storm marveled at the ease with which Conan discarded such immense power. The gem, infused with enough energy to make armies tremble, was nothing more than a tool to him.

"Your wealth speaks volumes about your world," Storm remarked, her voice tinged with awe. "Power is fleeting, but to treat such treasures so casually... it shows something far deeper."

Conan glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "Strength is earned,Conan. Wealth... wealth is just the weight of a world."

For the first time, Storm felt the full gravity of Conan's presence—not just as a warrior but as a man forged in the crucible of a world that valued survival above all else. Here, strength wasn't just a virtue. It was the currency of life.