The Honored One, Chapter 68

Caoimhe walked across the chamber, robes brushing the polished floor. Runes set in the stone glimmered at her passing, as if drawn by her tread. A hush settled among the gathered Farseers. One of them stepped forward and lowered his voice, though it carried in the stillness.

“You’re certain this was for the best?”

His hands tightened around the tall staff he carried. The others stood in a silent row, their gazes on her. She inclined her head, only a hint of motion beneath the vaulted ceiling. The faint hum of lingering psychic wards trembled in the air.

“This path was shown to me in many futures,” she said. “We have all seen that the Britheim’s blessing would shift the currents of our fate.” 

Her eyes moved to the circle of watchers. They seemed smaller now, as though uncertain of their own strength. She stepped nearer to them, and they parted to give her room. “He healed what was written on my flesh and soul. He renewed what once belonged to all Aeldari. It was not his intent to grant me such freedom, yet so it was done.”

A second Farseer, robe cuffs worn and frayed, cleared her throat. “He set you on a path unlike ours. You hold a power we cannot match. Has it changed the shape of our alliance with him?”

Caoimhe paused. Light from the runes fell across her face. “He has his own road to walk,” she said. “I have looked into futures where he lingers among us, and I have seen them dim. The Britheim cannot remain here long. His time leads him to Commorragh, where the Drukhari will demand the same gift he gave to us.”

A stir ran through the circle. A Farseer with a deep scar trailing across one cheek gave a curt nod. 

“They will want the mark of She-Who-Thirsts torn from their souls,” he said. “And if the Britheim removes it, will that not grant them the same wellspring of power?”

“It will, but is that truly such a bad thing? The Drukhari are our kin–evil and misguided and malevolent though they may be.” Caoimhe said. She lifted her chin, and a faint glow traced the arcs of her face. “He will stand at the shrines of Khaine. The Drukhari tend those altars still, in their own fashion, and the shards of the Bloody-Handed God lie scattered in that dark realm. The Britheim will gather them. He will shape something new in that place.”

A third Farseer shifted. His fingertips tapped the haft of his spear. “We have no watchers in the Dark City–no eyes or ears. If he goes there, he goes alone.”

“They may think him alone,” Caoimhe said. “But they do not understand what stands with him. Let them believe he is defenseless. They won’t seek to hurt him, but the Drukhari will try to obtain him for their purposes; it is simply within their nature to want that which they cannot gain.” 

She let her gaze roam over the chamber, where the runes glowed like embers. “They will learn soon enough. We already have.”

Caoimhe raised her staff high. “We must look to our own matters and prepare for the Britheim’s inevitable journey into Commorragh, after the Yngir is sent back to sleep. Before any of that, however, we have a task to finish. And, for the sake of the galaxy and the resurgent empire, we must finish it.” 

“As you say, Lady Caoimhe.” 

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Arima Kishou stood by the tall window, the light of the far-off sun catching the edges of his white cloak. His gauntlets rested against the cold metal sill. Nearby, Interrogator Kaneki glanced at a small dataslate, a faint glow reflecting in his eyes.

“We’re headed to Shibuya, my lord?”

Arima turned, and the tail of his cloak trailed against the floor. 

“Yes,” he said. His voice carried in the vaulted chamber. The walls were lined with shelves and scrolls, each containing reports and forbidden texts. The arched ceiling rose above them, etched with sigils older than any living soul. “We’re the only ones who know the truth of that terrorist’s Cursed Technique. The warrior-sons of Primarch Sukuna will march in force, but they have neither the knowledge nor the means to handle something as intricate as Infinity.”

He moved along the shelves, gloved fingers skimming across dust-laden tomes and data-crystals. A hush spread through the room, broken by the whir of servo-skulls drifting overhead. Kaneki remained beside him, silent at first, then spoke.

“The reports are vague,” he said, tapping the dataslate. “Even classified materials hold little more than rumors. Were you able to find anything concrete?”

Arima paused at a stack of ancient texts, most bound in flaking leather. He lifted one with care, turning its frail pages. The fading ink showed half-legible characters, a language lost to modern eyes. 

“I discovered references to a clan known as Sugawara,” he said. “They existed in an era called Heian. Lord Sukuna recorded them, though never in detail. He wrote of a boy born with a power called Infinity, some control of space and time. A technique preventing all harm from reaching its user.”

Kaneki’s hand clenched around the dataslate. “Did Sukuna confirm its existence?”

Arima let the pages slide shut. “He never encountered it himself. He speculated that with enough mastery, such a Curse might harness the motion of the cosmos and grant its wielder a kind of godhood.” 

His gaze drifted over the unreadable glyphs. “He wrote that this Infinity was an aberration, a monster among jujutsu practitioners.”

Silence settled in the chamber. A servo-skull hummed past. Kaneki exhaled, lips pressed thin, but said nothing. Arima placed the tome on a nearby table with deliberate care, then continued.

“I believe the one we face in Shibuya wields that same Infinity. It matches everything in these old records. Yet no mention tells me how the bloodline survived or how it reemerged in the 40th millennium. Nothing explains why Shibuya is its cradle.”

Kaneki’s grip loosened on the dataslate. “It might be a new manifestation. Some ancient power unearthed.”

Arima said nothing. He stepped from the table and adjusted his cloak, the pale fabric whispering over the polished floor. Tall windows rose behind him, the city’s skyline just visible beyond the fortress walls. He carried himself with a measured step toward the door, each footfall echoing.

“We will see for ourselves,” he said at last. “Shibuya awaits.”

The door hissed open. Kaneki followed, dataslate in hand, the corridor lights flaring overhead. They left the quiet library behind, and their footsteps faded into the dark.

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Satoru dragged his feet across the scorched floor, boots scraping on warped metal. Red-tinted water dripped from a ruptured pipe overhead, each drop echoing in the gloom. He drew breath in ragged pulls, ribs sending jolts of pain through his chest. A wild glow of Positive Cursed Energy rippled beneath his torn cloak, mending torn flesh and knitting splintered bone.

He halted near a broken wall panel, reaching up with a trembling hand to brace himself. A chunk of armor plating lay half-submerged in a pool of coolant. The helmet attached to it showed a jagged slash from brow to chin, one lens shattered. Satoru traced its contour with the toe of his boot, then let out a low hiss.

His right arm—once severed—regrew in a wave of burning warmth. Flesh stretched, bone formed, nerves sparked. He grimaced, letting out a sharp exhale when the final tendons snapped into place. Blood still caked his knuckles from an earlier blow that dented a Devourer’s chest plate. The brand on his hand flickered, Khaine’s mark pulsing in silent satisfaction.

He spat onto the floor, a dark clot that landed on a splintered chunk of ceramite. On every side, remnants of a brutal fight. Bodies of Astartes lay twisted, their warplate caved in by singularities or hammered by raw cursed energy. Unmoving forms of the fortress’s robots, some still twitching, sparks dancing across severed limbs. Most had holes seared straight through their torsos, courtesy of Satoru’s augmented Red or a slice from the sword of Khaine.

He took a step and nearly stumbled. A dull ache persisted in his spine; he closed his eyes, let Positive Cursed Energy surge again. The bones clicked into alignment with a faint snap. He sucked in breath, tapping Infinity to steady his balance.

“Wasn’t expecting them to be that strong,” he muttered, voice rough.

He glanced at the ceiling, cables dangling in sparking arcs overhead. Pieces of metal girders hung precarious, each battered by stray curses that had ricocheted through the corridor. The flicker of overhead lights cast a trembling glow. Satoru saw his own reflection in a shattered panel, white hair stained crimson, sweat dripping along the curve of his jaw.

A short, bitter laugh escaped him. So many Devourers. Each one somehow prying open Infinity just enough to land glancing hits, enough that he’d had bones broken, a limb torn off. Only infinite cursed energy saved him, courtesy of his link to that cunning Shifty Bitch Tzeentch. He ran a hand over his jaw, a fresh smear of blood painting his palm. The swirling magic inside him still churned, half eager, half restless.

He kicked aside the torso of a Men of Iron, wires hanging where a head should be. The impact made a dull clang. The husk rocked once, then settled in an oil-slick puddle.

“Damn machine,” he said, twisting his neck until it popped. “All that fancy hardware, still fell apart.”

He trudged on, ignoring the shards of broken ceramite that crunched underfoot. Somewhere behind him, a Devourer groaned, pinned under a mangled girder. Satoru cast a glance his way—a tall figure, half his armor missing, one arm contorted at an unnatural angle. The man tried to lift his sword again, eyes defiant, but his strength failed.

Satoru turned, Positive Cursed Energy still humming around him, the brand on his right hand flickering. He considered finishing the soldier, then shook his head. He had bigger concerns. He stepped past, Infinity warding off the Devourer’s final, feeble lunge.

He approached the next bulkhead, half-blown from an earlier explosion, rivets melted. The hall beyond looked like a collapsed hangar, crates strewn and half incinerated. Sparks jumped from overhead conduits, casting strobe flashes across scorched walls.

Satoru paused, coughed a glob of blood. His chest still burned, raw from that last domain. He flexed his shoulders. The brand’s fury, subdued for the moment, threatened to stir again. He forced it down, letting the calm drape of Infinity wrap him like a second skin.

He rested a hand on the twisted frame of the bulkhead, tested the material. Still hot, but pliable. He pressed more cursed energy into his arm, tension building in his muscles. Metal bent. He pried open a narrow gap, ducking through.

On the other side, steam hissed from ruptured pipes. Pools of coolant spread in shimmering puddles. He stepped carefully, cloak trailing behind him. Another corridor branched left, thick with rubble, likely impassable. The path forward seemed open, though flickers of wards danced in the distance.

He wiped blood from his mouth, spat once more. Healing and regeneration were never perfect. It didn’t matter how much Cursed Energy he converted into Positive Energy and then pumped into himself, it couldn’t and wouldn’t heal everything. It did enough, however, and that was really the only part that mattered. It healed him just enough to keep going.

“Not done yet,” he murmured, voice echoing in the gloom. The treasury was just up ahead. He knew this because he’d seen a map of some kind–near the entrance, outlining the important places and rooms and chambers. The Necron Artifact that he was looking for was somewhere in the treasury. One of a kind, he figured. He did not know what it looked like, but Caoimhe did say he’d know it when he saw it. Well, shit, he hoped that was true, because it seemed like he was gonna have to hightail it out of here. 

The damn Devourer’s mothership was coming. 

How’d he know? Well, he looked out the window and saw a huge fucking ship just above the clouds. 

Hell nah.