Warworld.
In Mongul's private viewing lodge, the atmosphere was charged with a sick excitement. The tyrant stood before his viewing window, but his attention was not turned toward the empty arena. A holographic screen floated before him, displaying the image of a creature that would have made any sentient being shudder.
The beast measured approximately forty-two feet long. Its serpentine body was covered in scales black as coal, so dark they seemed to absorb the light around them. A long, flexible neck supported a massive head adorned with four backward-curving horns. Four eyes, arranged in pairs on each side of the skull, glowed with a smoldering light, like embers buried beneath ash. Its elongated snout opened onto a maw filled with razor-sharp teeth, irregular, designed for tearing and crushing.
But the most terrifying detail was the fire. The creature breathed blue fire, so intense it appeared almost white at its core. The flames danced across the hologram, casting azure reflections onto Mongul's cruel face.
The tyrant smiled. A wide smile, satisfied, almost paternal.
The small winged creature with brown lizard skin stood at his side, his data tablet trembling slightly between his clawed fingers.
"Master, we found this creature on a nameless world, in the Gryx sector. According to your criteria, it bears a striking resemblance to the salamanders of Nocturne described by the prisoner Vulkan. Black scales, volcanic habitat, fire-breathing capability. The similarities are... remarkable."
Mongul did not look away from the image. His voice was soft, almost dreamy.
"A Drogorr. So named by the few explorers who survived encountering one."
"Yes, Master. The species is extremely rare. We had to deploy three squads to capture it. The losses were... significant."
Mongul waved the remark away with a flick of his hand, as if shooing a bothersome fly.
"Losses are the price of spectacle. And what a spectacle it will be. I will soon have a magnificent event to present to my audience. A warrior of Nocturne against a fire salamander. A Primarch against a Drogorr."
He finally turned to the small alien.
"Prepare her for the show. I want her starved, enraged, ready to kill."
"Yes, Master. At your command."
The alien bowed and vanished into the shadows, leaving Mongul alone before the hologram of the Drogorr, which continued to spew its blue fire on a loop.
The tyrant clasped his hands behind his back and gazed at the empty arena below.
"Let's see how you handle a memory of your world, Vulkan of Nocturne. Let's see if you truly are the warrior you claim to be."
---
Cell B1-3.
Vulkan was on his third food box. The bland gray paste went down mechanically. He no longer tasted it. It was nothing but fuel for the coming battle.
Around him, the atmosphere was almost peaceful. Almost.
Orrana had begun recounting her life. Her green eyes stared at the steel wall as if watching the images of her past scroll across it.
"I was a mercenary. A good one. One of the best in my home galaxy. I had a team. Partners I trusted. We'd survived everything together. Ambushes. Wars. Suicide missions."
She paused, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her blanket.
"And then one day, the price on my head became too interesting. My partners drugged me in my sleep. They delivered me to Mongul in exchange for a cargo of weapons. I woke up here, with this collar around my neck."
Vulkan set his empty box on the floor.
Vulkan: "Your partners. Do you know where they are now?"
Orrana smiled. A cold, joyless smile.
Orrana: "If I ever get out of here, I'll go ask them personally."
Tsag drew closer, her antennae quivering softly. Her woman's voice, so soft and melodious, contrasted as starkly as ever with her monstrous appearance.
Tsag: "The ant tells too."
Vulkan turned toward her.
Tsag: "Warworld came to my world. The black ships covered the sky. The soldiers attacked the colony. We fought. Fought much. But their weapons... their collars..."
She clicked her mandibles, a sharp, painful sound.
Tsag: "They captured the colony. The whole colony. Mother, sisters, daughters. All put in the arena. All dead. Except me. The ant is the last. The last of the colony."
A heavy silence settled over the cell. Vulkan felt something tighten in his chest. Anger. Compassion. A mix of both.
Vulkan: "I'm sorry, Tsag."
Tsag turned her insect head toward him, her compound eyes gleaming with an indecipherable light.
Tsag: "Sorry does not resurrect the colony. But sorry is accepted. The ant fights with the fire warrior. The ant will avenge the colony."
A klaxon blared. The familiar alarm announcing the next fight.
Orrana rose, shoving her blanket aside with a sharp motion.
Orrana: "Break's over. Time to work."
Vulkan stood in turn. He approached the weapons rack and began arming himself. The gladiator loincloth reinforced with plates. The black boots. The spiked pauldron. The Spartan helmet that covered his skull and let his red eyes gleam through.
He took his heavy two-handed greatsword, spun it once, and slid it onto his back. Then he grabbed his war hammer. The familiar weight of the weapon reassured him.
Tsag needed no weapons. Her mandibles were sharper than any blade. Her claws could tear through steel. Her entire body was a weapon.
They advanced together toward the arena gates. Three warriors. Three survivors. Three companions in misfortune, bound by blood and sweat.
The gates opened.
A volcanic heat struck them full force, like a wall of invisible fire. Vulkan inhaled deeply, his Primarch lungs welcoming the burning air like an elixir.
But the scenery had changed.
The techno-morphic dome no longer displayed the arid desert of the day before. The sky was dark and cloudy, streaked with silent lightning. Thick smoke crawled at ground level, laden with ash and incandescent particles. Miniature volcanoes spewed geysers of fire at irregular intervals. The ground itself was covered in half-cooled magma, alternating between black crust and pools of still-liquid lava.
Orrana raised her shield to protect herself from the radiating heat.
Orrana: "What's the deal with this terrain? Does he want to kill us from the start or what?"
A giant hologram appeared in the dark sky. Mongul's face, immense and satisfied, loomed over the arena like a cruel god watching his playthings.
"Well, greetings for this next battle! Today will be a very special fight. A unique event, designed specifically for our dear Vulkan!"
Orrana and Tsag turned toward Vulkan, perplexed. The Primarch remained impassive, his eyes fixed on the hologram.
Then he heard it.
A roar. A roar that was anything but human. A roar that evoked fire, lava, the burning depths of the earth.
"WAAAAAARRRRGGGGGG!"
A creature burst from the flames at the center of the arena. Massive. Imposing. Terrifying. Its black serpentine body uncoiled in a fluid motion, its four horns gleaming under the light of the artificial volcanoes. Its four red eyes swept across the arena before locking onto the three gladiators.
The crowd exploded in cries mixed with terror and excitement. Someone in the stands screamed:
"Drogorr! It's a Drogorr!"
Other voices picked up the name, chanting it like an incantation. "Drogorr! Drogorr! Drogorr!"
Vulkan stared at the creature. His memories of Vulkan, the true Vulkan, stirred within his mind. That serpentine form. Those black scales. That fire dancing in its maw. It looked like a salamander of Nocturne. Not perfectly identical, but close enough for the resemblance to be deeply unsettling.
Mongul's hologram burst into thunderous laughter, echoing throughout the arena like a rolling storm.
"You like her? It's my welcome gift! I hope you'll give us a magnificent show, Vulkan of Nocturne! Have fun with this salamander! HAHAHA!"
The hologram vanished, leaving the three gladiators alone before the monster.
The Drogorr opened its immense jaws. A blue glow grew deep within its throat. Then it exhaled. A torrent of blue flames swept across the arena, obliterating everything in its path, surging straight toward Vulkan and his companions.
Vulkan raised his war hammer, his red eyes burning with absolute determination.
Vulkan: "Spread out! I'll handle this one!"
The Primarch charged, straight toward the fire. Straight toward the monster. Straight toward death.
The battle of the century had just begun.