The dust slowly cleared, revealing a scene of utter, horrific devastation. At the very heart of the impact zone, a massive, circular crater had been carved into the battlefield. The Orcs who had been closest to the blast were simply gone, their atoms rearranged into nothingness. Farther out, the green-skinned horde had been reduced to piles of charred white bones, their flesh incinerated by the immense heat.
At the center of it all, surrounded by wreckage, lay an artificial pod covered in strange, alien runes. The pod itself was scorched and crumpled, but lying on the ground next to it was a naked human infant, completely unharmed and blinking awake from what must have been the world's most aggressive nap.
King Nowick's heart skipped a beat. A child, descended from the sky, a literal god from the heavens. The same thought echoed in the mind of High Priest Isaac, who, with an uncharacteristic lack of grace, ripped the hem from his robe and began to sprint toward the child.
But King Nowick was faster. He covered the distance in a few long strides, sweeping the child up and wrapping him in his battle cloak. The infant was plump and healthy, with a shock of black fetal hair and eyes as dark and clear as obsidian. He simply stared, unfazed, at the weary, scarred face of the King.
Nowick's tired face managed a smile. A healthy boy. A miracle. But then his gaze dropped, and his heart nearly stopped. A glowing, red rune pulsed on the infant's chest, a tiny, living beacon. He felt a primal, instinctive sense of awe, the kind of submissive fear a weaker animal feels in the presence of a predator. His body stiffened, and his first, panicked instinct was to drop the child and run.
Suddenly, a tiny, chubby hand unconsciously gripped the edge of the cloak, and the child's obsidian eyes met his. The pure, unadulterated curiosity in those eyes was almost as terrifying as the chilling sense of being meticulously evaluated. Nowick's intuition, honed by a thousand battles, screamed that if he dropped this child, he would be torn to shreds.
He fought against his own terror, using every ounce of his discipline to tighten his arms, cradling the "human cub" to his chest. The moment he made that conscious choice to protect, the sense of dread slowly vanished, and the child peacefully fell back asleep. It all happened in less than two seconds, a private crisis few had witnessed.
"What's wrong?" Siran, the Grandmaster, sensed the shift and tightened his own grip on his swords.
Nowick silently shook his head. He gently lifted the swaddled child and raised him high, a symbol of hope wrapped in a blood-soaked cloak.
As he did, Isaac, the High Priest, stumbled to the ground in panic, his arms flailing. "NO!" he shrieked, his voice filled with grief and rage.
In the midst of the carnage and chaos, King Nowick's voice boomed. "He descended from the heavens, bringing destruction to the enemies of humanity. He has proclaimed his name to Argent Nur!"
Nowick's words rang out across the plains, his voice a hammer striking steel. "Doom!"
His Sentinels picked up the cry, their stomping boots echoing as they trampled the bones of their enemies. "Doom! Doom! Doom!" they roared. In an ancient tongue, Doom meant destruction, and this child, named by the Warrior class, was destined for a warrior's glory. He was the Doom Slayer!
The leaderless Orcs, completely terrified by the sudden shout, scattered like insects. In some areas, they even started fighting each other.
Amidst the shouts of victory, one person remained silent, lying in the dirt like a corpse. Isaac was utterly cold. His prophecy, his gods, his plan—it had all gone horribly wrong. He was supposed to be the one to find the child, to raise him in the ways of the Priesthood, not to have him claimed by a warrior king.
Isaac rose, his face expressionless and streaked with blood and filth. He used his psychic power to silence the roaring Sentinels. His voice, stripped of all pretense, echoed in the crater. "This child does not belong to you, King Nowick. He descended with a revelation. He belongs to me."
The joy of victory was instantly extinguished, replaced by a tense, cold standoff.
"High Priest Isaac," Nowick said, his voice grave as he took a step back. It was a subtle signal. Siran and the surrounding Sentinels shifted their formation, their weapons unconsciously pointing at Isaac. "On the battlefield, any item touched by the victor is his spoil of war. No one else can interfere."
He held the infant protectively. "This is our law. If you want him, you can challenge me to a duel. If you defeat me, you can take him."
Isaac's eyes narrowed. His face twisted with rage. He knew he couldn't win. Nowick was the youngest King in history, an invincible force of nature. To challenge him was to commit suicide.
"The Orcs have been defeated," Isaac said, finally dropping his psychic pressure. He bowed slightly. "I will lead my people to pursue them, to ensure their eradication. We will meet again."
Nowick watched the retreating Priest, knowing full well that Isaac was a viper, not a defeated enemy. "We will," he replied, his voice barely a whisper.
"Why not kill him?" Siran asked, his twin swords still raised. "A viper in the shadows is more dangerous than a beast in the open."
Nowick sighed, his shoulders slumping with a bone-deep weariness. "This battle has already cost too much blood. How much more do we need for civil war?" He looked at his city, and then down at the plump child in his arms, smiling. "This child will achieve what no one before him could. He will unify Argent Nur. He has the power to do it."
Siran, and the Sentinels behind him, knelt. "We will follow your will to the death, Great King Nowick."
"Blazkowicz 'Doom' Novick!" the King proclaimed, holding the infant high, naming the new Prince.