Planet with no name.
One week. Seven full days spent working tirelessly in the bowels of the fire cavern. Seven days of moving boulders, identifying the most suitable stones, tracing plans in the ash dust like a mad architect.
Vulkan barely slept anymore. A Primarch's body could go weeks without rest, and he intended to exploit that ability to the fullest. Every morning, he rose with a new idea. Every evening, he carved his concepts into the basalt walls with his blue tiger claw.
His dream was grandiose. A dwelling inspired by ancient Greek palaces, but carved from black volcanic rock. Massive columns supporting sculpted vaults. Pools of controlled lava to feed permanent forges. A throne room where he could receive visitors—if any visitors even existed on this hostile planet. A workshop dedicated to the creation of legendary weapons and tools. Private quarters carved into the hardest stone, protected by doors of basalt weighing several tons.
All of it was still just a plan in his head. A dream of stone and fire.
But one major problem remained. He had no tools.
His Primarch hands could shatter rock, tear out multi-ton blocks, shape stone with his bare hands. But he needed more than brute strength to realize his project. He needed real tools. Hammers. Chisels. Tongs. Anvils. All the equipment of a smith worthy of the name.
The Doom Slayer's chainsaw could cut, but not build. The magic storage bag could store, but not create. And the Kratos tattoo... well, it was pretty, but it served no purpose.
Every day, Vulkan prayed to the god of luck. Every evening, he hoped the system would finally grant him something useful. A legendary smith's hammer. An enchanted anvil. Anything that could help him build his citadel.
---
The last day of the week arrived.
Vulkan stood in the center of the great chamber lit by the natural opening. His massive body dripped with sweat after a day spent moving basalt blocks. The red mark of Kratos gleamed on his obsidian skin. His red eyes stared at the opening in the ceiling, where the stars were beginning to appear in the purple sky.
He took a deep breath. The day accumulation was significant. The chances of obtaining a powerful item were high. This was the moment.
Vulkan: "Alright. System, surprise box. Give me something good."
There was hope in his voice. Hope and a silent prayer to all the gods of luck that existed in the universe.
Ding!
[Surprise box activated!]
The familiar sound rang in his head. His Primarch heart quickened slightly. His fingers clenched in anticipation.
Ding!
[Opening! Congratulations! You won: The Zeta-Beam. Origin: planet Rann, created by the scientist Sardath. The Zeta-Beam is an iconic teleportation technology. It will send you instantly to another world. Immediate departure.]
Vulkan's eyes widened. His Primarch brain processed the information in a fraction of a second.
Vulkan: "WHAT?!"
He didn't even get to wait a minute. No time to protest. No time to flee.
A golden light pierced through the layer of sky, broke through the crust of the cavern, passed through the basalt ceiling as if it didn't exist, and struck him square in the chest.
Vulkan: "NO!"
The light enveloped him completely. He could see nothing else. Nothing but that golden glow devouring him, absorbing him, dematerializing him cell by cell. His Primarch body, so powerful, so resilient, could do nothing against this alien technology.
"HAAAAAA!"
Vulkan's cry echoed through the tunnel of light as he was torn from his cavern, torn from his planet, torn from everything he knew. Minutes passed. Or perhaps seconds. Time had no meaning in this golden flux. He was suspended in nothingness, prisoner of a teleportation beam carrying him toward an unknown destination.
Then a Ding he knew all too well rang in his head.
Ding!
[Journey intercepted. Brace for landing.]
Intercepted? What did that mean, intercepted?!
BOOM.
---
The impact was terrible.
Vulkan slammed into a surface hard as iron at a speed that would have pulverized any living being. The shock produced a shockwave that shook the ground around him. Sparks flew. Smoke rose from his burning body.
He tried to open his eyes, but his vision was blurry. He made out metallic shapes. Artificial lights. Silhouettes moving around him.
Then he felt something grab his arms. Robotic claws, cold and powerful, clamping down on his wrists and ankles. He tried to resist, but the landing had stunned him. Even a Primarch needed a few seconds to recover from such a shock.
Those few seconds cost him dearly.
A metallic collar snapped around his neck with a sinister click. Hooks sank into his flesh, piercing his obsidian skin as if it were ordinary leather. The pain was searing. For a Primarch, whose skin could withstand molten lava, this was impressive. This technology was designed to neutralize superhuman beings.
Vulkan growled, his muscles straining against the restraints. The machines groaned, but held firm.
That's when a silhouette stepped forward.
An alien. A giant three meters tall, with yellow skin and a hard face, marked by cruelty. His features were heavy, his eyes sunken beneath a prominent brow. He wore a conqueror's armor in dark colors—black, deep blue—contrasting with his yellow skin. Golden elements adorned his pauldrons and chest plate, geometric patterns that evoked an ancient and ruthless culture. A black cape floated behind him, weighed down by the dust of worlds he had conquered.
He advanced slowly, his metal boots echoing on the steel floor. Every step was measured, charged with absolute authority. He stopped before Vulkan, towering over him, and observed him as one observes an interesting specimen.
Then he spoke. His voice was soft and hard at once, like velvet wrapped around a blade.
"Welcome to Warworld ."
Vulkan slowly raised his head. His red eyes met those of the alien. The universal translator chip was working perfectly. He understood every word.
But he didn't need a translator to understand the situation.
The control collar. The robotic restraints. The metallic chamber that looked like a prison or an arena. The name—Battleworld. World of combat. World of battle.
Everything was clear. Horribly clear.
Vulkan: "I'm screwed."