A Senju in the Stars, Chapter 7

He summoned more Wood Clones over the next half hour—twenty in all—sending them off with the same mission. Find the wounded, heal them, seal them away from this cursed battlefield. By his last count, the clones had already saved well over a thousand souls, maybe twice that. He sensed them moving through the upper levels and abandoned districts, steering clear of the depths, where war raged without restraint.

He sprinted alongside Batu in uneasy silence, learning more from observation than conversation. The city around them stretched to a horizon he could scarcely believe. Endless towers scraped at a sky colored by ash and fire, while labyrinthine streets spread below in a vast tangle of metal plating and broken stone. Some buildings soared beyond his sight, higher than any fortress or pagoda he’d known, their pinnacles lost in clouds of toxic smoke. Others ran deep underground, descending into sub-levels upon sub-levels, entire populations entrenched below the surface.

He knew the armor and machines these people fashioned already surpassed anything from his homeland, but until now he hadn’t grasped the full scope. Batu spoke of a massive Shogunate, but the words he’d used to describe it told Hashirama that this, outright, was some kind of impossibly large Empire. The streets hummed with advanced mechanisms, from overhead transport rails to massive engines lying dead or destroyed in the rubble, though much of it was as dead as everything else in this place. Hashirama had seen the mechanical beasts that roamed these corridors, spitting fire and shells, but that was only a fraction of the ingenuity here. In another world, he might have found it wondrous. 

They pressed on, passing entire plazas buried under debris, where his Wood Clones often found ragged survivors in pockets of broken steel. They avoided fights whenever possible. Batu was strong, but his armor was damaged beyond repair and Hashirama did not possess the skill to revive the dead if Batu was struck through one of the many holes in his armor. 

However, there came moments wherein fighting simply became unavoidable. 

Hashirama’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the line of armored carriages that stood between them and whatever it was on the other side that they needed to get to. By his count, there had to be at least a hundred armored carriages, each one rumbling six or seven meters away from each other and between them were the purple-plated armored giants. Their long, metal-spitting tubes were pointed upwards and, every so often, all of them would fill the air with thunder as they unleashed their metal slugs into the air in some cacophonous storm of artillery fire. If their goal was to cause the entire mega city to collapse into a heap of rubble and dust and death, then they would surely soon succeed.

Hashirama and Batu crouched behind a jagged embankment of collapsed girders, taking in the sight beyond. The line of armored carriages rumbled in place, each hulking machine spaced a few meters apart. There had to be a hundred of them, maybe more, their wide treads chewing at broken pavement. Thick metal tubes jutted from their upper turrets, each poised at a high angle. At intervals, every barrel thundered together, firing volleys of shells that arced into the bruised sky. The noise jarred loose chunks of debris from half-collapsed spires. Dust flared in the air, collecting in swirling eddies around the war engines.

Between the carriages stood Astartes–the word was still foreign–in golden trimmed, bruised-purple plates, scanning the rubble with weapons at the ready. They moved with measured calm, stepping around the scattered bodies and tangled ruins. Hashirama’s eyes narrowed. They were the same armored giants he’d encountered several times in this city. If he had to guess, then they were acting in some supportive role. The armored carriages were powerful, but they were also uniquely vulnerable if their treads were damaged; to prevent that, the armored giants kept close to them. It was simple, but–given the apparent weakness of the artillery pieces–effective.

Each time a barrage went off, the ground rattled, loose plating shifting underfoot. The entire mega-city felt on the brink, shaken by thunder from these thunderous weapons. Swirling ash and smoke blossomed into the air each time those tubes fired. Fire… combustion… ah… that was it.

Hashirama’s eyes widened. He understood now how these weapons were able to unleash such wanton destruction. Their original creators must’ve harnessed the power of combustion, but kept it isolated in a metal tube with only a single opening on one side. Some form of substance is placed at the end of this tube and a metal projectile is then placed over it. When the substance is ignited, combusts, and then explodes, all that energy has only one direction to go, thus pushing the metal projectile out of the tube at speeds most Shinobi could not hope to evade. These people likely utilized a more advanced version of what Hashirama thought of, but its simplest mechanism likely would’ve stayed the same–or, at least, the basest idea.

Amazing, but horrifying. He wondered if its original creator might’ve envisioned all the lives their invention would take–and if they cared at all. 

Hashirama turned to Batu. “Any ideas?” 

The Astartes breathed in, sighed, and knelt beside him. “Too many. Have to punch through.” 

Hashirama nodded, his eyes narrowing. He knew several Genjutsu that might’ve allowed for such a thing if only their enemy had a Chakra Network. They did not. No Genjutsu that he could personally perform would work on any of them, though Hashirama was quite certain that Genjutsu on the higher end of the spectrum could easily bypass this limitation by directly affecting the brain. Sadly, Hashirama was never a master of Genjutsu–never really even considered himself to be a practitioner of it. Tobirama possessed far greater knowledge in that particular field. At best, Hashirama mastered the art of detecting and then countering Genjutsu. Not much beyond that. 

So, that particular card was not on the table.

Stealth was out of the question. Hashirama might have slipped past unseen, but Batu stood nearly eight feet tall in battered plate—there would be no sneaking him across a corridor guarded by a hundred gunners. Better to make a scene that drew every eye away, even if only for a moment.

He turned to Batu, voice low. “I’m going to create a distraction.”

The giant nodded once, as if bracing himself for whatever shinobi arts might come next. Hashirama formed a seal. A single Wood Clone peeled away from his back, its bark-like surface rippling. Batu shifted his weight in mild surprise, though he’d watched Hashirama make dozens of these copies before. But what truly unsettled him was how, in the next breath, the clone’s body warped and expanded, adopting Batu’s own likeness. Plate armor formed along its trunk-like chest, every scratch and scuff replaced by the illusion of pristine metal.

“Wood Release: Transformation,” Hashirama murmured, shaping the clone with threads of chakra. The clone stood tall, an almost perfect replica of Batu, except the armor gleamed as though fresh from the forge.

Hashirama lifted his hands again. Blocks of wood twisted in on themselves, coalescing into a massive spiked club as tall and thick as a man. Gnarled studs lined its surface, each one like a calcified knot of ironwood. The clone hefted the weapon with ease, resting it across its broad shoulder plates. Hashirama glanced at the menacing club. He wondered if it could truly dent those purple-armored foes, then pushed the thought aside. The clone’s sole purpose was to make noise, not casualties.

Batu eyed this doppelgänger with narrowed eyes, but then gave a small nod of approval. “This ninjutsu—it versatile is.”

Hashirama’s lips curved in a faint smile. “A shinobi’s true strength lies in adaptability.”

A second later, the clone sprinted from cover, bellowing a war cry that rattled the smoldering debris. Its false armor shone faintly in the flickering lights. Immediately, the enemy giants turned from their watch, leveling their metal-spitting weapons at the figure. Thunder roared as a stream of fiery bolts tore toward the clone.

Yet the wooden mock-Batu moved with impossible speed, swerving between the bursts, bounding over ruined slabs of ruined stone and metal. Several of the enemy Astartes, armed with wicked blades, broke formation and charged. The clone swung its massive club in a broad arc, the blunt weapon slicing through the air in a flash. Their thick armor withstood the blow, but it knocked them aside like children’s toys, sending them flying and skidding across the open air. Sparks flew where they landed, tangling themselves in a scramble to stand again.

Fiery projectiles lit the space in a stuttering glow, each round a miniature thunderbolt. Shells impacted walls and rubble, leaving brief bursts of flame. The clone howled anew, leaping behind a wrecked carriage. Another torrent of bolts followed, chewing chunks of metal and rock, the air thick with acrid smoke. More and more of the enemy surged forward as the clone tore into their ranks, sending several of them flying with bursts of speed and strength far beyond what any of them were capable of. The clone wrapped its left hand around the foot of an enemy Astartes and then began using the armored giant as a second bludgeoning weapon. 

The roaring warriors closed in with snarling blades and cackling spears. Their blades hummed with foul energies, and the air crackled each time they swung. Yet the clone danced among them, too quick for any single blow to land. It released its grip on the massive club, letting momentum carry one of the armored foes into the air with a frantic yell. The Astartes spun, landing hard in a squeal of scraping plate. Another tried to strike from behind, a broad cleaver arcing toward the clone’s neck, but the wood-born warrior stepped aside in a blur, leaving the blow to carve empty air.

Their teamwork was formidable. The enemy soldiers moved in pairs or trios, each one covering another’s flank. Hashirama’s clone answered their coordination with sheer agility, slipping free of every encirclement. Now and then, the wooden doppelganger struck a limb or twisted a joint, eliciting a hiss of pain and a furious bellow, but it did not kill. Broken bones might slow these giants, yet would not end them. They were too resilient for that. Still, the clamor and confusion mounted, drawing more of the purple-armored warriors into the fray.

Hidden beneath the fallen archway, Hashirama and Batu crept through the half-light. The collapsed bridge overhead groaned every so often, creating a veil of dust and concrete that masked them from watchful eyes. If not for the ruckus spawned by the clone, they would have been pinned down by now, forced into a firefight they likely could not win.

They pressed on. Batu’s armor scraped against twisted rebar, but no heads turned. The din behind them rose with every passing second—bolts sparking off metal, grunts of pain, the ring of steel meeting steel. Hashirama flicked a glance backward, sensing the clone’s chakra begin to wane. It was burning through its reserves to maintain that superior speed and strength. It would not last much longer. But it didn’t have to. It’d done its duty admirably. 

Hashirama and Batu kept running. Hashirama then brought his hands together to form a seal. The clone, far behind them, gave a final roar. The enemy Astartes tightened their circle, seeing victory within reach. A hush settled in that instant, like the indrawn breath before a thunderclap. Its body unraveled, the Transformation Jutsu falling apart like wet paper to reveal Hashirama’s likeness, covered in Explosive Tags.

Then the clone detonated.

Batu turned to him. “Explosion on paper? Effective very.” 

Hashirama smiled and nodded. It was often easy to dismiss the humble Explosive Tag as superfluous, especially compared to the more advanced Fire Jutsu. But to deny its use and power was foolishness. A bundle of Explosive Tags was just as deadly as the Great Fireball Jutsu, perhaps even more so as it could be hidden and remotely activated. “It’s a basic shinobi tool. Every shinobi knows how to make and use one.” 

And then, Hashirama stopped. His eyes narrowed. The air around him shuddered with malevolent energies. Batu turned to him. “What is it?” 

Hashirama whirled to the right and brought his right hand down. “Summoning: Rashōmon!” 

Black symbols criss-crossed on the ground for a moment, before a massive, chakra-enhanced, stone-metal gate surged out of the ground, a sneering demonic visage on one side. 

The emergent gate rang like a gong and shook, and the imprint of a pincer formed out of the enhanced metal surface.