Planet with no name.
Vulkan traveled for about three more days, pushing deeper into the heart of the volcanic chain. The landscape grew more hostile with every step, yet more beautiful in its savage desolation.
He saw scorpions, black as charcoal, the size of a human arm. Their obsidian carapaces gleamed under the reddish glow of the lava flows. Their pincers clacked through the air with a metallic ring, their curved stingers dripping phosphorescent venom that glowed in the darkness like liquid neon. They moved in groups, crawling over the blackened rocks in strange processions, indifferent to the heat that would have melted any Earth creature into slag.
Vulkan watched them pass, his red eyes tracking their movements with calm curiosity. In his old life, Bob Wilkinson would have run screaming. Now, he simply noted their behavior and kept walking.
Further on, he spotted lizards. Massive creatures the size of buses, their skin covered in scales of deep emerald green that shimmered whenever the thin rays of sunlight managed to pierce through the thick volcanic fumes. They lounged on flat rocks, their enormous bodies soaking up the heat like living solar panels. When one turned its massive head toward him, its eyes—two vertical pupils of intense yellow—studied him with ancient reptilian intelligence. A forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air, analyzing his scent. Then, seemingly satisfied with what it detected, it closed its eyes and returned to its nap.
Vulkan: "You know I'm not prey. Smart."
He pressed on, weaving between the giant lizards as he had the scorpions. This world was dangerous, but it was also magnificent. Every creature, every plant, every rock seemed sculpted by fire and lava, creating a unique ecosystem no Earth scientist could have imagined.
And then, at the bend of a basalt valley, he found it.
His future lair.
---
A volcanic cavern. A lava tube, to be precise.
Vulkan knew the principle well, both from his inherited Primarch knowledge and from the documentaries he'd watched on his couch in another life. A volcanic cavern forms when the surface of a lava flow cools and solidifies while the core remains fluid and continues to flow. Once the internal lava drains away, it leaves behind a hollow gallery, a primary structure formed simultaneously with the surrounding rock. A tube of stone born from fire.
And the one before him was spectacular.
The entrance to the cavern was the size of a two-story house. On either side of the opening, walls of solidified lava rose in perfect curves, as if drawn by some cosmic architect. But no artist had created this. It was nature. Raw, majestic nature.
And to add to the spectacle, thin flows of still-molten lava trickled down the outer walls, creating curtains of liquid fire that framed the entrance. The orange glow reflected off the black rock, casting dancing shadows that brought the whole scene to life. It was theatrical. It was grand. It was perfect.
Vulkan: "This is it. This is home."
He stood for a long moment, gazing at the entrance, his chest swelling with a strange emotion. Bob Wilkinson had never owned a house. He'd rented a miserable apartment in a lousy part of Texas. But Vulkan—Vulkan was going to have a palace of fire.
Before entering, he decided to try his luck. The day accumulation had grown considerable. It was time to open a new box.
Vulkan: "System, surprise box."
Ding!
[Significant accumulation detected. Would you like to open your bonus surprise box?]
Vulkan: "Yes. Go ahead."
Ding!
[Opening! You won: a universal translator chip. This subcutaneous chip allows you to understand and speak all languages, whether organic, synthetic, or unknown. Immediate installation.]
He didn't have time to react. A tiny thing burrowed into his neck, just beneath his left ear. The sensation was unpleasant, like an insect sting but amplified. A shiver ran down his spine.
Vulkan: "Dammit! Be gentler!"
The pain vanished as quickly as it came. He raised a hand to his neck and felt the area. Nothing. No scar, no bump. The chip had integrated perfectly with his Primarch organism.
Suddenly, the sounds around him took on new meaning. The rumble of the volcano became a deep voice chanting an ancient melody. The crackling of the lava became a constant murmur, a conversation between stone and fire. The wind whistling through the volcanic vents became a language, an elemental poetry.
Vulkan: "Incredible. I can hear the planet speak."
He laughed softly. This system was truly full of surprises. A universal translator chip. With this, he could understand any creature, any civilization, any form of life. If he ever encountered sentient extraterrestrials, he could speak to them. If he found ancient ruins with inscriptions, he could read them. The possibilities were endless.
---
The following days were dedicated to a complete study of the cavern.
Vulkan didn't rush. A Primarch knows patience is a virtue. Before setting up his forge, before beginning to build, he had to know his new domain in every detail.
The cavern was immense. The main tunnel stretched for several hundred meters, winding through the bowels of the mountain like a stone dragon. The ceiling rose in places to over thirty meters in height, supported by natural columns of black basalt that glowed softly in the lava light.
He mentally mapped every corner. The main gallery opened into several secondary chambers, carved by ancient lava flows now long cooled.
The first chamber was ideal for the forge. It sat near an active volcanic vent, from which heat could be raised to unimaginable temperatures. The rock there was harder than anywhere else, capable of withstanding extreme shocks and heat.
But there were also dangerous zones. Fissures leaking invisible toxic gases. Even with his Primarch body, Vulkan preferred to avoid breathing them for too long. Pits of still-active lava that could swallow the unwary. Plates of unstable rock threatening to collapse at the slightest shock.
He marked these zones one by one, using his blue tiger claw to carve danger symbols into the walls. A skull for toxic gases. A flame for lava pits. A broken circle for cave-ins. A simple language, universal, that anyone could understand.
And then there was the perfect zone. A vast chamber at the heart of the cavern, shielded from gases by a natural air current, far from the active lava flows, with a perfectly flat and stable floor. The ceiling was pierced by a natural opening that let in the light of the twin suns, creating a well of brightness in the center of the room. Sulfur crystals encrusted in the walls diffused a golden glow that made the place almost warm.
This was where he would set up his quarters. This was where he would sleep, eat, live. This was where Vulkan the Primarch would establish his kingdom.
He sat down in the center of the chamber, legs crossed, and contemplated his work. The danger marks engraved on the walls. The zones explored and mapped. The infinite potential of this place.
Vulkan: "A forge, a bedroom, a workshop... There's plenty to work with."
He laid his hand on the black rock and closed his eyes. The mountain's heat rose through the stone, vibrating in his fingers like a heartbeat. This cavern was alive. It accepted him. It was waiting for him.
Tomorrow, he would begin to forge. Tomorrow, he would begin to build. Tomorrow, a new life would begin.
But for tonight, he simply lay down on the warm stone, eyes turned toward the opening in the ceiling that revealed the unknown stars of this alien world.
The red mark of Kratos glowed softly on his skin. The Doom Slayer's chainsaw rested in his magic bag. The universal translator chip hummed gently in his neck.
He was ready.
Vulkan: "Goodnight, volcano. And goodnight, Bob Wilkinson. Wherever you are."
The fire crackled softly in the depths of the cavern. And for the first time since his death, he fell asleep in peace.