A Senju in the Stars, Chapter 6

His voice came soft in the smoky corridor, over the distant thunder of gunfire.

A rumble in the giant’s chest. He nodded once. “Word some. I understand. All not all. How speak you this?”

Hashirama let out a slow breath. “Back home, all of us spoke it. We called it our common tongue. You’re the first one here I’ve met who can use it.”

Silence followed. The giant tilted his gaze up at the flickering lights overhead, then back at Hashirama. “Study I. Dead languages. This one old of Chogoris. Talk later. Dangerous.” 

Dead languages? Chogoris was probably the place of his origin. Context clues pointed to the possibility that a few people once spoke the same tongue as Hashirama there but no longer did. This armored giant apparently studied languages–old ones.

The giant cast a glance toward the rumbling corridor, the glow of distant flames. Then he gripped the hilt of that broad, curved blade, knuckles whitening. “Must return to Khagan. Imperial Palace help.” 

He leveled a look at Hashirama, squinting through the battered visor. “You sorcerer?”

Hashirama flexed the fingers of his right hand. He wasn’t sure what the word “sorcerer” meant in the giant’s context. He heard only the faint crackle of fires and the clang of distant artillery. That word was often used to describe civilians who wielded chakra, but did not know any application of Ninjutsu and so became–at times–eerily creative with it. Sorcerers.

Hashirama figured it probably meant differently for these people, but it wasn’t important at the moment. “Can you explain what’s going on?”

The giant’s gaze drifted across the hall. He let out a grunt. Then his chest heaved in a labored breath. The crash of another explosion made the floor tremble. He said nothing for several seconds, as though searching for words he barely recalled how to form. Hashirama waited, ears ringing from the echo of battle.

At last, the giant spoke again, the words halting. 

“War. Terra… besieged. Traitors. Horus betray. Legions splintered. Emperor. Must fight.” He paused, tapped his chest armor where lightning-bolt markings were chipped and scored by shrapnel. “Khagan—Commander. Need all help. Palace stronghold… we defend.” 

He looked toward Hashirama again, eyes narrowed. “You come? Or no?”

Hashirama said nothing at first, considering the request. The giant’s posture was tense, but not hostile. In the smoky corridor, the dead lay silent and the living asked for aid. Outside, the fortress shook with the fury of a war he still scarcely understood. His silence stretched a moment longer, while the giant watched him with the steady gaze of a soldier on borrowed time. After a moment, Hashirama nodded. His Wood Clones could stay and rescue as many people as they could, while he figured out just what the heck was going on. It seemed now that there were at least several groups of these armored giants and that they were warring against each other.

How those Spiritual Energy creatures fit into all of this remained something of a mystery. But, Hashirama figured, he’d find out soon enough.

After a moment, Hashirama nodded. “Lead the way.” 

The armored giant nodded, before pointing at himself and then at Hashirama. “Stay out of sight us. Me fast. Can keep up?” 

Hashirama almost chuckled at that. But it seemed like a genuine question. So, he simply smiled. “Don’t worry about me.” 

The armored giant nodded, turned eastward, and began sprinting. And, Hashirama would admit, for an individual that was over eight feet tall and covered in thick plates of armor, the giant sure moved faster than a lot of ninjas, though any Jonin would be significantly faster. Hashirama surged forward, channeling Chakra through his limbs as he did. He created ten more Wood Clones and similarly tasked them with finding and rescuing as many innocents as possible, while avoiding danger and confrontation. Hashirama easily matched the armored giant’s speed. The armored giant briefly turned and nodded his way as they maneuvered through the ruined and desolate battlefield. “What’s your name?” 

“Batu.” The armored giant replied curtly, before pointing at himself. “Astartes me. Yours?” 

“Hashirama.” He answered. Was Astartes–a very foreign word, indeed–Batu’s surname? But, why the need to point at himself beforehand? Or was it, perhaps, his profession? Hashirama’s eyes briefly widened. That had to be it. The armored giants called themselves Astartes, because that was what they are–their profession. Hashirama pointed to himself. “Shinobi.” 

“Assassin you are?” Batu asked as they climbed over a tall wall of collapsed rubble and mangled metal. Hashirama observed the giant’s dexterity and found it impressive–for his size and weight. 

Hashirama shrugged. Not anymore, but he’d taken on several assassination contracts on behalf of the Senju Clan during the Warring States era and that, by definition, meant he was an assassin. But, also, not anymore? He used to be the Hokage, but that position likely belonged to Naruto now. Hashirama was supposed to be dead. “I used to be.” 

A low rumble shook the fallen masonry under their feet. Hashirama cocked his head, listening to the roar that drifted through the haze. A moment later, an oppressive aura came rolling in behind it. He recognized that twisted signature, weaker but still vile, echoing the four-armed fiend he had glimpsed earlier. He shared a look with Batu, who tightened his grip on the cleaver. The giant’s armor creaked with the tension.

“Demons,” Batu growled. His voice held no tremor, only a cold edge.

Hashirama peered over a collapsed wall. The scene beyond was a grim spectacle. Figures writhed in a distant clearing, some vaguely human-shaped, others burdened with limbs or lumps that had no place in nature. They danced and cackled over flayed corpses, arms and legs scattered like refuse. The stench of blood wafted on the hot wind. An eerie melody rasped from their throats, half laughter, half chant. None of them possessed any spark of Physical Energy that Hashirama could sense. They were hateful shapes of spiritual presence, bereft of any normal life force.

His lips drew into a line. “Can we go around them?”

Batu shook his head. A faint snarl formed at the corner of his mouth. “Destroy them. Must we.” 

The giant hefted the cleaver, metal scraping on metal. He eyed the demons with grim purpose.

Hashirama nodded. He watched the creatures swirl in their profane revelry. He didn’t intend to let them continue. They took pleasure in torment, that much was obvious. Such a thing had always been beyond his tolerance. He said nothing further about it—his fists clenched, and that was enough.

He placed a hand on Batu’s forearm, urging him to wait. 

“I want to test something,” he murmured, hardly above a breath. “Let me go first.”

Batu shifted his weight, stepping aside. The  air crackled. Ash and motes of black dust swirled around them, caught in the flickering glow of distant fires. Another roar echoed, stirring the demons from their vile dance for a heartbeat, but they returned to their cruelty a moment later, heedless of anything else in the ruins.

Hashirama slipped forward with light steps, silent as the dead. The ground ahead was littered with broken spears of rebar, crumpled steel plates, torn bits of cloth from bodies he chose not to examine. As he moved closer, the creatures’ chattering became clearer, a discordant harmony of shrill giggles and low hisses. He observed them closely, curious whether his Wood Release would bind a thing made of spiritual energy. It sounded great, in theory. After all, these things–whatever they truly were–could influence physical objects, which meant the inverse was also true; otherwise, they’d fall through the ground or something. Otherwise, he’d resort to raw ninjutsu or even brute force—whatever it took, even Senjutsu.

And if nothing worked, then he’d consider running away. 

He glanced back at Batu once, gave a small nod. Then he steadied his breath, slipping into a low stance among the rubble. The demons still hadn’t noticed him, still capering around their grisly trophies. Hashirama let his chakra surge, preparing his first strike. This was as good a time as any to learn exactly how mortal these so-called demons might be. And if they proved vulnerable, all the better for the next battle. 

When he was close enough, Hashirama brought his hands together and formed a seal. “Wood Release: Nativity of a World of Trees!” 

The ground shook and trembled as an innumerable number of gigantic roots and branches and tree trunks emerged and surged forth like a green and brown tidal wave. They tore through metal and rock and stone and all manner of materials on their path, crushing and grinding even the armored carriages into little more than mangled wrecks. The ‘Demons’ screamed when the trees and roots tore through their forms faster than they could react. Hashirama willed the tendrils to wrap around the malevolent entities, trapping each and every single one of them in place, before impaling their spiritual bodies with sharp roots. They screamed and moaned and writhed and shuddered in place in both agony and pain. Through his trees, Hashirama looked and saw and–to an extent–understood what these creatures were. 

Spirits. Malevolent Spirits. 

He’d… never dealt with spirits before, but he knew of them. He knew of the Shamans who spoke and connected with them, those with the gift to see and speak into the other side, into the Pure World. Their numbers dwindled with time and the last shaman Hashirama had ever heard about died before he turned twelve. And yet, their power was real. The existence of spirits had never been in doubt. After all, the Uzumaki Clan bound some kind of Death God to a Fuinjutsu that sucked the souls of its victims. But these things were very clearly not just souls and they were very clearly not of the Pure World.

He formed a new seal, and his wooden tendrils constricted like serpents around the shrieking demons. A few of them shuddered with twisted delight, limbs quivering as the bark squeezed, bone and sinew crunching under living timber. Their moans rose, part ecstasy, part delirium, until abruptly they twisted into genuine screams. The wood had begun to feed on them. Leaves and roots and branches spiraled over their warped bodies, through which Hashirama forced a surge of physical energy into their forms, creating Chakra, which the wood then absorbed.

Hashirama watched from a short distance, his brow tight, eyes narrowed. The branches ground deeper, gorging on their vile presence. And then, the shapes within the twisted foliage trembled, dissolving piece by piece. Their howls ended in a last breathy gasp that echoed off battered walls, and then there was only silence.

But the silence was short-lived. A tremor ran through the wood. The bark quivered, veins in the branches turning sickly gray. One by one, the trunks and vines stiffened, then began to peel away, flaking into blackened ash. Hashirama stepped closer, eyes narrowing further as he saw the corruption spread like a disease. Thin wisps of smoke rose, carrying a foul odor. Some of the vines split open with a wet tearing sound. He could feel them crumbling at the roots, drawing in the demonic taint.

He clenched his fists, but there was nothing to be done. The sections of wood that had devoured the demon essence twisted in on themselves, bark curling back, bursting from within as if scorched. Moments later, they collapsed into piles of ashen dust. That said, much of the forestry he’d created remained unaffected and would remain so. 

Briefly, Hashirama wondered if Senjutsu would’ve enhanced his trees enough that they might’ve survived the corrupted Chakra. I guess I’ll just have to test that later. 

Footsteps echoed behind him. Batu had walked out of their hiding spot. The Astartes ran his armored hands over the surface of the trees and the giant roots and, with surprising tenderness, caressed the leaves and the branches they laid upon as though he was gazing at something he’d not seen in a very long time. And maybe that was true. After all, Hashirama had not seen a single hint of greenery the moment he woke up in this place–not even a dead or fallen tree. Everything was stone and metal and fire and death. It was almost as though he was in an entirely different world. “Tree create. You. How? Not sorcery. Not same feel. Different. What this is?” 

“Ninjutsu,” Hashirama said. Divulging information to a friendly stranger was how amateurs got themselves killed. Batu was not an enemy, but there was no reason to reveal anything more than what was necessary and, honestly, it wasn’t as though the armored giant would understand what Chakra was and how its usage led to effects such as Wood Release or Bloodline Limits–the language barrier, thin though it was, wouldn’t be of much help. 

“Ninjutsu…” Batu nodded and pulled his hand away from a flower that bloomed on one of the branches–purple and pinkish. Hashirama did not recognize it and had no idea how it even got there. Nothing was odd about it–at a glance. But, when he looked deeper, Hashirama found that it contained a sliver of the essence that’d once been present within the demons–a tiny portion of it that was somehow purified, becoming a very unique form of Chakra, before crystallizing in the form of a flower. Eyes narrowed, Hashirama took the flower into a wooden cocoon, before placing it within a sealing scroll.

Batu watched for a moment before turning. “Demons gone. We go.”