Henry watched from his command throne as the two young elves, Elivyl and his companion, stood frozen in the center of the atrium. They were currently staring at a holographic display of the Martian surface, their faces illuminated by the flickering orange glow of a world they couldn't possibly comprehend.
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[ SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: PERIMETER BREACH DETECTED ]
[ IDENTIFICATION: AEN SEIDHE SQUAD. AGGRESSION LEVEL: MODERATE. ]
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Outside the massive obsidian gates, Riordain and the Elder stood at the threshold of the "Mountain of Iron." Riordain gripped his broken hilt—now a useless stump of silver—while the Elder clutched her staff. They had followed the trail of crushed undergrowth, certain they were walking into a slaughterhouse to retrieve their children's remains.
As they reached the entrance, a beam of crimson light swept over them. From the ceiling, a cold, synthetic voice echoed, speaking a perfect, though strangely accented, Elder Speech.
"IDENTIFY YOURSELVES," the Fortress AI droned. "STATE INTENTION AND PURPOSE WITHIN SENTINEL PRIME."
Riordain nearly jumped out of his boots. "The wall... the wall speaks!"
The Elder stepped forward, her voice trembling but firm. "We are Aen Seidhe. We seek our children, who followed the Green Giant into this abyss. We come for peace... or for their bones."
[ SCANNING... INTENTION VERIFIED: PROTECTIVE/PARENTAL. ACCESS GRANTED. ]
The gates hissed open with a blast of pressurized air, revealing an interior that made the Elder's breath hitch. It wasn't a cave or a castle; it was an alien nightmare of glowing blue conduits, floating metallic platforms, and smooth, black surfaces that seemed to swallow the light. Every aesthetic choice was brutal, industrial, and completely divorced from the natural world of the Continent.
"By the stars," Riordain whispered, stepping onto the polished floor. "Is this the land of the Aen Elle?"
"No," the Elder replied, looking at a wall of rotating Sentinel Batteries. "This is something far older... and far more dangerous."
They followed the blue light-strips on the floor, passing through a corridor lined with glass cases containing Cacodemon hides and Cyberdemon horns. Finally, they reached the "Refectory"—a high-tech dining hall where the industrial metal music was replaced by a strange, upbeat melody.
The doors slid open.
Riordain and the Elder froze. There, sitting at a chrome table, were Elivyl and the other scout. They weren't being tortured. They weren't being prepared for a ritual.
They were eating.
Elivyl was holding a triangular slice of something covered in melted cheese and red sauce—a Pizza—while his friend was double-fisting a Burger and shoving a handful of golden, salted French Fries into his mouth. On the table sat two sweating cups of dark, bubbling Cola.
"It is... it is the bread of the gods, Riordain!" Elivyl managed to choke out between bites. "The Giant... he pressed a button, and the wall sang and gave us this!"
Henry stood by the Sentinel Fabricator, holding a burger of his own. He looked at the horrified Elder and the broken-sword warrior.
"THEY... WERE... HUNGRY," Henry rumbled, his voice echoing through his helmet. He gestured to a nearby chair that looked more like an extraction seat. "WANT... A... SLICE?"
The Elder stared at the "Pizza," then at her children, who looked happier than they had in decades. She slowly lowered her head into her hand, the facepalm returning with a vengeance.
"He's not a predator," she whispered to the ceiling. "He's a mother hen with a thunder-stick."
******
The Refectory was silent, save for the rhythmic crunch of Elivyl devouring a French fry and the low, electronic hum of the Fortress. The Elder and Riordain stood stiffly, their eyes darting between the glowing blue conduits and the monstrously armored figure of Henry.
Henry sighed, the sound echoing through his helmet like a decompressing steam vent. He reached up, engaged the magnetic seals, and with a sharp hiss, pulled his helmet off.
The Elves flinched, expecting a face of charred coal or a thousand eyes. Instead, they saw a young man—human, remarkably sturdy, with an expression that looked more tired than bloodthirsty.
"SIT... DOWN," Henry rumbled, his natural voice still vibrating with the bass of the Sentinel Energy that saturated his lungs. "TELL... ME. WHY... WERE... YOU... RUNNING? I... SAVED... YOU... FROM... THE... LESHEN."
The Elder looked at the triangular bread on the table, then back at Henry. "You arrived in a tower of blue fire," she began, her voice thin. "You punched through stone. You carried a stick of thunder that turned living beings into red mist. And then... you approached us with a crate of glowing yellow liquid."
"THE... DECOCTION?" Henry asked, raising an eyebrow.
"To us," Riordain interjected, his voice trembling, "it looked like you were offering us a mutagenic poison to turn us into thralls or a trap to mark us for slaughter. In the North, things that look like you don't sell medicine. They harvest colonies."
The Elder nodded. "We thought you were an unchained predator tracking us down to season your next meal with our fear. We thought the 'medicine' was the bait for the trap."
Henry stared at them. He looked at the high-tech, brutalist Fortress of Doom around them, then at his own blood-stained Praetor Suit. He realized that in a world of Witchers and dark folklore, he didn't look like a hero—he looked like the Final Boss of an ancient prophecy.
Henry slowly raised his hand and slammed it into his own forehead with a metallic CLACK. The facepalm was so heavy it echoed off the obsidian walls.
"COSMIC... JOKE... AGAIN," Henry muttered to the ceiling.
He straightened up, his expression turning serious. "LISTEN... CAREFULLY. MY... NAME... IS... HENRY... DOOMSTAR. IN... MY... WORLD... THEY... CALLED... ME... THE... DOOM... SLAYER."
The Elves tasted the name—Doomstar—feeling the strange, alien power within it.
"I... ONLY... KILL... EVIL... BEINGS. DEMONS. MONSTERS. EVILDOERS," Henry stated, his gaze locking onto the Elder's eyes with absolute, unbreakable sincerity. "I... WILL... NEVER... LAY... A... FINGER... ON... GOOD... FOLKS. YOU... ARE... SAFE... HERE. THIS... IS... A... FORTRESS... NOT... A... LARDER."
The tension in the room didn't just fade; it evaporated. The Elder looked at the young man—the "Unchained Predator"—and saw the truth in his eyes. He wasn't a monster. He was just a very, very powerful man with a terrifying aesthetic and a bizarre interest in retail.
"So," the Elder said, her voice finally regaining its poise as she reached for a slice of pizza. "You are a protector. A very... loud, very messy protector."
"I'M... WORKING... ON... THE... GENTLE... PART," Henry grumbled, reaching for his Cola.