Chapter 12
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The soft whirring of servo-arms echoed in the lab as Tony leaned over the table, brow furrowed, fingers stained with grease, sparks flickering like fireflies under his careful welding. He paused only for a second, lifting his helmet off the table. It stared back at him—one half shining steel, smooth and cold, the other side distorted slightly by the lab's dim glow, reflecting his own face.
Two halves of the same flame.
"Jarvis," Tony muttered, not looking away. "Run diagnostics on the new core. I want to test full power sync by midnight."
"Already in progress, sir. Might I remind you, though, that you've skipped two meals and three appointments."
Tony smirked, lips twitching at the corner. "That's called productivity."
There was a pause, just long enough to mean something.
"I suppose Vulcan would be proud," Jarvis replied.
That caught him off guard.
Tony exhaled through his nose and sat down heavily, still eyeing the helmet. "He told me the heart of a craftsman burns hotter than any flame. That it can consume you if you're not careful. That you can lose everything—if you don't learn to tame it."
His voice softened. "You think I've lost anything, Jarvis?"
The AI's voice was calm, almost kind. "Only sleep and a bit of hair, sir. But you've gained something else in return."
Tony chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah. Perspective."
He stood again, wiping his hands on a towel, eyes glancing to the latest prototype—sleek, heavier than his older models, reinforced at the chest and arms. Plates inspired by something ancient and brutal. The shoulders bore slight engravings, not visible to most eyes, but to him... homage.
Not imitation. Inspiration.
He thought back to the hammering sounds deep within the volcano. To the smell of burning metal and the quiet wisdom in Vulkan's voice. A being who built not for praise or legacy—but because creation itself was sacred.
Tony didn't say it out loud, but he wondered what Vulkan was doing now. Was he still down there, forging silently in the dark, listening to the slow beat of a world that didn't know he was there?
Before the thought could settle, a shrill blare tore through the lab.
**ALERT.**
**UNIDENTIFIED EXPLOSION.**
**NEW YORK CITY.**
**READINGS MATCH PREVIOUS ANOMALIES—EXTREME HEAT SIGNATURE AND GRAVITATIONAL DISTORTION.**
Tony immediately stood straight. "Talk to me, Jarvis."
"Explosion occurred at the Lower West Side. Intensity is similar to prior incidents. Same energy pattern—unstable, alien, and increasing."
"How long ago?"
"Twenty-seven seconds."
Tony was already walking, gears locking into place around his arms as pieces of the suit snapped into formation. The lab lights flickered with the surge of power.
"No fatalities reported yet, but NYPD is calling it a mass-casualty risk if secondary waves hit."
"Then let's make sure they don't."
"Suit is at 98.4% capacity. Flight paths are being cleared. All available satellites now observing the site."
Tony's face was focused now, eyes hidden behind the visor. "Get the media off my back. Tell Rhodey I owe him a beer if he keeps the brass out of this for at least ten minutes."
"Shall I prepare the sword, sir?"
"…Yeah," he smirked. "Why not? Let's make it a knightly entrance."
He shot into the sky, a streak of light racing across the city skyline.
But as he flew, the world below wasn't the only thing stirring.
High above Earth's atmosphere, unseen to any satellite, ripples shimmered in empty space—like glass cracking without sound. Something shifted in the warp between stars, where emotion met energy and time bent around will.
Vulkan's arrival, subtle as it was, had changed something. And the galaxy had noticed.
Tony, oblivious to the eyes beginning to turn toward Earth, focused only on the fire in front of him. He wasn't just building machines anymore. He was building a future.
And unknowingly, preparing for war.
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Monticello NY | Volcano
The caverns were silent.
Not with the stillness of emptiness, but with the crushing weight of focused will—of a mind so deeply buried in its own fire that even stone dared not stir.
There, deep beneath the Earth's skin, amidst glowing magma veins and smoldering obsidian, sat **Vulkan**.
Kneeling atop a blackened dais, arms resting on his knees, his great eyes were closed in utter stillness. His face, ageless and carved like the vaults of Nocturne, remained serene. Yet around him, the very **warp** twisted—like a storm held at bay.
He inhaled slowly.
And the warp screamed.
Tendrils of psychic energy danced around him, wild and venomous, coiling and snapping like serpents. The raw stuff of madness, of creation and destruction, surged toward him. Not out of invitation—but out of challenge.
Vulkan accepted it.
He shaped it, molded it, like molten metal under a hammer. He did not **wield** it as sorcerers did, nor did he beg it like the weak-minded. He **contained** it. Like a blacksmith who respects the flame but fears not its heat.
But this universe's warp was... **strange**.
Thin and formless—yet sharp, like a poisoned dagger. It lacked the thick currents of his own reality, yet in that weakness lurked something more dangerous.
**Deception.**
Suddenly, his eyes snapped open.
A line of blood rolled from his right eye, tracing a path down his obsidian cheek.
His breathing quickened, but only slightly.
He had pushed too far again. The warp resisted him—not as a mere tide, but as a sentient current. As if the very ether of this reality knew what he was looking for.
And what he feared.
"...I felt it," he muttered, voice gravel-ground and solemn.
A flicker. A pulse in the vastness. A tiny, barely-formed **seed**. Not yet aware of itself, but **hungry**—feeding, slowly growing, nurtured by the emotions and ignorance of a world unaware of what it was creating.
A **god-seed**.
The birth of a Chaos God.
His brow furrowed deeply, but his tone did not shift. He simply stared forward—through rock, through time, through all things—and saw only the war to come.
The **warp**, sensing his gaze, shielded the growing blight. It twisted its current, wove illusions, shrouded the nascent god-child in a veil of false paths and echoing voices.
Vulkan's hands clenched.
"So... you protect it," he growled, voice quiet but rumbling like the earth. "Then I'll burn through your veil. I'll scour every corner of your lies until I find it."
He stood slowly, towering and scarred, yet unmoved by pain. The blood on his face dried instantly, cauterized by his skin's heat.
His gaze shifted—**upward**, toward the surface. Toward **Earth**.
He could feel it changing. The warp was slowly bleeding into it now. The longer he remained, the more the veil between realms thinned. Not enough to birth daemons—not yet. But the signs were there.
And in time... **Psykers** would be born.
He closed his eyes again—not to rest, but to steel himself.
"I brought the storm here," he admitted to the dark, voice as steady as stone. "If they are to be cursed by what follows, then I will not let them face it alone."
He placed his hand on the stone wall of his sanctum. Warmth spread through it—his fire, his will.
"I will find them. Guide them. Teach them."
He looked into the unseen, into that seething, unseen ocean of thought and temptation that only the cursed could see.
"I will not let another generation be devoured by the gods."
The ground trembled ever so slightly—not from wrath, but from **conviction**.
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