Warworld.
The cold. That was the first thing Vulkan felt. A metallic cold biting into his bare skin, pressed against the steel floor of the cell. His Primarch body was built for the heat of volcanoes, not for this artificial ice of a space station.
He opened his eyes. Slowly. Painfully. His jaw ached, a searing reminder of Mongul's fists.
Vulkan: "Next time, I'll squeeze that lemon head."
A burst of laughter echoed through the room. A rough, mocking laugh.
"Ha! He's not dead! Pay up!"
"With what? You've got nothing to bet, you broke bastard."
"Bunch of cheapskates. Hey, big black giant, get up!"
Vulkan slowly shook his head to gather his wits. His still-blurry vision gradually stabilized. He heard voices. Several voices. And they were speaking different languages. Yet, thanks to the universal translator chip, he understood every word.
He propped himself up on one elbow and discovered his companions in misfortune.
The first was a green-skinned creature, humanoid in shape but deeply alien. Its eyes were black as ink, with neither pupil nor iris—two orbs of liquid obsidian peering at Vulkan with unhealthy curiosity. Its jaw, devoid of lips, was packed with needle-sharp teeth, tightly packed in a permanent row of fangs. It was grinning constantly, a grin that held nothing friendly.
The second was a creature resembling a humanoid ant. It stood three meters tall, reared up on its hind legs like an insect that had learned to stand upright. Its limbs were segmented, covered in a brown-black chitinous carapace. Its mandibles clacked softly, producing a steady rhythm. Its compound eyes reflected the cell's light like thousands of tiny mirrors.
The third was a woman. But not an ordinary woman. Her body was athletic, muscular, covered in scars that told a lifetime of combat. Her skin was gold, gleaming with a metallic sheen under the artificial light. Her red hair cascaded over her shoulders. And her face, despite the battle marks, was strikingly beautiful—fine features, piercing green eyes, a mouth that looked like it hadn't smiled in years.
Vulkan massaged his temple, his head heavy.
Vulkan: "Shit, my head..."
The three creatures exchanged astonished glances. Orrana was the first to react.
Orrana: "How do you know my language?"
Brozon bared his teeth in a confused grimace.
Brozon: "No, he's speaking my tongue!"
The giant ant stepped forward. The clacking of its mandibles intensified. Then a voice emerged from them—a woman's voice, soft and melodious, violently at odds with her monstrous appearance.
Tsaggayszgsgh: "You understand me?"
Vulkan nodded slowly.
Vulkan: "Yes. I understand all of you. Where exactly am I?"
Orrana folded her arms across her golden chest.
Orrana: "You're on Warworld."
Vulkan: "I know that already. But where on Warworld?"
Orrana: "In the weapons room. Just before the arena entrance."
Vulkan clenched his fists. His knuckles cracked. The red mark of Kratos seemed to pulse on his skin.
Vulkan: "Son of a bitch."
Orrana offered a sad smile.
Orrana: "What's your name?"
Vulkan: "Vulkan. And you?"
The golden woman placed a hand on her chest.
Orrana: "Orrana."
The lipless creature cackled.
Brozon: "Brozon."
The giant ant clicked its mandibles and produced a series of complex clicks, instantly translated by the chip.
Tsaggayszgsgh: "Tsaggayszgsgh."
Vulkan stared at the ant, his jaw slightly slack. The name was unpronounceable. A string of consonants defying all human anatomy. He blinked.
Vulkan: "I'll call you Tsag. It's shorter."
The ant emitted a sound that strangely resembled a small giggle.
Tsag: "Hin hin!"
Suddenly, an alarm blared. A shrill klaxon that shook the metal walls. Red lights began flashing. The four prisoners tensed up.
Orrana rushed toward a weapon rack.
Orrana: "It's time. Showtime. Let's go."
Vulkan leaped to his feet, despite the pain in his skull.
Vulkan: "Go where?"
Brozon burst into demented laughter, his lipless maw gaping wide over his sharp fangs.
Brozon: "To die! HAHAHA!"
Vulkan ignored Brozon's sinister cackle and turned to the far wall. It was covered in weapons and armor. Dozens of options. Worn leather. Battered metal. Chipped blades. Everything had been used before. Everything bore the traces of previous fights.
He stepped forward and began to arm himself.
First, a gladiator loincloth reinforced with metal plates. He strapped it firmly around his waist. Then black plated boots, knee-high, to protect his legs. A heavy pauldron, bristling with menacing spikes, which he fastened onto his right shoulder. Finally, a black Spartan helmet with a metal crest, which he placed on his head. The helmet's opening revealed his red eyes and the mark of Kratos snaking across his skull.
Then came the choice of weapon.
He scanned the rack, testing every option. A double-headed axe? Too light. A shield and spear? Not his style. He hefted a massive two-handed war hammer, its steel head covered in engraved alien runes. He gave it a spin. The balance was perfect.
Vulkan: "You, I like."
He slid the hammer onto his back, secured by improvised straps. Then he took a heavy two-handed greatsword, as wide as his thigh, and slid it beside the hammer.
He turned to the others, now ready for battle. The Primarch had vanished. In his place stood a war gladiator, black and gold, bristling with spikes, armed to the teeth.
Vulkan: "Let's go."
Orrana looked at him with a glint of approval in her green eyes. Brozon stopped laughing. And Tsag clacked her mandibles with what sounded like enthusiasm.
Before them, the immense arena gates began to open. A blinding light burst from outside, accompanied by the deafening roar of the crowd.
Warworld awaited them.