The Honored One, Chapter 67

Satoru heard the city before he saw it. Screams, curses, and flaring lights battered the senses. Walls toppled in plumes of smoke. Streets glowed with ephemeral illusions unleashed by Sorcerers hungry for victory or survival. Flames danced across rooftops where wards had failed, leaving nothing but charred timber and melted steel. In alleyways, bodies lay strewn. Some wore clan emblems. Others bore the twisted mutations of Genestealer infection. A place of war, a place of final reckoning.

He walked at a steady pace, hands in his cloak, Infinity rippling just beneath the surface. Around him, battered Sorcerers clashed in frantic duels. One conjured a serpent made of living lightning, snapping its jaws around an opponent. Another launched razor-thin blades that severed steel pillars. All along the streets, pitched battles raged. Minor clans turned to smoke and ash. Major clans tore through lesser families, each convinced the other had orchestrated Saburo’s death.

A new shape exploded overhead. A man soared high, body cloaked in swirling smoke, only to be dragged down by a harpoon of pure cursed fire. The city trembled at the clash. Satoru ducked under a stray wave of acid that splashed across a ruined kiosk. He kept moving, eyes on the fortress far ahead.

Between him and those crumbled gates lay half the city, now a warzone riddled with fresh craters. Cries echoed from an intersection to his left. A squad of Genestealer-sorcerers pinned a group of clan fighters behind shattered columns. The Genestealers hissed, clawed hands weaving curses. They wanted the kill.

He stopped to watch. Purple smoke curled from the Genestealers’ Cursed Technique–whatever it might’ve been. The clan fighters lashed out with conjured spears that clattered against an invisible barrier. The brood advanced, half-alien faces contorted in savage delight. Their steps were quick and sure. Then they lunged. The fight ended in a swirl of gore.

Satoru continued onward. Somewhere behind him, a building collapsed in on itself, devoured by a vortex of swirling glass. He passed the place where two Kiryuin elites battled an Arasaka enforcer, spells crackling like thunder overhead. They gave him no notice, consumed by their own vendettas. 

Perfect.

He came upon the edge of the crater he had made. Dust still hung in the air, swirling in gray-brown clouds lit by stray cursed sparks. The ground dropped away in a sheer slope of rubble. Beyond it, the fortress walls lay in ruin, a gaping hole carved through stone and steel. Men of Iron patrolled the breach in silent ranks, metal limbs reflecting the flicker of flames. At their backs, further inside, a line of Devourers stood. He counted dozens, maybe hundreds, each clad in battered but functional ceramite plates, each bearing sigils or wards. Their stances spoke of discipline. They’d heard the city’s alarms and come prepared.

Satoru narrowed his eyes. The fortress soared above them all, its spires lost in the gloom of a swirling sky. A cold wind cut across the crater, carrying ash and the stench of molten slag. He stepped down the slope, Infinity negating shifting debris that threatened to slide underfoot.

He moved with casual poise, ignoring the bodies that had been caught in that monstrous Purple. Some fragments of the Men of Iron lay scattered, metal torsos embedded in the rubble. The few who remained intact marched stiffly to bar his way. Their eyes glowed dull red, each arm ending in a cursed blade or heavy gun.

He paused, scanning them. Possibly ten of them at the breach. More behind. He rolled his shoulders. Then he pushed cursed energy through his veins, amplifying muscle and bone until his every breath made the air hum and hiss and burn.

His aura flared, and the dust around his feet blew outward in a ring. Men of Iron twitched, targeting scanners whirring. Satoru vanished from view, Infinity warping light around him. A second later, he reappeared behind the front row. A single blow from his open palm crushed the first machine’s chest plate. The impact sent it flying into the sky, sparks bursting from severed cables.

The others spun, mechanical reflexes swift. One lunged with a humming blade. Satoru sidestepped, letting Infinity shift the angle of the strike. Then he slammed a palm strike into the machine’s torso. It folded in half, shards of metal raining down.

A heavy bolter to his left roared, shells spitting out in a staccato line. Infinity flickered, deflecting the rounds. He flicked a thread of Blue, imploding the Men of Iron’s weapon and half its chest along with it. Three more advanced, red optics flaring bright. They fired streams of plasma that seared the rubble. Satoru wove between them, cloak trailing afterimages.

He stopped at the center of their formation, releasing a short wave of cursed energy that pulsed outward–not even an actual technique, but a simple stream of raw power. The machines buckled. One lost an arm, the joint twisted by the shock. Another tried to strike his neck with a cackling blade. He caught the blade mid-swing, Infinity halting the blow. Then he crushed it in his hand.

He pivoted, elbowing the machine’s head clean off. The last Men of Iron stepped back, scanning. Satoru inhaled, letting a greater surge of cursed power gather at his fingertip. The ground cracked underfoot. He flicked that fingertip forward. A beam of twisted space cored through the machine’s body, leaving molten edges. It fell apart.

The gate’s immediate guards lay in smoking ruin. Satoru flicked blood from his glove, though it was more machine oil than blood. He felt a prickle of tension at the edge of Infinity. The Devourers had arrived.

He turned. They stood in a broad line deeper inside the breach. Each wore burgundy or crimson armor, cursed markings etched along their pauldrons and gauntlets. They watched with eerie calm. Their presence felt like a tidal wave, each radiating cursed energy to a terrifying degree. Some clenched cursed swords, others brandished polearms or staves. All of them watched him with cold intensity.

He counted near a hundred in immediate view, more shapes behind, possibly hundreds total. Their auras blotted out the flickering lights of the fortress interior. One stepped forward, a captain maybe, raising a glimmering spear.

Satoru huffed a breath. A straight fight would be suicide. Even with Infinity. That many cursed experts could corner him eventually or one of them might have a counter for Infinity. The fortress corridors behind them promised more trouble, more wards, more men.

He lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck, gaze flitting across the rows of Devourers. They did not speak. They did not posture. They formed a silent wall of lethal potential.

“Oookay,” Satoru grinned. “Didn’t wanna do this, but I guess I don’t have a choice.” 

His eyes dropped to the burning mark on his right hand. Khaine’s brand. He rarely used it, for it stoked bloodlust in his heart, a frenzy that might overshadow caution. But here, faced with unstoppable might, it might be the only way.

He flexed the mark. It glowed like embers under his skin, bright lines forming a shape reminiscent of a flaming sword. He exhaled. This would make him more violent than he liked. But if a hundred Devourers wanted war, he’d oblige.

He tapped into it. A harsh flame raced along his right arm. Searing runes lit up, forming a spiral around his wrist. He grimaced, jaw tight. The brand expanded, forging a bright sigil that glowed with living fire.

He lifted that arm overhead. Crimson sparks flared, shaping themselves into a blade of roaring flame. The Sword of Khaine, or at least a shard of it, manifesting in mortal hands. Fire dripped from its edges like molten steel. Immediately afterwards, plates of burning armor appeared over his right arm–covering it entirely. Satoru gritted his teeth. Khaine’s cursed energy was rather unpleasant. 

The Devourers tensed. Some angled their weapons. Others crouched, curses swirling around them. Their captain barked a short command. A wave of cursed energy rose among them, ready to strike.

Satoru held the burning sword before him, its light turning the rubble a hot orange. The mark on his hand pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Flames danced across his cloak, scorching the fabric. He let out a slow breath, eyes narrowing.

He took a step forward. The Devourers advanced as one.

He raised the blade. The air shimmered from the heat. Infinity wavered around him, contorting the light. The brand demanded blood, demanded slaughter. He forced himself to keep reason. He needed to carve a path, not lose himself in the frenzy. He made that mistake once. 

Still, the brand’s subtle whisper urged him to kill them all.

He stepped faster, cloak snapping behind him. The first Devourer lunged, a staff crackling with domain amplification. Satoru slashed. Fire and Infinity collided with the staff, shearing it in half. The Devourer reeled, armor scorched. Satoru shoved him aside, the brand’s power biting into the man’s flesh as if the flame devoured curses.

Another pair attacked from the flank, one conjuring spectral beasts of bone, the other launching a black spear of cursed lightning. Satoru twisted, letting Infinity bend the spear’s path. Then he slashed the beasts with the blade. They vanished in a spray of embers.

The Devourers were fast. They surrounded him in a ring of flickering spells, each weaving curses or pure force. He blocked two at once, hacking through conjured basalt and deflecting a twisted domain attempt. Yet more advanced, eyes cold, no fear in their stance. None of them raised their domains just yet. 

Smart.

He felt the brand push him on, each kill fueling a savage delight in his chest. He cut down another Devourer, armor splitting under the sword’s searing edge. Shrapnel flew. The others pressed in, synergy unbroken. They hammered him with joint curses, Cursed Techniques binding Infinity in fleeting pockets. Satoru endured, channeling even more cursed energy to break free. He made a simple gesture and unleashed a gargantuan surge of Red that sent dozens of Devourers hurling at every conceivable direction, some straight into the sky.

A spear grazed his shoulder, coated in Domain Amplification. He grinned, swinging the Sword of Khaine sword in a wide arc. Fire roared, scouring half a dozen Devourers off their feet. They crashed into rubble, curses fizzling.

More arrived, stepping over their fallen brethren. Satoru’s grin widened. He flicked his left hand, forming a compressed Red sphere. He hurled it at the densest cluster of Devourers. They scattered, their movements enhanced by Cursed Energy, but it caught some of them, repelling them so hard they slammed into the fortress walls.

Still, dozens remained. Satoru advanced another step, breathing hard. The brand’s heat coiled around his right arm, intensifying. Fire licked across the blade. He raised it high, letting out a raw exhalation.

They charged. Their captain led, a halberd infused with domain amplification. Another wave of illusions flanked from the left, and three cursed beams soared from the right. Satoru thrust the blade forward, forming a wedge of flame. He slammed into the captain’s halberd, sparks flying. Satoru slashed, carving a molten line across the man’s armor. The captain stumbled back, pained, but not down, Reverse Cursed Energy almost immediately working to fix the damage he’d endured.

Fun!

Others hammered Satoru’s flanks. Tendrils and chains and branches and all sorts of things appeared around him, including spectral hounds and arcs of lightning. Satoru’s grin widened as a few of the techniques somehow pierced right through Infinity, drawing blood. “HAHAHHAHAHHAHA!” 

FUN! He broke through the Cursed Techniques with a supercharged burst of Red, the spatial expansion happening so quickly and so violently that the few Devourers who couldn’t avoid it on time were vaporized. The rest escaped unharmed or with injuries that quickly healed with RCT. 

Satoru channeled more Cursed Energy into his body, drawing from Tzeentch’s Cursed Realm and creating a constant stream of RCT, replenishing his body. 

A Devourer with twin scythes cut at him from behind. Satoru twisted, Infinity fending off the blow. He slashed the burning sword across the scythes, shearing them. Another Devourer leapt from above, sword angled for Satoru’s head. He reversed his grip, stabbing upward in a spray of flame. The attacker crashed to the ground, armor half-melted.

He lunged forward, cutting through the last row blocking his path. Four Devourers braced together, domain amplifications overlapping. He channeled a fraction of Purple, letting Red and Blue collide in a small swirling sphere. They realized too late. The mini singularity exploded, erasing Cursed Techniques and shattering their guard. Satoru dashed between them, sword raised. Fire and Infinity parted them like wheat, leaving them sprawling.

He reached the corridor’s entrance, dust swirling. More Devourers lined the halls inside, though fewer than outside. Possibly hundreds more deeper in. He clenched his fist around the brand’s sword. Flames dripped from its edge, scorching the floor.

He grinned at the remaining Devourers–still a good number of them, honestly–and made the symbol of Infinity with his left hand. “Hey guys, how about we fight real Jujutsu?” 

The Devourers made their own symbols. And fifty domains expanded at once.