The Fortress of Doom hummed with a resonance that felt less like magic and more like a perfectly tuned engine. Henry stood before the gathered Aen Seidhe, holding a small velvet bag. He reached in and pulled out a handful of Sentinel Shards—jagged, translucent blue crystals that pulsed with a steady, rhythmic light.
"THIS... IS... FUEL," Henry rumbled, his voice echoing through the obsidian hall. "NOT... MAGIC. NOT... CHAOS. THIS... IS... ORDERED... POWER."
The Elder reached out, her fingers trembling as she touched the cool surface of a shard. Unlike the volatile, stinging prickle of Chaos, these crystals felt firm, reliable, and ancient.
"CRUSH... IT... WITH... YOUR... BARE... HANDS," Henry instructed. "ABSORB... THE... CORE. IT... WILL... FILL... YOU. USE... IT... TO... POWER... YOUR... TOOLS. USE... IT... TO... STRENGTHEN... YOUR... BODIES."
Riordain was the first to try. He gripped a shard and squeezed. With a sharp crack, the crystal shattered, releasing a mist of pure blue energy that surged into his skin. His eyes glowed with a soft cyan light. The fatigue of decades of guerrilla warfare seemed to evaporate, replaced by a clarity and strength that felt... stable. No nosebleeds. No whispers in his mind. Just pure, clean energy.
******
Outside the massive gates, a lone rider pulled his horse, Roach, to a halt. Geralt of Rivia looked up at the towering monolith of iron and marble, his hand instinctively going to the silver sword on his back.
His Wolf Medallion wasn't just vibrating—it was humming a low, melodic tune. Usually, when the medallion reacted, it felt like a warning, a frantic buzzing that signaled a monster or a dangerous spell. But this... this felt like a warm purr.
"What in the name of Melitele is this place?" Geralt muttered, his cat-like eyes narrowing.
He expected the air to smell of sulfur or the ozone of a rift. Instead, as the heavy Sentinel Gates hissed open to allow a group of departing, glowing elves to leave, Geralt was hit by a wave of energy. It was orderly. It was structured. It was Pleasant. Compared to the jagged, messy "Source" energy he was used to, this felt like a master-crafted symphony.
Geralt stepped through the threshold, his boots clicking on the polished obsidian. He saw the Elves—the same ones usually hiding in the mud—walking with straight backs and bright eyes, clutching books and glowing blue rocks.
And then, he saw him.
Henry Doomstar stood at the far end of the hall, his UAC EMG Sidearm holstered on his hip and his Praetor Suit gleaming under the blue spotlights. He looked like a golem from another dimension, yet he was casually leaning against a pillar, watching the Witcher approach.
"YOU... LOOK... TIRED... WITCHER," Henry's modulated bass voice boomed.
Geralt stopped, his medallion finally settling into a peaceful rhythm. He looked at the high-tech interior, then at the man who radiated more power than the Lodge of Sorceresses combined.
"I was looking for a Leshen," Geralt said, his voice dry. "But I think I found the reason the North is suddenly smelling like mint and order."
Henry smirked behind his visor. "I... REPLACED... THE... LESHEN. WANT... SOME... PIZZA?"
Geralt blinked, his legendary composure finally cracking. "I... don't know what that is. But if it's as calm as this place feels, I might just take a slice."
******
Inside the Fortress of Doom, the atmosphere was a bizarre blend of high-tech laboratory and a cozy tavern. Geralt of Rivia sat at a chrome-plated table, his silver and steel swords leaning against a wall of glowing blue conduits. In front of him sat a steaming, triangular slice of Pizza and a cold, condensation-covered bottle of Cola.
Henry sat opposite him, his Praetor Suit hiss-sealing as he rested his helmet on the table. Without the mask, Henry looked remarkably human, though his eyes held a faint, rhythmic blue pulse.
Geralt took a tentative bite of the pizza. His eyes widened. The combination of melted fats, savory sauce, and baked dough was an sensory overload compared to the dried venison and watery stews of the trail. He washed it down with a swig of the dark, bubbling liquid.
"By the gods," Geralt rasped, his cat-like pupils dilating. "This... this is better than any banquet in Beauclair."
"IT'S... THE... STARCH," Henry rumbled, his voice natural but still vibrating with the Sentinel Energy in the air. "KEEPS... THE... BRAIN... SHARP."
Geralt looked at his Wolf Medallion. It lay flat against his chest, silent and still—a rarity in a world where magic usually hummed with the chaotic, stinging buzz of a hornets' nest.
"My medallion is quiet," Geralt noted, his voice low. "Usually, power like this—power that can raise a mountain of iron in a night—screams of Chaos. It's messy, entropic, and dangerous. But this... it feels... right."
Henry leaned back, his gauntlets clinking. "THAT... IS... BECAUSE... IT... ISN'T... CHAOS. IT... IS... SENTINEL... ENERGY. PURE... HOLY... ORDER."
Henry reached into his Dimensional Storage and pulled out a small, luminescent crystal. The air around it seemed to stabilize, the dust motes moving in perfect, geometric patterns.
"CHAOS... IS... A... LEAK... IN... THE... UNIVERSE," Henry explained, his expression solemn. "IT... DESTROYS... TO... CREATE. BUT... SENTINEL... ENERGY... IS... THE... ARCHITECTURE... OF... THE... COSMOS. IT... IS... THE... BLUEPRINT. IT... DOESN'T... TWIST... THE... MIND... OR... BURN... THE... VEINS. IT... REPAIRS. IT... REPLACES. IT... IS... THE... ONLY... FUEL... THAT... DOESN'T... ASK... FOR... A... SACRIFICE."
Geralt stared at the shard. As a Witcher, he was a creature of Mutagens and toxic alchemy. He knew the cost of power better than anyone. To hear of a "Holy Energy" that required no blood, no pain, and no madness sounded like a fairytale.
"The Mages aren't going to like you, Henry," Geralt said, a ghost of a smirk appearing on his pale face. "You're making their 'Art' look like a broken candle next to a lighthouse."
"LET... THEM... COME," Henry replied, his gaze shifting to the UAC EMG Sidearm on his hip. "I... HAVE... THE... LIGHT. THEY... JUST... HAVE... LIES."
Geralt took another slice of pizza, leaning back into the ergonomic chair that felt far more comfortable than it had any right to be. For the first time in decades, the White Wolf felt truly relaxed.
"Well," Geralt grunted. "If the end of the world smells like fresh bread and feels this calm... maybe it isn't so bad after all."