"Dat humie ain't no normal zoggin' git. Nah, 'e fights like Gork's fists an' Mork's brain had a squig-baby wiv a chainsaw! We charged 'im screamin'—an' he just kept comin'. Broke Big Grubnob's head like a squig egg! Best scrap I ever had, I tell ya. Can't wait to fight 'im again—if I still had me arms, dat is." GHAZGHKULL MAG URUK THRAKA
THE PROPHET OF GORK & MORK
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Third person POV
[3 months later]
Three months had passed since the Warp vomited him out and the sentinels chained him in stone and iron.
The cell hadn't changed. Cold walls. A rusted pipe dripped in the corner. Straw for a bed. Crude carvings scratched into the floor—clawed in with bloodied fingers during long, sleepless hours.
The Doom Slayer sat in silence, staring at the wall. His body still ached—not from wounds, but from containment. He had not killed demons in days. Weeks. Months. Time here, at least, moved forward.
His fists flexed.
Then—footsteps.
Boots clanked against the metal grates outside. Keys rattled. The noise echoed through the dungeon. The Slayer didn't move. He merely turned his head, eyes narrowing as the footsteps stopped in front of his cell.
Click.
The iron door groaned open.
Two figures entered: the king, robed in crimson and steel, his crown purely black with no fancy stuff on it, and beside him stood his right-hand—Valen, clad in white and black power armor with his helmet off. Both men looked cautious, but curious at the giant of a man before them.
The king's gaze swept across the grim cell, taking in the scratches, the chains, and the silent man bound within them.
He stepped closer, voice measured but firm.
"You've been quiet these past months stranger. Watching. Listening. Not a word spoken, not a step taken, not since your capture. But I'm offering something now… a deal."
"Answer my questions truthfully, and I'll grant you your freedom. I swear this by my crown and my House."
The Doom Slayer's eyes slowly lifted to meet the king's. Flat. Unblinking. Unimpressed.
He said nothing.
So the king began.
"Where did you come from?"
A pause.
The Doom Slayer blinked slowly, his voice a low rasp, dry and raw.
"I don't know."
Valen tilted his head, skeptical.
"You have no memory?" Valen frowned. "Nothing at all? Planet, system, legion‑mark—anything?"
The Slayer turned his head slightly.
"I remember… hate. Demons. Screams. The need to protect. To rip and tear until it is done."
The king exchanged a glance with Valen, who frowned deeply.
"Your body is human," Valen added. "At least… it starts that way. But you're not like any man I've ever seen. You have organs we've never cataloged—over two dozen organs. And you heal fast."
"You were made," the king said. "Someone made you."
The Slayer stayed silent.
Valen crossed his arms. "What are you exactly, are you a weapon, soldier, or something even worse?"
He stepped closer, his tone harder now. "What drives you? Revenge? Madness? Bloodlust? Or do you even know?"
The Doom Slayer slowly looked up, eyes gleaming with something—calm, cold, and controlled rage. The chains at his wrists groaned as he straightened to his full height, which dwarfed both men in the cell.
"I kill demons," he said, his voice low and final.
A pause. His gaze locked onto Valen's eyes.
"That's the only war that matters."
There was a pause.
The king didn't stood still, instead he moved forward looking up at the behemoth in front of him and looking straight into his eyes with no fear or cowardice, but with curiosity and eagerness.
"And if I told you demons are planning to attack this planet?" Valen asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "If I said there are cults hidden in our cities, in our strongholds—summoning horrors from the Warp… spreading rot and corruption across worlds…"
The Slayer's hands flexed, the chains groaning under the sudden tension. His breathing deepened, slow and measured, like a predator sensing his prey.
His voice dropped into a low, menacing growl.
"Then you already know my answer."
Valen turned to the king and whispered into his ear. "He's not lying. That rage—it's not aimless. It's focused. Controlled. He knows what he's fighting and will gladly fight them."
The king's gaze lingered on the Slayer, watching the way he held himself—every muscle coiled, yet still. Like a blade waiting to be drawn.
"Then maybe… we don't need to kill you," the king said slowly. "Maybe you're not a threat to us… but a weapon for us to use against evil"
He stepped forward, meeting the Slayer's glare without flinching. "But we don't unleash weapons we don't understand. Before anything else, we'll need to see what you truly are. What you're capable of. No restraints. No chains. Just you… and the battlefield."
Valen added grimly, "Consider it your trial of joining us in the sentinel army. . . But if you're lying—"
The king finished for him, eyes still fixed on the figure before him. "Then the world will know what it takes to kill you… But I have a feeling that it won't go that way."
He stepped even closer now, standing just a few feet from the towering figure, watching for any reaction.
"What's your name?" the king asked.
The Slayer was silent for a moment. Then, in a low, guttural voice, he replied, "I don't have one."
Valen frowned. "Everyone has a name."
The Slayer's eyes burned faintly in the dim torchlight. "I only know what they call me. What the demons scream in fear."
His voice was steady—certain.
"They call me the Doom Slayer."
Valen blinked, visibly taken aback. The king, however, didn't flinch. He studied the man—this force of nature—carefully, as if weighing something in his mind.
"No man can walk this world nameless. Titles are earned. Names are carried."
He was quiet for a beat.
"You'll need a name. And I'll give you one."
Valen turned sharply. "Your Majesty—"
The king raised a hand, silencing him.
"You've heard the name before, haven't you, Valen? The legendary name of Blazkowicz Dawnstar."
Valen's expression shifted, his stoic mask faltering. "That name hasn't been spoken in generations…"
The king nodded slowly. "Long ago, there was a man. A warrior unlike any we've seen since. William Blazkowicz Dawnstar. Some said he was born with the fire of the Forge, others claimed he was a spirit of vengeance made flesh. He was the shield of three kings, my great-grandfather among them. Where he walked, wars ended. He was our sword in the dark… and then one day, he vanished. No body, no grave. Just silence."
He turned back to the Slayer.
"His bloodline died with him… until now."
Valen stared at the king, voice low. "You would give him that name? After all these years?"
"I would," the king replied. "Because I see it. The same fire. The same weight. The same hatred for the unclean things that crawl through the veil. Let it be known."
He looked back to the Slayer, who had remained motionless.
"From this day forward, you are Daemon Blazkowicz Dawnstar. You bear the name of our greatest defender. Carry it well."
The Slayer blinked once, his gaze steady, unmoved by the honor—but something beneath the surface shifted. Recognition, maybe. Or the faintest flicker of memory lost in the fog.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
And the world, from that moment, began to change either for the better or for the worse.
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AN: sorry for taking Long, I was busy with work and irl stuff but here is a funny meme & new chapters as a token of forgiveness.