AOMR 26

“Explain. Calmly.”

Sachiko’s voice cut through the room, soft yet laced with an iron resolve that brooked no argument. Her wide, worried eyes flicked briefly to Yamamoto before settling on the trembling child. Ellie’s sobs hitched as she, too, glanced up at him, her small frame shrinking under the weight of his impassive gaze and the suffocating pressure that had briefly leaked from his displeasure.

Finding no solace in his stony expression, Ellie spun away and collapsed into Sachiko’s open arms. Her tears returned with renewed force—a torrential downpour punctuated by broken words and barely coherent explanations.

“Mei Mei,” the girl gasped between sobs, “they took her.”

Yamamoto’s hand remained still on the table, his face unreadable. But within, his mind churned. Mei Mei. A child. An unofficial student. Taken.

Ellie’s story came in fragments, pieced together like a shattered puzzle. Mei Mei had been playing with a group of children at a safe distance from the orphanage.

A stranger had approached. An Asian man, his features unremarkable but his intentions clear in hindsight. He had touched Mei Mei, and she had dropped like a stone. Then he lifted her and walked away to join another man. Together with a third, they had vanished, leaving behind only a single, heavily accented sentence:

“We await him in Zhongguo.”

Ellie stumbled over the words, the memory of the phrase sharper than anything else. It was all she could manage before collapsing back into tears.

It had happened a few blocks away. Just meters outside his self-imposed range. Yamamoto had deliberately restrained his spiritual pressure, sparing the town’s inhabitants from its crushing weight.

Now, they had repaid his restraint with this.

His displeasure was a quiet, simmering thing as he raised his teacup to his lips and took a measured sip. The porcelain clicked softly against its saucer as he placed it back down.

“What do you know of this, Sachiko?” His tone was calm, but it carried the weight of expectation.

The old woman hesitated, her mind racing to form a response that might appease him. But he did not care for her deliberation.

“Speak.”

One word, spoken softly, yet it was enough to freeze her in place. Sachiko’s wide, worried eyes returned to him. “I believe it is the Yangban, Honored Elder.”

Yamamoto stroked his long beard thoughtfully, giving her a single nod. It was enough encouragement for her to continue.

“They are a quiet but rapidly growing power in Asia,” she began, her voice trembling slightly. “Their influence is subtle, but they have consolidated control over much of the continent—particularly China. Recently, there have been... disturbances in the city. Local gangs acting out, backed by an outside source. We suspected a splinter sect of the Yangban was funding them, but we didn’t realize their true plans.”

She paused to take a shaky sip of her tea, the porcelain trembling in her grasp. “With the aid of the Marche, we’ve been systematically dismantling their foothold here. I thought they were simply looking to establish a presence, but now...”

Yamamoto continued to stroke his beard as he listened, his expression unreadable. His initial flare of anger had simmered down, replaced by cold calculation. Once again, his plans had been disrupted. Just as he was nearing the end of Mei Mei’s training—far enough along that she could continue independently—another foolish interloper had dared to interfere.

He moved to stand, his movements slow and deliberate. As he rose, the air in the room seemed to shift. The very building groaned under the weight of his presence, sinking as though bowing to his will.

Sachiko, Ellie, and the white-cloaked whelp stared at him, their wide, terrified eyes mirrors of one another.

Yamamoto turned his gaze to the east. His voice, calm yet heavy with intent, broke the silence. “The large country on the fourth continent?”

Sachiko did not trust her voice to answer. She nodded rapidly instead.

“Good.”

With that single word and a subtle flex of his reiatsu, Yamamoto vanished.

The oppressive air lifted the moment he disappeared, leaving the room in a fragile stillness. Sachiko let out a deep breath of relief, her hands gently smoothing Ellie’s hair in comfort. But her features hardened as she turned her sharp gaze to Kenji, the white-cloaked whelp still frozen in place.

“Send our fastest runner to the PRT,” she commanded, her voice brisk. “Tell them to go to Kudzu first. He owes the old man a favor.”

Kenji stumbled into action, pivoting on his heels and hurrying toward the door.

“And hurry,” Sachiko added, her tone grim. “Otherwise, by sundown, we might be left with only six continents instead of seven."

---

Beijing

Empress Dowager Lu Zhi stared at the missive in her trembling hands, her carefully composed mask faltering for just a moment. The Iron Fortress of Beijing, once the pride of their imperial defense, the very symbol of unbreakable strength, had fallen. And not just fallen. The report spoke of molten wreckage and devastation so severe that even seasoned scouts were left shaken, hardly able to come close to the destruction due to residual heat.

Someone was cutting their way through from the outlands to the heart of the Yangban's power, leaving a trail of scorched earth straight toward their headquarters in Beijing. She almost considered it was the Firstborn, but it was dead already. A death she had confirmed with her sources.

Her fingers tightened around the parchment, her mind racing through the route this new walking calamity was taking. The implications were staggering. Whoever was responsible wasn’t just powerful; they were making a statement. This was no mere opportunistic attack or chance, not when the person showed the overwhelming power that they had.

They could have easily started their destruction from the heart of Beijing, but they had started from the outskirts, making an effort to destroy everything in their path. This was precision disguised as brute force, a deliberate act to destabilize one of the most influential factions under Null’s shadow.

For a moment, hope flickered in her heart. Could this be an ally? Someone striking a blow against the Yangban and, by extension, Null’s growing influence?

But caution quickly dampened that spark. The Yangban were dangerous, yes, but they were also ruthless and a well-known enemy. If this attack failed, the retaliation would be swift and merciless, and she doubted the still unnamed and unknown person would survive. The barely a-year-old Crown Prince’s precarious position, already teetering on the brink, would be pushed into freefall if Null thought she had a hand in this.

No, she did not need to work with the person, not when they already drew the full attention of the Yangban instead…

“Your Grace?”

The voice startled her, pulling her attention to the chamber. Her maid, Mei Hua, stood at the edge of the room, her hands folded neatly before her. There was nothing overtly suspicious about the young woman—she moved with the quiet efficiency expected of palace staff. But Lu Zhi had grown to distrust silence, especially as the Yangban’s tendrils spread deeper into her court, subverting her officials. It was only a matter of time until she was disposed of and her son used as a puppet and empty figurehead.

The Empress Dowager allowed her gaze to linger on Mei Hua a moment too long. The girl shifted slightly under the scrutiny, her head bowing lower.

“Mei Hua,” Lu Zhi said, her voice practiced to sound as soft as silk, an act that hid the edge of her suspicion. “What do you make of this?”

The maid hesitated, her eyes darting toward the letter in Lu Zhi’s hand. “I... I cannot say, Your Grace. It is not my place to interpret such matters.”

“No,” Lu Zhi replied, her tone cool, “but I imagine you’ve heard whispers. The staff always hears whispers.”

Mei Hua’s hands tightened briefly before relaxing again, though not quickly enough to escape Lu Zhi’s sharp gaze. The Empress Dowager noted the reaction and felt the weight of suspicion grow heavier in her chest.

Her lips curved into a smile. A calm, practiced expression that betrayed none of her inner turmoil. “Never mind,” she said smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. “You are dismissed for now. Ensure my tea is prepared for the afternoon.”

The maid bowed deeply, murmuring her obedience before retreating from the room. Lu Zhi watched her go, her smile fading the moment the door closed.

“Do you think me a fool?” she murmured to the empty chamber.

Her attention shifted to the far corner, which had been previously empty, but a figure now stood there. A red-clad figure with a mask and the number 019. One of Null’s new ‘guards.’ Officially, they were called imperial protectors and were placed to protect the Empress Dowager and the Crown Prince from the manipulations and attacks from the West, but Lu Zhi knew better.

That Null was able to implement this at all spoke of her dwindling influence in the court. Every step her supposed protectors took through the palace was another thread in Null’s web; every glance, every action they made was an act of tightening a noose around her throat.

The figure was motionless, faceless behind their mask, yet she imagined she could feel their gaze. Watching. Measuring.

She laughed softly, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet room. “Your master grows bold,” she said, her voice low but cutting. “Sending his hounds to sniff so close to the throne.”

The guards were supposed to remain outside her chamber always, but the attack must have, no doubt, given Null's agent an excuse to stay closer to her.

The guard gave no response. Lu Zhi hadn’t expected one.

She turned her attention back to the letter, her thoughts racing. Whoever was attacking the Yangban headquarters was either a fool or a force to be reckoned with. Either way, it was an opportunity.

Her remaining loyal capes were few, but they were resourceful. And desperate. Perhaps, no, not just perhaps. It was time to act—while Null’s attention was drawn elsewhere.

“Summon Tian Xian and the others,” she commanded, her voice carrying a quiet authority. “If the Iron Fortress has been breached, then the news would no doubt spread far and wide, and the world would be watching. We must move before the pieces settle, or vultures show their beaks.”

The guard didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as tilt their head. But she knew her words would reach Null. They always did.

As she stood, the weight of her child’s future pressed heavily on her shoulders. She could feel the noose tighten further on her neck as she solidified her agenda. Empress Dowager Lu Zhi knew her time was running out. But if she could buy even a moment’s reprieve, if she could secure a sliver of hope for the Crown Prince, then she would wield what little power she had left with all the precision of a dagger aimed at the heart of her enemies—even if she died in the attempt.

Outside the palace walls, the molten trail continued to carve its path toward the Yangban headquarters. Whatever force had shattered the Iron Fortress was still moving, unstoppable, and unyielding.

And Lu Zhi would make certain she was ready to seize the moment when it arrived. Null would regret the day he made her a widow.

---

The Gates of the Iron Fortress

The air was heavy with the smog of industry and faint whispers. Yamamoto Genryūsai stood outside a heavily fortified city in China, his wooden cane in hand. His position at the edge of the road allowed him a view. His eyes were closed, yet he watched the steady procession of vehicles through numerous checkpoints, the process unnecessarily long and arduous. He did not need to see the frustration on the drivers’ faces to feel it; the whole scene reeked of strained control.

Eventually, the flow halted, and the gates sealed shut. The city's defenses snapped to attention, the people that manned it bristling with unease. They could feel something coming.

He took note of one particular whelp that had been watching him in confusion for a few minutes, unable to comprehend what a seemingly old man was doing in the middle of the road that led into the heavily fortified city.

A steady breeze tugged at his robes as Yamamoto cracked his neck to the side, a sound that shook the air. He could sense the child’s reiatsu, especially with how familiar and powerful it had grown under his tutelage. It was masked and suppressed, no doubt some ability that hid things, but Yamamoto’s ability to sense reiatsu was more intricate than anything her kidnappers had ever faced.

It would have been an easy thing to appear directly in the middle of the heavily fortified city, dispatch the leader, grab the child, and disappear just as easily. But Yamamoto remembered the last time he had done something like that, and the effects of his haste.

No, Yamamoto was in no hurry. He was the beating heart of slaughter and the right hand of the Soul King. A death god, and he would reap souls in the multitude on this day. Months ago, he had taught the inhabitants of this world to respect him by killing the Endbringer, Behemoth. Today, today he would teach them to dread him. Let them know, his blade swung both ways.

Yamamoto took a single step forward, the ground beneath his sandals cracking and bubbling. The black substance that served as the pathways succumbed beneath the pressure of his presence as he slowly released his hold on his reiatsu. Reiatsu that could be physically perceived as fire. He could feel the wide-eyed gaze of that particular whelp that had been staring at him in confusion as it suddenly seemed like a second sun was rising. The whelp darted down from the watchtower, and sirens tore their way through the skies as the whelp ran to inform his superiors.

“Do not blame me for what is to come,” he muttered, his voice low and tone cold. Yet those same words drifted on the air, pierced their way through the foghorns and alarms screaming danger and intruder, straight into the ears of everyone in the city. “Blame your arrogance.”

The first barrier stood between him and the city—a towering wall and a gate reinforced by technology that surpassed mundane means and guarded by dozens of watchtowers and armaments. He noted stronger reiatsu signatures scattered alongside the mundane guards. Missiles that faced up, ready to intercept any attack from the sky. Smaller ones, rockets, faced the ground, standing side by side with a multitude of machine guns that tracked his movements, mounted atop the structure. The fortifications spoke of absolute confidence—of power meant to deter even the most determined invaders. An Iron Fortress.

“HALT!” a voice barked through a loudspeaker. The whelp had gotten to his destination and informed his superior, but he needn’t have bothered. “You are entering a restricted area. Leave immediately, or we will open fire!”

Yamamoto’s grip on his cane remained relaxed as he continued his measured steps forward.

The voice crackled again, now laced with unease. “Unidentified Parahuman, I… I repeat. Turn back, or we will open fire!”

The speaker’s once-commanding tone fractured, distorted by the mounting pressure of Yamamoto’s reiatsu. The man on the other end of the line was trembling now, his voice betraying raw fear.

“FIRE!”

The order rang out like a desperate scream.

The air erupted into chaos. Missiles streaked through the sky, rockets roared, and gunfire tore through the air. The barrage lasted five minutes—five minutes of relentless carnage that obliterated everything in front of the walls. Smoke and dust billowed high into the air, obscuring the horizon. The defenders held their breaths, watching the dense cloud for any sign of movement.

A sigh of relief rippled through the ranks, tentative and short-lived.

Tap.  

The sound was faint but distinct. Anybody who had a grandfather or mother was familiar with it.

Tap.  

The click of wood against stone. Eyes widened in terror. Mutters of 'impossible' filtered out.

Tap.  

Hearts raced, hammering against rib cages like prisoners desperate to escape. Knowing the truth of what was to come.

Tap.  

The smoke parted, revealing a lone figure stepping out from the devastation. Yamamoto Genryūsai emerged unscathed, his white haori immaculate, his cane tapping softly against what was left of the utterly broken ground. Each step he took brought him closer to the supermassive gate, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the destruction surrounding him.

Not a single mark marred his figure. Not a single flame touched his coat.

Yamamoto stopped before the supermassive gate, the weight of his presence suffocating the air around him.

Behind the massive gates, at the base of a towering watchtower, a young man’s eyes widened in sudden, horrifying clarity. The strange, weathered figure standing in the distance, the one who had seemed so familiar. His stomach twisted as realization clawed at his mind, and he stumbled back, nearly tripping over himself in panic. His trembling hands reached for his commander, his voice barely breaking free from the vice grip of terror. “It’s—”

But the words never finished.

He should not have bothered.

Death was already at the gates.

And it knocked.

In that moment, the world as the young man knew it ceased to exist.

---

A/N: At this point, I really can't wait to get to canon. I'm going to go back to my notes and see how the dominos fall and how many things have been butterflied away due to Yamamoto.