Savage Divinity

“...Blade Pichai, at my left, Eccentric Gam, to my right...”

Impressive as the speech was, Jorani was in no mood to appreciate Old Du’s flair for the dramatic. A younger, more innocent Jorani might have squealed in delight at the notion of fighting Defiled alongside the Imperial Death Corps and no less than four peak exerts, but the older, jaded Jorani who enjoyed wearing clean, dry trousers was doing his best not to soil his pants and spend his last hours wearing shit-laden trousers.

He wasn’t no coward. In his short life, Jorani had survived more than his fair share of trials and tribulations. In his early years, he often went hungry despite Ma’s best efforts, but he never held it against her. She worked herself to the bone so he’d have clean clothes, a roof over his head, and a bed to sleep in, so missing a meal here and there never bothered him much. Least, not until he spied them fat, poncy nobles walking about with their candied fruits and skewered meats. He’d spent many a day running and hiding from angry, irate merchants, out for blood because he’d stolen a meat bun or quail egg, an insignificant morsel of food yet apparently worth more than his life. Oh, how Ma cried on those days when he came home bloodied and bruised from his escapades, but she never told him to stop. She only ever told him to be more careful, because he was all she had. He’d taken it to heart, and learned to be sneaky and crafty, befriending the biggest and strongest street rats in Sanshu, a term he always hated. Ma never reprimanded him for joining a gang, she knew he did it to stay safe, and he promised himself that someday, he’d get so good at thievery, she’d never have to worry about him again as she lived out the back end of her life in comfort.

A dropped basket of silk and Councilman Chao Ban put an end to those dreams when Jorani was still a gangly teen, but he paid the fat bastard back in kind eight years later, left him swinging from a tree in full view of Sanshu. One good reason to thank the bossman, because without him, Jorani would never have had the balls to go against the Eastern Prosperity Alliance, much less a Defiled army made up of Butcher Bay cutthroats.

Jorani survived the Battle of Sanshu, but dear Mum Above always had more up Her wide, flappy sleeves, what with Her being a meddling sort and all, but this was too much. Demons and Defiled popping out of the dirt like radishes in the heart of Central, there had to be a limit to what one should expect. Forget the ugly, wrinkled, tunnelling Demons both in front and behind them, those weren’t Jorani’s problem to deal with (until they were, but best not to think about it too hard). No, what had his asshole ready to spew was a minor, yet not insignificant detail, a fly in the ointment which ruined everything.

When fighting, whether it be Demons, Defiled, or otherwise, it’s always preferable to have your Spiritual Weapon in hand, whereas Jorani’s was sitting in the carriage, which in turn sat outside the gates and on the other side of the growing Defiled horde.

That left him with a single-use runic rod given to him by the old Rat Bastard, and tiny dagger which would be about as useful as a toothpick. True, his belt dagger was more or less the same size as the bossman’s sword, but Jorani refused to label it as a proper weapon. For one, it wasn’t a Spiritual Weapon, which meant no Honing to cut through his opponents, a proper bunch of thick, muscular bastards. Second, he had no intentions of getting in close enough to trade blows with his dagger, since he’d easily be overpowered and outmatched. Fighting up close might work for the Bossman, but that’s because he was a right and proper nutter, a few wheels short of a wagon.

Besides, the bossman had a shield and his crazy, transforming, axe/glaive now, a weapon Jorani personally would have called a sword/spear, but the bossman speaks, and the rest just smile and nod.

Luckily, this being a battlefield and whatnot, there were plenty of now-ownerless weapons Jorani was happy to claim. Grabbing a pair of discarded dagger-axes off the ground, he was thrown off by how heavy the damned things were, about fifteen kilos each. Them half-piggies weren’t just fat, but strong too. Belatedly remembering to Reinforce, he hefted the unwieldy weapons with a grunt and passed one to Siyar, who absently nodded in appreciation as they made their way to the right flank. With little time to prepare, Jorani inwardly sighed and said, “Stick close, but if ye see an opening to get out clean, take it.”

“Goes without saying,” Siyar replied, sucking his teeth in dismay. “Don’t look like there’s much chance of that though.”

Jorani wanted to say something uplifting like Old Du was doing, but nothing came to mind. “No, it don’t. Looks like yer stuck with me then.”

“Looks like.”

Standing across the way, these Defiled differed from the pale skinned Defiled of the North, different even from the crazed, yet disciplined Defiled of Butcher Bay. The Northern Defiled were a pale lot who wore armour of bone and rock, and Butcher Bay’s bunch looked like normal folk aside from their thick armour of steel and iron, but these Defiled were a different bunch all together. Scarred and misshapen, these Defiled wore no armour and left their and arms and chests bare, proudly displaying their weathered, desiccated skin. It had a rough, greyish texture to it, neither sun-tanned nor pallid, but sickly and dull, like meat left too long in the sun to dry. Thankfully, they all wore pants, which ended well short of the ankles, leather sandals to protect their feet, and wielded all manner of wicked weapons in their hands, though they appeared to favour dual wielding three-pronged swords or three-pronged punching gauntlets, following the premise the more blades the better, he supposed. Under the streaks of dirt, he noted the Defiled had slathered their bodies in a salve which made their unhealthy skin glisten beneath the early evening light. Both men and women among them dressed like this, and while he usually enjoyed the sight of free hanging breasts, these Defiled bodies hardly looked human anymore, more like freshly preserved corpses trotted out for display.

Further dehumanizing them were their covered faces, hidden behind layers of wrapped leather which left only their eyes exposed. This wasn’t the nice, tanned leather of cow or goat skin, but long strips of rough, veiny leather, darkened in some places but a nice, peachy colour, the colour of healthy, human skin. Only then did his mind make the connection, and he trembled in place, not out of fear or revulsion, but in pure, unbridled rage. These bastards deserve death a thousand times over, and Jorani would happily slaughter every Defiled bastard between here and his carriage.

As for the ones behind him, well... they’d have to wait until he came back with an army to match them.

Course, he’d still feel much better with his Spiritual Weapon in hand, and he’d give damn near anything to have Ral here with him too, but Jorani supposed the thousand or so Death Corps would have to do. In a way, it was like having a thousand Ral’s at his side, though none would be so loyal or committed to getting him out alive. The dog-eared idiot was many things, and Jorani counted ‘true friend’ among them. If he was here... Then again, if he was gonna wish for things to magically appear, he might as well wish he still had his suit of Runic Armour, the whole Bekkie army, and the old bastard who’d sired him along for the ride to boot.

Nah, scratch that. Just the Bekkies and the armour, personally delivered by Daxian the ‘Virtuous’. It’d be fun to see the jealousy in that bastard’s pinched, ugly face when Jorani donned the armour once more.

And with that last thought, Du Min Gyu sounded the charge, the air distorting above the hand he held upraised over his head as he formed a rotating, razor sharp disc he called a Wind Chakram, the signature move which he used to end the life of the fleeing Butcher of KunLun. “Forward into the Enemy!”

A small part of Jorani’s brain clapped in joy upon witnessing the true Wind Charkram in person. The plays and operas rarely did it justice.

A roar emerged from the throats of the gathered Death Corps soldiers, a single, unified sound in defiance of the odds. Armoured in solid breastplates of blackened steel, the Death Corps were the first and last line of defence of the Imperial Clan. Oath-sworn slaves one and all, they were the product of a life of intense training and singularly devoted to the Empire. A life without freedom, Jorani once thought their name meant they would fight to the death, but now, he realized he’d been wrong. Rather than welcoming their deaths, their eyes burned with intense fury and devotion as they set out to meet with this most ancient Enemy and bring death to all who stand against them.

The Imperial Death Corps smashed into the loose line of Defiled and Demons in a deafening crash of flesh and steel. Chaos erupted as warriors from both sides fought and died in the opening exchange, though their dying screams were chillingly alike. No less determined than they, the Enemy fought without a thought for self preservation as they gave it their all to hold Jorani’s bunch in place, while he and his Death Corps threw everything they had into punching through them to freedom. His unfamiliar weapon in hand, Jorani thrust it through the leather-wrapped head of the first Defiled to step into range, though the human skin wrapping was much tougher than expected, catching his blade and holding it tight. Slowing his advance to kick the corpse off his weapon, a second Defiled filled the gap left by the first and Siyar’s dagger-axe neatly sank into the bastard’s throat. Instantly repaying the life-saving favour, Jorani smashed the butt of his weapon into a third Defiled’s hand, stopping a sword from splitting Siyar from shoulder to groin. Too close for comfort, he drew his dagger with a reversed grip and slashed his opponent across the eyes, the only uncovered part of his opponent’s face. The blinded Defiled snarled in fury and howled something in his guttural tongue, cut short as a nearby Death Corps soldier seized the opening and struck a killing blow.

A few seconds into the battle, and Jorani marked down his first close brush with death, but that wasn’t what concerned him. This was his first battle since Sanshu, but it was nothing like what he remembered. True, everything was a mess but he still had a clear head. His heart pounded in his chest and his pores emptied themselves of sweat, but none of this interfered with his focus. Chi surged through his body as he stabbed and slashed with Reinforced might, easily the equal of any Defiled who crossed his path. It's not that the Enemy was weak, but he'd become so much stronger. In Sanshu, he’d been beaten and battered about inside his Runic Armour, but here, today, he fought with a ferocity he never knew he had. Ferocity, a word reserved for the Ulfsaars and Wang Baos of the world, not the quiet and, dare he say it, mousy Joranis, yet here he was, a former sneak-thief and bandit scout standing side by side with Imperial Death Corps against the Defiled, and not only was he not a burden, he dared to even believe he was pulling his damn weight!

Welp, best mark down another reason to thank the bossman. Gruelling and nonsensical as the training might seem, it whipped Jorani into fighting shape. He’d never be a pure killer like his aforementioned peers, but it didn’t matter. In the bossman’s eyes, killing was easy, so instead, he focused on keeping his people alive, and even with the Death Corps at his shoulders, Jorani could see the vast difference in doctrine.

The Defiled had always outnumbered the Imperial Army, because even though their overall population was merely a fraction of the Empire’s, every Defiled man, woman, and child knew how to fight, and even the weakest could match blades with an Imperial soldier. With the advantage of the Walls, the numbers didn’t matter so much, but here on an open field, it made them formidable indeed. The Death Corps soldiers were unparalleled killers, slaughtering Defiled with every step they took, but even then their advance slowed to a snail’s pace. Three to five Defiled dead for every Imperial, but the Defiled numbers continued to grow while the Imperial’s dwindled at a rapid pace. Every injury the Death Corps took sapped their strength as their life’s blood flowed out, but Jorani sealed his cuts and gashes with barely a thought. Give flesh, break bone, for a dead soldier kills no Defiled, but a wounded one is still almost just as dangerous.

A damn shame though. Eventually, Jorani would run out of flesh to give, and then...

Preferring not to imagine his grisly death, Jorani gutted his foe and pressed onwards, stomping the dying bastard’s head as he passed by. The same goes in reverse, a dying Defiled is almost as dangerous as a healthy one, and he’d be damned if he let some poor Death Corps soldier get distracted by a downed cannibal gnawing on his ankles. Step by arduous step they proceeded even as the sounds of battle erupted behind them. Their encircling foes had already caught up, making their way past the central buildings and closing in around their forces like a vice. There would be no retreat, no mercy, and their only option to survive was to break through the Defiled in front of them and out the gates. That was the best, nay the only place where they could hold against the Defiled, forcing them into a choke-point and negating the advantage of their superior numbers.

So long as the tunnel-digging mole-Demons died before they got there.

And damned if these old fogeys didn’t give it their best try. Though his movements looked basic and unimpressive, Broken Blade Pichai was a force unto himself. With a massive, horizontal swing of his sword, the colourfully armoured southerner harvested Defiled lives like a farmer reaping grains. In an unmatched efficiency of motion, that same slash sent the Demon flying away, knocking Defiled aside as it tumbled helplessly through the air. Although the creature landed on its feet, viscous Ichor already dripped down its wrinkled and cracked skin, leaving sizzling patches blackened earth wherever the caustic fluids landed. Obviously reluctant to face him alone, the Demon wailed and hissed from a distance, leaving the Broken Blade free to wreak havoc on the Enemy’s left flank until their next inevitable clash.

To Jorani’s right, Eccentric Gam growled in frustration in his standoff against the Demon, unable to land a killing blow as the defeated creature dove down and hid beneath the earth. Like an unstoppable, man-sized chariot, the half-fox heedlessly charged through the Defiled to follow it away, flinging his opponents aside like broken ragdolls as he twirled his staff with effortless ease. With a maniacal grin, he lifted his weapon and brought the butt end down to ground as if planting a flag, and the earth shook beneath Jorani’s feet as the ground split apart to reveal the battered mole-Demon. Struggling and squealing like a wounded animal, the Demon was held fast by the embrace of the same dirt which it previously swam through. “Ha!” Eccentric Gam declared in triumph, waving his hand and bringing the Demon up out of the crevasse on a prison of soil. “Hiding in the Earth from the magnificent Gam? Seeking Death!”

Lining up his attack, he drew his staff back for a one-handed thrust. Expecting the Demon to go tumbling into the crowd of Defiled like the Broken Blade’s foe, Jorani soon discovered Eccentric Gam was a level stronger as the creature exploded on impact, showering the oncoming Defiled in a flood of corrosive fluids while leaving Gam and his allied Death Corps unharmed. Howls and screams filled the air, but Eccentric Gam’s Chi-infused cackle drowned them out and lifted Imperial spirits, Jorani’s among them. “Come, cowardly servants of the Father,” the half-fox declared, turning to face the Demons behind them. “Line up nicely for your grand daddy here. What a useful bunch you are, much easier than killing Defiled by ones and twos!”

“Forward!” Surveying the battlefield from just out of weapon’s reach, Old Du stood in the air and commanded Eccentric Gam to stick to the plan. Thankfully, the screwy old fox merely scowled and obeyed, smashing swathes through the Defiled forces with every lazy swing of his staff. The pressure on Jorani was instantly lessened as Death Corps soldiers were freed to flank his position. Eccentric Gam’s victory over the Demon was like a rock cast into a pond, sending ripples down the Imperial line and collapsing the Defiled before them. Up above, Old Du split his focus on watching the rear and keeping his Demon in check, and when Jorani found a second to glance back in curiosity, his jaw dropped in disbelief. Behind them stood a wall of wind and blood as two shrieking Wind Chakrams circled back and forth, cutting down any Defiled who dared approach in numbers too great. A few still made it through, but the majority stayed back lest the twin discs of death claim too many lives for even their superior numbers to sustain.

Truly a Sanguine Tempest, which made young magistrate Fung look like a complete fool for calling himself the ‘Unstoppable Tempest’. Pei, the spoiled brat could count himself talented if he had one ten-thousandth of Old Du’s prowess.

A shame Old Du couldn’t just use his Wind Chakrams to clear the way, but that would be expecting too much. The operas were clear on this point, creating a Chakram took enormous amounts of Chi, and the disc deteriorated with each pass through an enemy. ‘One Man Killing a Hundred’ was the title of Jorani’s favourite song in the opera, which depicted Old Du’s rise to glory in the Hoplesh Rebellion, retaliating after a suicidal attack from the rebels killed off the Imperial Command. Alone and without aid, Old Du, who Jorani supposed would have been middle-aged Du, flew into the enemy camp alone and slaughtered their command in return, his Wind Chakram reaping a hundred Experts before finally dissipating into nothingness. Once finished, middle-aged Du escaped unharmed and took command of the leaderless Imperial Army, destroying the rebellion before they could recover from their leaderless state.

And now, decades later, with rumours of his senility and decline aplenty, Du Min Gyu was more formidable than ever. Two Wind Chakrams! Two!

Unfortunately, no warrior could defeat time. Killing one or two hundred Defiled on his own would be an impressive feat, but in the grand scheme of things, it was hardly a drop in the bucket and Chi was finite. Already, Jorani could see a twinge of effort in Old Du’s face as well it should, what with keeping the Defiled behind them in check while fending off a Demon with powerful bursts of wind. Although his easy stroll through the Defiled lines continued, Jorani saw that Eccentric Gam’s robes weren’t only wet with the blood of his foes, but soaked in his sweat too, dripping down his forehead and making him look even more ragged than before. Then there was Broken Blade Pichai, the least impressive of the bunch, who’d already slowed his pace and fallen back, allowing the Death Corps to clear the way to the Demon instead of leading the advance himself like before. Even though Old Zhang had yet to act, the Solitary Sword wasn’t famed for fighting Defiled or Demons, a duellist in the purest sense of the word, so best not to hang their hopes on him.

Cursing the seemingly endless number of Defiled, Jorani yelled over the clash of blades and the screams of the dying. “C’mon ye weak livered bastards, I heard the Death Corps are the meanest, baddest soldiers around. Y’all gonna disappoint a street rat from Sanshu? Forward to Victory!” A wordless roar sounded in reply as the Death Corps fought on with renewed vigour, and Jorani might have imagined it, but he thought he saw Old Du favour him with a slight approving nod. It wasn’t much, but for the half-breed son of a washer-woman, it meant more than the old man would ever know.

You see this Ma? You don’t need to worry anymore. Your boy grew up into a proper man, a real soldier, he is. Rest easy now, but light, you hear? Maybe I’ll be coming to join you in a bit, and we can catch up on old times.

Hack and slash, stab and retract, this was all Jorani thought of as he steadily marched towards his goal. Every now and then he bellowed out a stream of meaningless drivel, urging the Death Corps forward until his throat grew hoarse with effort. Arms leaden and Chi running dry, still he fought on, yet the gates had yet to appear in sight. In fact, they’d barely made it out of the centre of the fort, only now stepping out of the slave grounds and making their way in amongst the slavers shacks. Not even halfway there, yet Jorani’s strength was all but spent, drawing upon reserves he didn’t know he had stored as he marched ever forwards into the Enemy. Unable to find Siyar, he prayed the former smuggler had gotten out safe instead of lying somewhere behind him, though he knew the latter was far more likely. With the last of his voice, he yelled, “Kill the Defiled!”, for that was all that was left to them. He figured they were dead men walking, but they should kill as many Defiled as they could before he headed off to see Ma and Mum Above.

Won't be long now Ma. No need to cry, it'll be a nice reunion. After all, your boy never got a chance to say goodbye.

Chapter Meme