CHAPTER 19
The journey back to his mountain was silent. The night sky was lit only by the faint shimmer of stars, but Vulkan hardly noticed. His great frame carried the unconscious boy gently, as if he weighed no more than a feather. Each step up the jagged slope of his volcanic home echoed with quiet intent, the sound swallowed by the low growl of magma rivers beneath the earth.
When he finally entered the cavernous halls he had carved for himself, the heat embraced him like an old companion. The walls glowed faintly, veins of molten rock pulsing with life. Vulkan moved deeper into the mountain, his steps careful, reverent, until he reached one of the many chambers—quiet, insulated, a place made for rest.
There, he laid Kevin upon a stone bed, the boy's small chest rising and falling in uneasy rhythm. The god-seed's corruption clung to him, faint but undeniable, an ember threatening to become an inferno. Vulkan's massive hand hovered over the boy's head for a moment before descending, two fingers gently pressing against his brow.
The chamber stirred.
Warp energy flowed from Vulkan like a tide, heavy yet controlled, bending to his will. He guided it into the boy, careful, deliberate, building barriers between Kevin and the storm that clawed at him from beyond. For a time, the chamber became a battlefield of unseen forces—Vulkan's raw discipline against the hungry whispers of the warp.
Minutes dragged like hours, but at last, the violent turbulence quieted. The connection between Kevin and the immaterium dimmed, choked beneath Vulkan's strength. The boy's breathing steadied, soft and even, as though he had been wrapped in a cocoon of peace.
Vulkan slowly withdrew his hand, his expression unreadable. He stared at the boy for a long moment, the weight of knowledge pressing against his soul. This child… He would never know the quiet life. The warp had marked him, cursed him. Every step forward would be burdened by its pull. Every breath would be a fight.
A sigh rumbled from Vulkan's chest—low, deep, almost mournful. He stood, towering once again, his shadow filling the chamber. There was no more he could do here. The boy would sleep, and for now, that was mercy enough.
But his work was not yet finished.
Vulkan turned and left the chamber, striding deeper into the heart of the volcano. The air grew hotter, heavier, until at last, he arrived at the core. There, at the very center, his forge awaited him. It loomed above the burning pools of magma, an anvil carved from obsidian and iron, scarred from countless works of creation.
Wordlessly, he stripped away his armor, each piece placed carefully aside, until only his immense frame stood bare against the glow of firelight. He stepped into the heat, welcoming it, the magma's roar mixing with the rhythm of his pulse.
In his mind, a design was already forming—an artifact for Kevin. Not merely a weapon, but a vessel. Something to siphon, to channel, to shoulder the burden that no mortal child ever should. His hammer, heavy and familiar, found its place in his hand once more.
And so, with every strike, every spark, Vulkan bent not only metal but also the warp itself to his will.
The forge sang.
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Elsewhere…
The immaterium was never still, but now it was alive in a way it had not been in ages.
The god-seed drifted in the barren void, pulsing with emotions so violent they tore at the fabric of reality itself. Anger. Greed. They bled from its essence, staining the immaterium like ink poured into water.
The plane around it twisted, reshaped by the weight of those feelings. Cracks spidered across the endless void, splitting it open. From those fractures spilled color—red, orange, hues of hunger and rage—seeping outward until they licked at the edges of the material galaxy.
Everywhere across the stars, life stirred unknowingly. A gaseous fog of red and orange bled from the souls of countless beings, siphoned away and consumed, vanishing into the warp where the god-seed devoured it.
The seed convulsed, its form shifting wildly. Limbs sprouted, retracted, merged again—an amalgamation of flesh and shadow, seeking, deciding. A shape was being born, one chosen from the fury of existence itself.
And the immaterium rejoiced.
The barren void shuddered, birthing mountains of black stone, plains of twisted iron, storms of roiling chaos that bled across the horizon. The very fabric of the warp trembled with excitement as it molded itself to serve this new being, the fog of red and orange becoming its air, its storm, its domain.
The god-seed screamed without sound, its body folding, reforming, its hunger endless.
But it was not yet complete.
The transformation would take time. And so, the warp itself gathered, cloaking the god-seed in storms, sheltering its rebirth.
The plane was no longer barren. It was becoming a kingdom.
And at its heart, a god was waiting to be born.
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Far away from the smoking ruins where mortals bled and mourned, in realms far older than men could dream of, two protectors of Earth stirred.
In the golden halls of Asgard, Odin sat upon his throne, his single eye staring not at his realm but beyond—through time, through space, into the weave of fate itself. The All-Father had felt it: a ripple unlike any before. His grip tightened upon Gungnir, the weapon humming faintly as if it too shared his unease.
"…Something stirs," Odin muttered under his breath, his voice low but heavy with age and wisdom. "A shadow yet unformed, but vast… dangerous. Not of man. Not of god. Something new."
Meanwhile, on Earth, high in the silence of Kamar-Taj, the Ancient One paused in her meditation. The bald woman's calm expression faltered, just slightly, as she opened her eyes to the mirror dimension swirling faintly at her call. For centuries, she had seen countless futures, branching paths of possibility, yet what now loomed before her was not within the garden of fate. It was veiled, a knot tangled so tightly even her sight could not cut through.
She exhaled, and for the first time in many years, the breath trembled.
"This is no ordinary birth," she murmured, rising slowly to her feet. "A force is awakening… one I cannot name."
The world around her shifted with her unease, lanterns flickering though no wind stirred.
Back in Asgard, Odin stood, the great halls echoing his footsteps as he turned toward the Bifrost. His eye narrowed, voice a growl as though speaking to the cosmos itself.
"If it seeks Midgard… then it will find me standing in its path."
And in Kamar-Taj, the Ancient One gazed toward the heavens, her expression heavy with something she rarely allowed herself to feel—dread.
"Whatever it is," she whispered, "it hides even from me. That… is dangerous."
The two protectors, worlds apart, felt the same truth: something had entered existence, something neither could pierce with all their wisdom or power. A veil was drawn over this new force, and within its shadow, the fate of countless lives would one day tremble.
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