Savage Divinity

Buffeted by waves of icy-cold terror, Jorani watched his doom unfold like a spectator watches a play. A small part of his brain demanded he run or fight, do something, anything, but he couldn’t. Unable to even draw breath, his lungs burned and knees quivered as he stood rooted in place, helpless to act as the Defiled Champion drew closer and closer, his massive club and black grin growing larger with each step. This was how Jorani would die, reduced to meat paste in front of a crowd of thousands, with no friends or allies to save him. Faced with overwhelming power, there was nothing he could do, his fate sealed the moment his opponent unleashed his Aura.

No. Jorani’s fate was sealed the moment he was born to a common washer-woman from Sanshu.

The strong thrive and the weak survive, such was the way of the world. Maybe if his father hadn’t been an absentee deadbeat then things would be different, but with neither wealth nor power, Jorani was destined to a life of mediocrity. While he was busy scrounging for bread and coppers, others fortunate enough to be born into better families ate the best of meals and received the finest instruction. Jorani was seventeen when he first found Balance, almost a decade later than the average noble, and bound his Spiritual Weapon only a year ago. Having come to power so late and with so much working against him, how was he ever supposed to measure up to his peers?

If only GangShu had stuck around or provided some sort of support. The stingy old bastard could’ve supported a hundred thousand families and still have coin to spare, but instead he left Ma and Jorani to fend for themselves, because ‘rat daddies don’t stick around’. Jorani wasn’t even the worst off of his unfortunate half-siblings either, like poor Sorya and Anrhi were sold into slavery after their mother passed away. Who knew how many others never made it to adulthood?

Why was Daxian so fortunate? Daxian the Virtuous? More like Daxian the luckiest bastard in the fucking Empire, but that’d be hard to write on a breastplate.

Back then, news of a half-rat rising to the rank of Major had made waves throughout Sanshu, and Jorani had been the butt of so many jokes. More than a little jealous, he had looked into his supposed half-brother and cursed his good fortune. At fifteen years old, Daxian joined the army as a private and quickly rose through the ranks on sheer talent alone, easily the match of any young talent nurtured by the ruling factions. After earning his Captaincy at eighteen, Daxian won his Spiritual Weapon in an army-sponsored tournament by defeating all competitors in a massive free-for-all melee. At twenty two, he earned his promotion to Senior Captain during a Defiled raid on an outer fortress, killing fifteen Champions in successive duels before leading his unit in an all-out charge to rescue three senior officers from what should have been a hopeless situation. Then, at twenty-six, he fought off an ambush from not one, not two, but three Demons, and even killed one in the process of saving his commanding officer and thereby securing his promotion to Major.

A rags-to-riches story only found in fables and dramas, it was one meant to inspire and embolden, but back then, Daxian’s success had pushed Jorani into a spiral of depression. They both shared similar origins, so why were they as different as night and day?

Because unlike Jorani, their father supported Daxian, the only one GangShu gave any care or attention to.

They never admitted it, but that was the only explanation for Daxian’s strength. Why Daxian and not Jorani, or any of the other dozens of kids GangShu had lying around? Why was the Mother so unfair? The past year proved Jorani had no lack of talent, he only lacked the time and resources needed to become an elite Martial Warrior. He’d made great strides along the Martial Path in a short amount of time, but even the fastest sprinter needed time to catch up when given a handicap measured in years. Jorani was out of his depth facing an Aura-capable Defiled Champion, a helpless lamb before a starving tiger. Maybe if he’d been trained by the old bastard from young, like Daxian so obviously had been, then Jorani would also have an Aura, but as things stood, he was still years away from even attempting it. Even then, there were Martial Warriors who trained their entire lives and never condensed their Auras, so who was to say Jorani would be any different?

He wouldn’t be. He knew this in his heart of hearts. He was weak, and such was the way of the world.

Strength. He needed strength and a lot of it if he wanted to survive, and he most certainly did. He thought he was ready for death, but he wasn’t. There was still so much he had yet to do, so much he still wanted to do. He wanted to find a wife, settle down, have kids, and give his family everything he and Ma never had. He wanted to be a hero, a leader his warriors could respect and a man his children could look up to. He wanted to prove that bastard GangShu wrong, prove his entitled half-brother Daxian wrong, and show them both that Jorani was better than they thought. He still remembered the disappointment on GangShu’s face the first time they met. “Oh?” GangShu had said, his eyes narrowed and nose wrinkled like he was looking at a pile of garbage instead of his abandoned son. “Yer Hangman Jorani? That can’t be right.”

Scathing condemnation and casual disregard in one simple statement. Not exactly the reunion with dear old dad Jorani had dreamed about as a child, but he didn’t know why he ever hoped for more from his rat-bastard of a father.

All this and more passed through his mind in a matter of heartbeats as Jorani’s hour of death drew near. The hulking, bare-chested Defiled Champion made his way over until, following some unspoken rule of duelling, he stopped about twenty paces away to stretch in anticipation of a good fight. Sadly, the greyish, human-leather wearing savage would soon be disappointed, for he didn’t know Jorani was helpless before him. The part of his brain not gibbering in terror found that odd, because surely his opponent knew Jorani didn’t have an Aura to counter him. That’s how it should work, right?

Not that it mattered. Even if neither of them had an Aura, Jorani didn’t stand a chance. This was a Defiled Champion, a natural-born killing machine who thrived on death and bloodshed. Opposing him was a street-rat from Sanshu, here only by a strange quirk of fate. Falling Rain could’ve chosen any of the surviving bandits to be his figurehead, almost all of them more qualified than Jorani. Perhaps that’s why he was chosen in the first place, because Rain wanted someone pitiful and pathetic to control, an expendable stooge to use against the Council. If it wasn’t for GangShu asking Falling Rain to look after him, Jorani would probably have died after the Battle for Sanshu, kissed by a dagger to tie up loose ends. In fact, that’s probably why Falling Rain chose him to lead the Mother’s Militia instead of picking Chey, because he didn’t want to waste her potential. Out of all the recruits from Sanshu, Chey had improved the most, a charismatic leader who, while not quite as strong as the likes of Wang Bao, Ulfsaar, or Neera, was the most likely candidate to reach their level.

In contrast? Jorani was a coward and a drunk who lost the respect of his subordinates and superiors in one fell swoop. No one respected him. He could see it in their averted eyes, the scorn and ridicule they had for their one-time leader who’d been relegated to digging ditches for them to shit and piss in. That’s where he belonged, down in the dirt, because he was a fraud and a charlatan, a puppet whose reputation and accomplishments were all faked. He was a lookout, a scavenger, a bottom-feeding rat lower than the least of them, and they all knew it.

And now, he knew it too.

His foolish dreams of grandeur would never come to pass, not while he kept playing by their rules. Theirs was a broken system, one designed by some Bitch sitting on up high, meting out trials and tribulations with impunity, all for Her twisted, sadistic amusement. What did those poncy, puffed-up nobles have that Jorani didn’t? Sure, he formed his Core late, but how many of them could’ve done what he did today and hold off an entire force of Defiled by himself? How many of them could’ve persevered under Falling Rain’s merciless gaze, forced to run and train day after day, put through exercises and gruelling sparring sessions for months without end? Jorani suffered through all that and more, but for what?

So he could be abandoned here on the battlefield, where he would die alone and unappreciated.

He should surrender, like he had planned, only... surrender didn’t necessarily mean an end to his life.

It wouldn’t be the first time Jorani switched sides. How many gangs had he been a part of? How many bandit crews had he joined? He wasn’t a traitor who played tricks to benefit himself, but every time he was left with no choice. When a gang was defeated, you either joined the new crew or died with the old, and this was no different. It’s how he survived all those years after Ma died, by siding with the biggest and baddest thug around, no matter who he had to leave behind. The Empire was doomed anyways, so why not join the winning side? With the Defiled, not only would he grow stronger, but his strength would earn him respect and status. Wealth, women, and whatever else his heart desired, he would have it so long as he renounced Balance and surrendered.

It’s so easy. All you need to do is let go.

Surrender.

They left you here to die. You don’t owe them anything.

Surrender.

You have nothing to lose either way. What are you waiting for?

Surrender.

Silence fell on the battlefield as Jorani found clarity, the world simple and straightforward once again. Resist, and he would die. Surrender, and he would live. It was simple as that. There was no other choice. Shrugging off the Defiled Champion’s Aura, Jorani marched across the grassy field beneath the moonlit sky, his steps light and head held high, watching his newfound friends as they waited to greet him. This was it, the start of a new Jorani, a better Jorani, one in control of his own fate.

Twenty steps later, Jorani came face to face with the Defiled Champion. Well, face to nipple since he was a big bastard, but no matter. In time, Jorani would grow taller and stronger, he knew this to be true. How he knew it, he wasn’t sure, but doubts and apprehensions were for the old Jorani. New Jorani did what he pleased, and this... well, it wasn’t pleasing, but it felt like the right thing to do.

...

Right?

...

Right.

Craning his neck back to look the Champion in the eyes, Jorani spoke quietly, the words not coming as easily as he thought they would. “Me name’s Jorani.” Okay that was easy enough. Now the next part. Just surrender. Say the words and mean it, then everything would be okay. “I’m here... I’m here to... I’m –”

“Kick his ass, boss!”

“Fer Sanshu! Fer the Mother’s Militia.”

“Learn ‘im what the Bekkies taught ye!”

Almost choking in his haste to swallow his words, Jorani turned around and gawked at his people behind him. What was Erkin doing? Why didn’t he use this time to regroup for another charge? Ral stood tall atop his quin, Squeaky, waving both arms as if afraid Jorani wouldn’t see him. Dastan was also there, grinning like a madman as he always did when there was a battle to be fought, and his mirth was echoed in Sahb’s features beside him. Jinoe, Ciro, Kimi, Ronga, Awdar, and more, all of them were back, maybe eighty people in total lined up for the Enemy to gawk at, a poor showing compared to the two thousand Defiled across from them.

Yet still, there they were, standing around like lambs waiting for the slaughter, all to support him in his time of need.

To make matters worse, none of his people seemed to realize how shit the situation was. Instead, they hooted and hollered like they thought Jorani was here to fight and actually stood a chance against the muscled behemoth of a Champion. Had they all gone mad? In what fantasy dream world would this even be an option? Did they not know who he was or what he was really like? Impossible, they all knew Jorani was a coward, a drunkard, a failure and a disappointment, not a dueller of Champions or leader of men. He’d stayed behind to save these idiots and they didn’t even have the courtesy to let him!

“Jor!”

Wait? He did this to save them? Didn’t they abandon him?

“Hey Jor!”

No, they didn’t abandon him, he stayed behind because that’s what needed to be done.

“Jor, can you hear me?”

If he did this to save them, so why didn’t they leave? Did they turn around to save him?

“Jor!?!”

Unable to think due to Ral’s constant shouting, Jorani screamed, “What?! What do you want?!”

Tail wagging so furiously he was liable to fall off his quin, Ral grinned and shouted, “Smash him good, Jor!”

Oh right, Jorani had almost forgotten he’d come here to fight. Turning back to the Defiled Champion, he locked eyes with the towering giant for a moment, and in that brief, infinitesimal instant, Jorani’s intentions were revealed.

There would be no surrender. Not today.

Roaring in anger, the Champion raised his club to strike, but to Jorani’s eyes, the behemoth moved far too slowly. Coiled around his fist, Jorani’s Spiritual Weapon smashed into the Champion’s jaw with a rising uppercut. Warm blood splattered across his face as each successive layer of his coiled cord ground away at leather, skin, flesh, and eventually bone. Instincts and training kicked in as he drew his dagger and slashed it across the Champion’s belly, but even as the flesh parted and guts spilled out, Jorani knew his efforts were wasted.

After all, the Champion had already died from the first blow. Defiled were tough, but not so tough they could survive losing half their head.

The faceless corpse fell to one side, revealing the crowd of angry and surprised Defiled to Jorani. Now that the fight was over, he belatedly realized he was closer to the Enemy than to his people. Not the safest place to stand, but running would get him killed even quicker. Arm still raised from his killing blow, he flicked his wrist to slough off the blood before striking a triumphant stance, hiding his fear and uncertainty with false bravado while staring down the Defiled horde.

He had so many questions, like what just happened? Why did he think the Defiled would accept him? Why did they think he’d join them? Why did the Champion’s Aura stop affecting him? Was he actually secretly strong but didn’t know it because he was surrounded by freaks and monsters? Why weren’t the Defiled charging already?

Seconds ticked by and Jorani realized the Defiled were treating him with respect, not exactly backing away but less than enthusiastic about engaging him. Ha, his skills scared them away, did it? Well, Jorani couldn’t blame them, that uppercut was something else. How did he do it? Reinforcement, Amplification, his special brand of Honing, and... something else.

Wait... The Defiled weren’t looking at him. They were looking past him.

“Well done lad.” A meaty hand clapped Jorani on the shoulder and he almost fell to his knees. Staggering from the impact, he turned to curse the damned fool but quickly held his tongue. With his tangled beard and ragged robes, Lei Gong didn’t look the part of an Expert, but he certainly carried himself like one. There was just something intangible and indefinable about him, something that transcended his shabby appearance and elevated him to a man, nay, a warrior worthy of respect.

Oh wait. Never mind. Jorani realized what it was. The old man was sober for once. That’s why he looked so different.

Oblivious to Jorani’s rude, yet honest thoughts, Lei Gong steadied Jorani and nodded sagely. “You’ve come a long way since Sanshu,” he said, and Jorani knew he wasn’t talking about distance. “Seems for once, this old man has lost a bet, but can’t say I’m angry about it. Next time though, how about you tremble a little less? You had this old man thinking he’d have to run in and save yer ass.”

“Told you we wouldn’t need to step in.” Appearing out of the shadows, Daxian didn’t even spare Jorani a glance. “We’ll settle our accounts later. There’s work to be done.”

“That there is. Feel like another wager? Say... which one of us kills more Defiled? Same stakes as before?”

“No.”

“Come now, where’s yer competitive spirit?”

“I learned from you. Never make a bet you’re not confident of winning.”

“Scared?”

“Not fear, but pragmatism.”

“Bah. Yer no fun. Give an old man a chance to win it back, yea? Ye only made the bet because ye didn’t want to... Err, by the by lad, you can put yer arm down now.” With a roguish wink, Lei Gong continued, “You did good work here, bought enough time for yer people. Mister Rustram and his lot will be around soon enough, so what say we get the festivities started?” Without waiting for an answer, Lei Gong raised his cane and pointed it at the Defiled. Lightning flashed and thunder roared as the old man reminded everyone why he was called the Lord of Thunder. A bolt of lightning lanced across the field and illuminated the world before crashing into the Defiled. The sight left Jorani blind for several seconds, but soon the stench of burnt flesh wafted over on the breeze, lifting his spirits as the tension melted from his body.

Finally, the heavy hitters were here and poor little Jorani could finally take a break.

“Come on lad,” Lei Gong cackled, unleashing a second bolt of lightning while dragging Jorani towards the Defiled. “Stay close and show this old man what else you’ve learned in our time apart.”

Reluctant to abandon face to turn and run, Jorani quietly followed along while desperately blinking to clear his vision, reasoning that the safest place to be was beside two powerful Experts. Together, the three of them led the charge against the Defiled, and Jorani’s vision returned just in time to see Daxian smash five or six Defiled aside with a single strike. Then Jorani watched him do it again. And again.

With spear in hand, the Virtuous cleared away the chaff while Lei Gong followed closely behind, conjuring a storm of lightning to wreak havoc across the battlefield. With little to do except clean up the odd stray Daxian sent his way, Jorani used his time to look around and get a better feel for the overall battle. Crashing into a veritable wall of Defiled flesh, Dastan’s cavalry scattered weapons and bodies before them as they cut a swathe through the Enemy ranks. Erkin’s scouts followed soon after, protecting the rear while simultaneously picking off the scattered remnants still reeling from Dastan’s charge. Having learned from his mistakes, Dastan had directed the charge at an angle instead of going head first into the clump, so despite their best efforts to hold the cavalry in place, the sheer mass of the Guonei chargers proved too much for the Defiled to hold in place and the cavalry soon pushed through and emerged bloodied but whole.

In between the booming of thunder and rumbling of hoof-beats, Jorani made out a familiar sound, the twang of crossbows and whistle of bolts. No, just one crossbow, he soon realized, a single shooter working alone. Across the battlefield, he spotted signs of the marksman’s work as a Defiled warrior toppled over with a bolt in his eye and no enemy in sight, his death going largely unnoticed in the chaos of battle. The dead man’s companion was the sole exception, but after turning around to seek out the killer, he was shot down a few seconds later from a different angle. Pride swelled in Jorani’s chest as he put the pieces together, whooping with joy at the news of Siyar’s safe return. Though he had yet to spot the sneaky smuggler, Jorani didn’t know anyone else who could evade detection like that while also using a crossbow.

It wasn’t just Siyar who stood out either. Still standing on Squeaky, Ral wielded his massive quarter-staff with unnatural grace. Always spinning this way or that, the weapon danced in Ral’s hands as it broke bones and ended lives, never still even for an instant. Barely recognizable beneath all the blood and viscera, Erkin’s head moved back and forth on a swivel while guiding Ral to where he was needed most. No slouch in battle himself, the squad leader brandished his broken spear about, likely more comfortable with the improvised club than an actual weapon on account of his humble origins as a Syndicate bruiser. Less impressive were Jinoe and Ronga as the inseparable duo covered each others flanks, while Kimi’s beastly she-quin eviscerated everyone in its path, her feral personality well-suited for her mentally unhinged rider.

Chest swelling with pride, Jorani raised his voice in a wordless scream of triumph and his people echoed it proudly. Who would have thought a rag-tag group of thieves, smugglers, crooks, and vagabonds would do so well against the Defiled? They weren’t the best warriors around, but they were his people, and they’d be damned if they let the bossman down.

Well... technically, they were Erkin’s people, but not for long. The bruiser had potential, but he wasn’t ready for command, so Jorani would have to step back in. Today marked a new beginning, a new Jorani, one who would no longer drink (to excess) and wholeheartedly pursue his goals (or lower his standards). Perhaps he would take another look at Kimi. While she was a little more intense and fiercer than Jorani liked, it’d be nice to marry a woman strong enough to protect him and their future children, not to mention the angry she-quin Kimi would come with.

They lived in a dangerous world, and new and improved though he might be, Jorani wasn’t too proud to admit he’d need all the help he could get.

Chapter Meme