Warworld.
Arena.
Before the arena gates, Vulkan gave his orders to his companions. His voice was calm, steady, that of a general before battle.
Vulkan: "Orrana, take the left flank. Tsag, burrow down and attack by surprise. I'll take the center. We surround it and strike together."
Orrana nodded, her shield already raised.
Orrana: "Understood."
Tsag clicked her mandibles.
Tsag: "The ant is ready."
The gates opened. Vulkan stepped through first, his massive body framed in the opening.
But when Orrana and Tsag tried to follow, an invisible wall stopped them cold. The arena shield. A wall of translucent energy that shimmered briefly on impact, shoving them back without mercy.
Orrana punched the shield with her fist.
Orrana: "What the...?"
Tsag tried to scratch the barrier. Nothing. Her claws, capable of tearing through steel, left not the slightest mark on the energy surface.
Vulkan turned around. He saw his companions trapped behind the invisible wall. He saw Orrana screaming something he could no longer hear, the sound cut off by the shield. He saw Tsag furiously clicking her mandibles.
And he understood.
This was Mongul's plan. From the very beginning. A solo fight. A private spectacle. The Primarch against the monster, with no help, no support. The tyrant wanted to see him handle it alone. See him suffer alone. See him die alone, perhaps.
Vulkan clenched his fists. Then he turned toward the Drogorr waiting for him at the center of the arena, its four red eyes fixed on him, its jaws smoking with blue fire.
A memory surfaced in his mind. Not his own. That of the true Vulkan. The original Primarch, on Nocturne, had killed his first salamander with his bare hands. It was a rite of passage for every warrior of his world. An initiatory trial. A baptism of fire that forged legends.
The true Vulkan had accomplished this feat. He had become a hero. A Primarch. A son of the Emperor.
Bob Wilkinson, on the other hand, had never accomplished anything noteworthy. He had died a virgin, unemployed, on a worn-out couch. His life had been a long string of failures and disappointments.
But today, it was no longer Bob Wilkinson standing in the arena. It was Vulkan. The Primarch. The warrior of Nocturne. And this was his moment. His trial. His legend to write.
He threw down his greatsword. The heavy blade sank into the volcanic ground with a dull thud.
He threw down his hammer. The weapon bounced off the black rock before coming to rest.
He unfastened his spiked pauldron. The metal fell at his feet.
He removed his Spartan helmet. The burning air of the arena caressed his obsidian face.
He stood bare, chest and head exposed, like a true warrior of Nocturne facing his first salamander. Only his gladiator loincloth remained in place.
Then he spread his arms wide in a gesture of defiance, his Primarch muscles bulging beneath his black skin, the red mark of Kratos snaking across his torso and skull.
His voice thundered, loud enough to be heard throughout the arena, loud enough to challenge the very heavens.
Vulkan: "Face me, salamander!"
The Drogorr roared. A roar that shook the ground. The creature accepted the challenge. It lunged at Vulkan, its gaping jaws seeking to crush him.
The battle began.
Vulkan circled the beast, his bare feet treading the volcanic rock without feeling the burn. The Drogorr tried to catch him with its teeth and claws, its head diving and striking like a serpent. But the Primarch was faster. He leaped, dodged, rolled, searching for the right angle of attack.
He evaded a claw swipe that would have sliced an armored vehicle in two. He ran along the creature's flank, slid under its tail, planted his foot on its hind leg, and sprang onto its back.
The spectators held their breath. Vulkan was on the Drogorr. He was about to strike.
But a Drogorr is not a salamander of Nocturne.
The creature's four eyes blazed with an intense blue light. Dorsal spikes, invisible until now, burst from its back like blades unsheathing. Then blue lightning exploded from each spike, forming a web of electrical discharges that surged across the beast's entire body.
Vulkan, caught by surprise, was electrocuted. The discharge coursed through his Primarch body, violently contracting his muscles. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air.
The Drogorr coiled its massive tail around Vulkan's waist and hurled him far away. The Primarch's body flew across the arena like a stone launched from a catapult, crashed into a hill of volcanic rock, and bounced across the ground in a cloud of ash and dust.
Orrana screamed behind the shield, her fists pounding the invisible barrier. Tsag clicked her mandibles, powerless.
The Drogorr charged, determined to finish its prey.
Vulkan lay on the ground, his body still smoking from the electricity that had coursed through it. Blood dripped from his mouth, black and thick as oil. His muscles still twitched with spasms from the discharge.
But when he raised his head, his red eyes expressed neither pain nor fear. They expressed absolute determination. An iron will. The inner flame of a Primarch who refused to die.
He rose. Slowly. Painfully. But he rose.
The Drogorr reached him at terrifying speed, jaws gaping, ready to devour him. Vulkan dodged at the last second, rolled aside, and grabbed one of the creature's horns. In one fluid motion, he pulled himself onto its head.
And there, atop the monster's skull, he jumped. He soared into the air, his body silhouetted against the dark sky of the arena. Then he came back down, elbow first, and struck. A powerful, precise, devastating elbow strike that slammed into the top of the Drogorr's skull with titanic force.
The creature's head smashed into the ground head-on. The volcanic rock cracked under the impact, forming a crater several meters wide. The Drogorr let out a roar of pain, stunned, disoriented.
Vulkan seized the moment of dizziness. He grabbed the creature's two horns, planted his feet into the ground, and pulled. All the power of his Primarch body concentrated into his arms. The muscles of his back bulged like steel cables.
He was going to break its neck. Just as the true Vulkan had done.
But the Drogorr had not spoken its last word. Its eyes lit up again, brighter than before. The dorsal spikes bristled. Blue lightning erupted, stronger, more numerous, forming an electrical storm around the creature's body.
Vulkan took the full discharge. His entire body was wracked with blue currents dancing over his obsidian skin. The pain was excruciating. His muscles screamed. His nerves burned.
But he did not let go of the horns.
He gritted his teeth. His red eyes blazed brighter. The mark of Kratos on his skin seemed to pulse.
Ding!
[Emergency rescue box activated. Imminent death risk detected. Emergency unlock: the Rage of Kratos.]
Vulkan felt something break inside him. A dam. A barrier. A limit he hadn't even known existed. And behind that dam, there was a fury. A titanic fury, primal, absolute. The rage of the Ghost of Sparta. The rage of a god of war.
The decorative tattoo blazed to life. A red flame burst from the mark, surging across the entire left side of his body, from his shoulder to his eye. It was no longer a simple drawing on the skin. It was a living inferno. A manifestation of pure wrath.
Vulkan's body grew. His muscles swelled, tore, rebuilt themselves even more massive. He went from six foot three to over six foot six. His obsidian skin radiated intense heat, like boiling water. The air around him began to shimmer.
And a howl burst from his mouth. A howl that was no longer human. A howl that shook the walls of the arena, that silenced the crowd, that made the shield itself vibrate.
"HAAAAAAAA!"
His hands tightened around the Drogorr's horns. The muscles of his arms contracted with multiplied force. And with a sinister crack that echoed throughout the arena, the creature's neck broke.
The Drogorr collapsed. Dead. Its four eyes went dark. The blue lightning ceased. The fire in its jaws died.
Vulkan released the horns. He straightened up, his body still smoking with heat and electricity. He walked onto the monster's corpse, placed a foot on its massive head, and raised his arms high toward the dark sky of the arena.
A cry of victory burst from his throat.
"HAAAAAA!"
The crowd exploded. The spectators, who just minutes before had been chanting the Drogorr's name, now had only one word on their lips. One name. One cry.
"VULKAN! VULKAN! VULKAN!"
The name echoed throughout the arena, carried by thousands of alien voices, like thunderous glory.
In his viewing lodge, Mongul watched the scene. His cruel eyes gleamed with an indecipherable light. His smile had vanished, replaced by an expression of calculating surprise.
Mongul: "What a surprising turn of events."
His voice was calm, but his fingers had tightened on the armrest of his throne.
Vulkan stood tall on the corpse of the Drogorr, covered in blood and smoke, the red mark of Kratos blazing on his skin, his red eyes lifted toward the tyrant's lodge.
He was no longer a prisoner.
He was a legend.