Warworld.
In the arena, the battle had raged for hours. Bodies piled up like hills of shredded flesh. The sand, once golden, had become a reddish sludge, soaked with the blood of hundreds of creatures. The air was saturated with the smell of iron, sweat, and death.
Vulkan struck on. Still. Without pause.
His Primarch arms wielded the two-handed greatsword like a scythe reaping lives. Every blow was precise. Every movement was economical. Nothing was wasted. Nothing was lost. His obsidian body was covered in a layer of alien blood so thick that the red mark of Kratos was no longer visible on his skin.
Orrana fought at his side, panting, her red hair plastered to her golden face by sweat and gore. Her shield was dented. Her sword was chipped. But she held firm. She would not yield.
Tsag burst from the sand intermittently, her mandibles snapping around isolated enemies, dragging them into the depths before surfacing for new prey. The giant ant was a killing machine, silent and deadly.
Then, suddenly, everything stopped.
The waves of creatures ceased. The arena floor stopped trembling. A heavy silence settled, broken only by the panting of the surviving combatants.
A bluish light blazed from the top of the arena. A giant hologram appeared in the artificial sky. Mongul's face, immense, cruel, satisfied.
"What a magnificent battle! And our new acquisition, Vulkan as he calls himself, has made quite an impression. After such a performance, he deserves a well-earned rest."
The hologram vanished. The arena gates slowly opened.
Vulkan remained motionless for a moment. His body was covered in blood and shreds of flesh. He smelled of death. He breathed death. He was death.
Orrana beside him exhaled long and hard, her shoulders sagging under the weight of fatigue.
Orrana: "It's over. For today."
Tsag emerged from the sand, her chitinous carapace scraping the surface. She clicked her mandibles softly.
Tsag: "Survivors. Three."
Vulkan turned his head toward the exit.
Vulkan: "Let's go."
The three companions began to walk. Their steps were heavy, marked by hours of combat. The blood-soaked sand clung to their boots. The silence of the empty arena contrasted with the tumult that had reigned just minutes before.
They passed through the great metal door leading to their common room. As soon as they were inside, they shed their weapons in a clatter of crashing metal. Swords, shields, axes fell to the floor in a liberating chaos.
Then they sat down on the ground, exhausted.
A soft light swept through the room. A cleaning field, activated automatically. It washed over their bodies, dissolving the blood, the filth, the shreds of flesh that covered them. In seconds, they were clean, as if the battle had never happened.
Metal boxes rose from the floor, pushed by invisible mechanisms. Orrana grabbed one, opened it with her fingers, and began to eat. The food was a gray paste, formless, with no appetizing smell.
Vulkan took his box and tore the lid off with a sharp jerk. He plunged his fingers into the paste and ate. The taste was bland. Flavorless. Functional food, designed to keep you alive, not to please.
But it was better than nothing.
Orrana ate in silence for a while, then she lifted her head toward Vulkan. Her green eyes shone with curiosity.
Orrana: "What species are you?"
Vulkan swallowed his tasteless mouthful.
Vulkan: "A human."
Orrana and Tsag exchanged a look. A long, perplexed look.
Orrana: "No. Impossible. Humans are nothing like you."
Vulkan set his box back down on the metal floor. He knew this question would come. He knew he would have to answer it. But how to explain the inexplicable?
Vulkan: "I am not from this century."
Orrana froze, her hand suspended over her box.
Orrana: "Wait... You're from the future?"
Vulkan looked at her. His red eyes glowed under the artificial light.
Vulkan: "In a way."
Orrana: "What era?"
Vulkan hesitated for a second. Then he spoke.
Vulkan: "40,000 years."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even Tsag stopped clicking her mandibles.
Orrana slowly set her box down, eyes wide.
Orrana: "Forty thousand years... You're from the 410th century?"
Tsag tilted her insect head, her compound eyes fixed on Vulkan.
Tsag: "You are from the 410th century?"
Vulkan shook his head gently.
Vulkan: "Yes and no."
Orrana leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her gaze intense.
Orrana: "Begin. Tell me."
Vulkan closed his eyes for a moment. He was going to have to tell a story. Not his own. Not the story of Bob Wilkinson, the unemployed Texan who died on his couch. The story of Vulkan. The story of the Primarch whose body and memories he bore.
I'll alter a few small details, he thought. Adapt the truth. Make the unbelievable credible.
He reopened his eyes and spoke.
Vulkan: "I come from a planet called Nocturne. It is a world of fire and ash."
Orrana said nothing. She listened, captivated.
Vulkan: "The geology of Nocturne is dictated by its massive moon, Prometheus. The gravitational force between the two bodies causes near-constant tectonic and seismic activity. The surface is dotted with vast chains of volcanoes and basalt mountains. Every fifteen Terran years, the two bodies draw closest together, triggering massive eruptions, earthquakes, and magma tsunamis that ravage the surface."
Tsag clicked her mandibles softly, fascinated by this description of a world so similar to her own preferred environment—sand, heat, survival.
Vulkan continued, his deep voice filling the small room.
Vulkan: "The permanent eruptions blanket the world in a mantle of ash and dust, obscuring most of the sunlight. The inhabitants live in vast underground cities or fortified bastions to protect themselves from the tremors and lava flows. The planet owes its name to the Salamanders, giant fire-breathing reptiles that prowl the volcanic zones."
Orrana looked at Vulkan's obsidian skin, his burning red eyes.
Orrana: "Your skin... your eyes... It's because of that planet?"
Vulkan nodded slowly.
Vulkan: "Prolonged exposure to the radiation and environmental conditions of Nocturne gives the inhabitants—and those of my Order—skin of ebony black and burning red eyes. It is our heritage. The mark of our world."
Tsag drew closer, her antennae twitching softly.
Tsag: "Order?"
Vulkan: "The Space Marines. The elite warriors of the Imperium of Mankind. My father... the Emperor... created us to protect humanity across the stars. I am a Primarch. One of his twenty genetic sons."
Orrana remained silent for a long moment. Her green eyes roamed over Vulkan's face, searching for a sign of deceit, a trace of falsehood. She found nothing.
Orrana: "A Primarch. A son of an Emperor. A warrior from the 410th century. And you're here, on Warworld, a prisoner like the rest of us."
Vulkan: "Fate has a cruel sense of humor."
A silence settled. Then Tsag let out her characteristic small giggle.
Tsag: "Hin hin. Cruel fate. I like."
Orrana shook her head gently, an incredulous smile on her golden lips.
Orrana: "I don't know whether to believe you. But after what I saw today in the arena... after the way you fought... I'm willing to accept that you're no ordinary human."
Vulkan picked up his food box and swallowed another mouthful of bland paste.
Vulkan: "It doesn't matter what I am. What matters is what we do now."
Orrana lifted her head, her gaze suddenly harder, more determined.
Orrana: "Survive."
Vulkan: "More than survive."
He planted his red eyes into Orrana's.
Vulkan: "We will find a way out of here. I did not cross forty thousand years to end up as the plaything of a lemon-headed tyrant."
Orrana held his gaze. Then she nodded.
Orrana: "Then we have an accord."
Tsag clicked her mandibles.
Tsag: "Accord. Alliance. The ant follows the fire warrior."
Vulkan set his empty box on the floor. A new chapter of his life on Warworld had just begun. And this time, he was not alone. He had allies. Companions in arms.
The Primarch, the golden warrior, and the sand ant.
Mongul did not yet know what he had created by locking them together. But he would learn soon enough.
Very soon.