Warworld.
Before the immense arena gates, Vulkan and his group waited. The air was heavy, charged with an almost palpable tension. The roars of the crowd, on the other side of the metal, made the walls vibrate like a monstrous heart about to explode.
Orrana turned to Vulkan, her green eyes shining with grave intensity.
Orrana: "Before the gates open, I must warn you. The arena is techno-morphic. It's covered by a shield linked to generators. They can change the terrain into an arid desert, a frozen wasteland, a toxic jungle... whatever Mongul decides. Multiple waves of warriors will attack us. And the fighting won't stop until Mongul wills it."
Vulkan nodded, signaling he understood. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his two-handed greatsword.
Vulkan: "Orrana, stay close to me."
Orrana lifted her head, a glint of defiance in her green eyes.
Orrana: "I am a warrior born for battle. I don't need your protection."
Vulkan slowly turned his face toward her. Beneath the Spartan helmet, his red eyes burned with a calm flame.
Vulkan: "I know. But it would be a shame to lose my first acquaintance on this world."
Orrana fell silent for a moment. Then she nodded with a sharp jerk of her head, accepting without another word.
The heavy arena gates began to open. A titanic grinding tore through the air. A blinding light burst from outside, and with it, a scorching heat that struck them like a wall of fire.
Vulkan narrowed his eyes, his obsidian skin welcoming the heat like an old friend.
Vulkan: "Scorching desert."
He stepped forward first, his plated boots sinking slightly into the ground. The others followed.
---
The arena stretched as far as the eye could see, far beyond what Warworld's dimensions should have allowed. It was the magic of the techno-morphic dome. An entire desert recreated within a bubble of altered reality. Dunes of fine sand rose like petrified waves. The artificial sun beat down hard, casting sharp shadows across the golden ground.
Vulkan bent down and scooped up a handful of sand. The grains flowed through his fingers, warm, real, perfectly imitated. He let the sand slowly drain from his hand.
Vulkan: "Impressive."
Brozon cackled, his lipless maw split from ear to ear.
Brozon: "Not bad, eh?"
Zwooo!
A projectile tore through the air at supersonic speed. Brozon's head exploded in a spray of green flesh and shattered bone. His headless body stood upright for a second, as if surprised by its own death, then collapsed into the sand.
Dead. Instantly.
Tsag clicked her mandibles with a sharp snap, her compound eyes scanning the horizon.
Tsag: "Dead. An enemy."
Without waiting, the giant ant dove into the sand, her chitinous body vanishing beneath the surface like a fish into water. A born hunter. She would find the shooter.
Vulkan wasted no time mourning Brozon. He looked toward the horizon. A group of creatures was advancing rapidly, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them. Every shape, every size. Three-meter giants. Crawling creatures. Warriors with dog heads, lips curled back over glistening fangs. Others with horns, crests, scales. Some had no mouth at all, their faces nothing but smooth surfaces pierced by empty sockets.
A pack. A horde. A wave of death surging toward them.
Vulkan drew his heavy two-handed greatsword. The blade gleamed under the artificial sun.
Vulkan: "Orrana, they're coming."
Orrana raised her shield and drew her sword, her golden muscles tensing with the effort.
Orrana: "I'm ready."
The first warrior came screaming at them, an axe raised above his reptilian head. Vulkan didn't give him time to strike. His greatsword traced a perfect arc and cleaved the creature in two, from shoulder to hip. The body fell in two distinct pieces, the sand drinking the blood instantly.
---
The battle raged for two hours.
Two hours of blood and screams. Two hours of metal clashing, of flesh tearing, of howls mingling with the roars of the crowd.
Vulkan was a living tank. Where other gladiators sought to dodge, to parry, to survive, he advanced. Every step drove him deeper into the melee. His two-handed greatsword spun like a propeller of death, slicing through armor like paper, shattering bones like twigs.
A bull-headed warrior charged, horns lowered. Vulkan dropped his sword, grabbed the horns with his bare hands, and with a violent twist, snapped the creature's neck. He scooped up his sword in the same motion and beheaded two opponents with a single swing.
His war hammer came into play when a four-meter colossus, covered in steel plates welded directly into its flesh, tried to crush him under a massive fist. Vulkan dodged the blow, drew his hammer, and brought it down on the giant's knee. The joint exploded in a shower of bone fragments and twisted metal. The colossus collapsed with a cry that shook the sand.
Projectiles rained down. Alien arrows. Energy discharges. Throwing blades. Some found their mark, ricocheting off Vulkan's obsidian skin without piercing it. Others left scratches that healed almost instantly.
Orrana fought at his side, her shield raised against the volleys, her sword plunging into enemy flesh with surgical precision. She was fast, agile, deadly. A war dancer clad in gold and blood.
Tsag burst from the sand intermittently, her mandibles snapping around the neck of an isolated shooter, dragging them beneath the surface before vanishing again. A silent predator. A deadly shadow.
But the waves kept coming. Endlessly. Without respite.
Vulkan did not falter. His Primarch muscles burned with inexhaustible energy. Every enemy felled seemed to strengthen him. Every healed wound made him more determined.
He grabbed a reptilian-headed warrior by the throat and lifted him off the ground.
Vulkan: "How many waves?"
The reptile spat blood, a grimace on his scaly lips.
"As many as Mongul wants. You'll all die."
Vulkan squeezed. The creature's neck snapped with a dry crack. He tossed the lifeless body into the sand.
Vulkan: "Let him send more. I am Vulkan. And I will not die today."
He raised his sword toward Mongul's viewing lodge, visible high above the arena, and roared. A cry of defiance. A war cry. A cry that promised this was only the beginning.
The sand was red with blood. Bodies piled up like hills of flesh. And at the center of this carnage, Vulkan stood tall, indestructible, his red eyes lifted toward his enemy.
In his lodge, Mongul watched. A cruel smile stretched across his lips.
Mongul: "Interesting. Very interesting."
The tyrant of Warworld had just found his new obsession. And Vulkan had just declared war.