Savage Divinity

A hush falls over Sinuji as the Demon collapses in a spray of dust and Ichor, Imperial and Defiled alike stunned by what we all just witnessed. Breath caught in my throat, I watch Dastan’s still form laying face first in the dirt and inwardly scream for him to get up, praying that his final attack blunted the Demon’s attack enough for him to survive. For a gut-wrenching moment, I fear my friend will never stir again, but without warning, he sits up and pushes himself to his feet, where he stands over the corpse of the felled Demon in quiet celebration, clutching his battle-axe in both hands as if ready to fight again. Encouraging as his enthusiasm might be, I ask Kuang Biao to tell Dastan to come back through Sending, because after defeating Seven Defiled Champions and a Demon to boot, he’s more than earned the right to rest.

Back straight and shoulders squared, Dastan makes his way back to Sinuji at a steady pace which is neither fast nor slow, his expression a mixture of quiet pride and heroic dignity. Twenty-four years young and a Domain-capable Demon Slayer, were he not a traitor-turned-slave, the soldiers of Sinuji would be chanting his name and applauding his spectacular achievements, but instead, he makes his return to the fort in stifled silence. Disgusted by the response, I can only swallow my revulsion and stand ready to greet my heroic friend with a smile, but even this much is lost to me as Hondou Masahige screeches, “Who gave your slave permission to return?”

As Commander Watanabe’s appointed liaison and my direct superior, I can’t exactly ignore him without consequence, so I calm my anger and offer the idiot a half-hearted salute. “I did, Lieutenant Masahige.”

“On whose authority?”

“Mine.” Weathering Masahige’s glower with ease, I explain, “He fought seven duels and killed a Demon. That’s more than enough for one man, and if he stays out there, he’ll die. He’s spent, but still of use. You wouldn’t throw away a waterskin just because it’s empty, so why leave Dastan to die just because he’s exhausted?” Twisted and unsavoury to compare Dastan to an object, but sadly, that’s how the others see him.

“Hmph. He barely exerted himself, killing seven weaklings and a newborn Demon.”

Resisting the urge to order Kuang Biao to throw Masahige off the wall and put an end to his pitchy screeching, I offer him an icy smile and envision stomping his pompous, powdered face with my boot. “Yes, hardly an accomplishment worth noting. Lieutenant Masahige, why don’t you go out and show us a true Imperial Hero in action? I’m sure a man of your noble bearing could easily kill twice as many Defiled and Demons.”

Though delivered in perfect deadpan, my obvious sarcasm earns me a handful of titters from the nervous soldiers around us. Veins throbbing in anger, Masahige steps forward to rebuke me only to be shoved back by Red One, who I never remember to call by his new designation, Red Two, because it’s too confusing. “You – !?” Masahige snarls, stopping himself short, which is a shame because I could’ve probably have had his tongue removed if he actually insulted me, what with my status as an Imperial Scion and whatnot. Unfortunately, the Lieutenant is of low rank and low birth, which means he’s used to watching his temper around others. I’m not sure if Watanabe picked a lowly Lieutenant Captain for this very reason, or because he thought I’d take it as an insult, but either way, Masahige’s restraint makes him more difficult to deal with than some uppity noble brat who thinks his shit don’t stink.

“Apologies, Lieutenant Captain,” I say with a shrug. “My Death Corps guards take my safety seriously, much like I take the safety of my comrades.”

Obviously rattled by the angry glares of my devout bodyguards, Masahige straightens his armour and clears his throat before dismissing me with a wave of his hand, dropping the issue of Dastan’s return to go back to skulking on the sidelines and waiting for me to fuck up in some way, shape, or form. In his late twenties to mid thirties and still a meagre ten-man commander, he’s got ‘brown-nosed lackey’ written all over his powdered, beardless face, a lowly subordinate dreaming of making his way up the social and professional ladder, and it seems he thinks I’m his golden ticket to middle management. All he’s gotta do is please his boss and maybe, just maybe, Mitsue Watanabe will remember his name when it comes time for promotions.

I don’t really blame him, but the sad part is, if Yang Jixing’s plans work out, Watanabe and Masahige will probably both end up as scapegoats to quell the Legate’s ‘fury’. Appearances must be kept after all, for in the eyes of the public, I’m still an Imperial Scion and a member of the Imperial Clan. The good Lieutenant doesn’t seem to realize that when those in power go to war, the lackeys are often the first to die, but I can hardly find it in myself to pity him for his ignorance.

I could warn him, but what’s the point? Whether he believes me or not, I doubt it’ll make a difference in the end.

Putting politics out of mind, I turn to greet Dastan as he climbs back up the wall with a helping hand from Sahb. Looking none the worse for wear save for a smattering of Ichor burns, he accepts praise from his comrades with aloof composure. There’s something inscrutable about Dastan’s expression, a distant distraction which is not at all like the ear-to-ear grin I’d expect after a showing like today. Instead, he keeps glancing at his battle-axe as if seeing it for the first time in months, too distracted to properly celebrate his victory. “You okay?” Dastan absently nods in reply, which is how I know something is up, because he’s never this casual around me unless he’s drunk. “You hit your head? Should I send for a Healer?”

“No, boss.” Frowning at his axe, Dastan shakes his head and takes a moment to gather his thoughts. “I’m fine, just drained and bruised.” Frowning at his axe once more, he hesitates before adding, “Do you mind if I took a minute and sat down? My Chi reserves are low and I... I need to meditate.”

Ah. He must’ve had an Insight during his fights, which shouldn’t come as a surprise. “Go right ahead. No need to worry about what’s going on out here, we’ll keep you safe.” Anticipating a shrill protest, I shoot a glare at Masahige as if daring him to speak up. Wisely, the painted toady shuts his mouth, but it might just be because he thinks my slave soldiers won’t be able to hold the wall without Dastan there to support them.

Honestly, he might be right. Dastan’s former retinue and the Death Corps guards are all veteran soldiers with dozens, if not hundreds of battles behind them, but they’ve got a lot of wall to defend with only fourteen soldiers, five Death Corps Guards, and Kuang Biao. Song, Tenjin, and Tursinai are also here, as is the Abbot, but the only reason Masahige didn’t make a fuss about me bringing more than my twenty allotted soldiers is because he doesn’t know about the Abbot and is worried about crossing the daughter of a Lieutenant General. It’s kinda funny, because if he knew Song was also a slave and treated her as such, she’d have good reason to teach him a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget, and the worst that would happen is a slap on the wrist. Being a Lieutenant doesn’t afford Masahige the right to insult others without consequence, and even the Justicars can’t twist the laws in their favour with so many witnesses to testify on Song’s behalf.

It’s better this way though. While she’s come a long way since we first met, I don’t think Song is ready to go full entitled noble on anyone just yet.

Tasking Red One and Green One to guard Dastan’s seated meditation, I turn my attention to the Defiled horde lingering on the outskirts of Sinuji. With no Champion stepping forth, there will be no more duels fought today it seems, as instead they’re busy working themselves into a frenzy, shouting in their guttural language while drumming out a beat with stomping feet and clanging weapons. It’ll take a lot more Defiled deaths to dampen their enthusiasm for bloodshed, which means we’re in for a slugfest once the fighting starts.

If only I weren’t crippled and could fight effectively alongside them... I hate being powerless. I can’t even pace to work off this nervous energy; if the worst comes to pass, I’ll need the strength to beat a hasty retreat. I told Kuang Biao that if Dastan dies, I die, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stand here and try to physically hold back the tide of Defiled or die trying. It was more an affirmation of solidarity, meaning that if Kuang Biao wants to pull my ass out of the fire, he should leave enough leeway so he can get Dastan and the others out as well.

The time for ambling thoughts comes to an end as the Defiled let loose with a unified howl to sound the charge. The ground trembles beneath my feet as the horde surges across the field, leaping up to climb the wall and dive headlong into waiting Imperial blades. Organized disorder breaks out as the world devolves into a blur of blood and motion, with defenders scrambling to fight off the Defiled attackers in a neat little row atop the torch-lit battlements. Despite not taking part in the battle myself, I stand ready with my twin sharpened canes in hand and watch for an opportunity to use them. I’m not even sure if I’m strong enough to drive a cane through Defiled flesh, much less survive the attempt, but if I go down, I’ll go down fighting.

Seeing the sparse line of defenders atop our section of the wall, the horde sends wave after wave of Defiled tribesman at us in hopes of breaking through, but my soldiers do me proud and hold the line without flinching. With clanging steel, cracking bones, roars of challenge, and screams of the dying, the din of battle is deafening and disorienting, but I stand in a bubble of calm amidst the chaos and confusion, the deluge of bodies held back by a mere twenty warriors. In a way, my people have it easier than the soldiers to either side of us, because at least they have enough room to swing their weapons without injuring their allies beside them.

Standing at the centre, the deceptively unremarkable Sahb holds the line with axe and shield working in concert to spill blood and reap lives. Beside him, his fellow comrades from Sanshu join him in holding back the Defiled horde, scrambling to beat them back before they can gain a foothold on the battlements. Camsul cleaves through Defiled flesh with his steel sabre, while Balta guards his left using yet another Runic Shield crafted by Taduk. Tarsov uses his spear as a club to beat the Defiled back, while Saida, the sole surviving woman from Dastan’s retinue, cackles in maddened delight as she claims a life with every thrust of her twin swords. These good soldiers and their comrades fought with me on the front lines to claim our unbroken record, and when I couldn’t fight anymore, they asked to join BoShui’s retinue so they could continue the good fight in my stead. These fourteen warriors are all that remains of Dastan’s hundred man retinue, yet the Empire cares not for their accomplishments and has sentenced them all to death, but still they fight with all they have.

Because regardless if the Empire admits it or not, these warriors standing before me are heroes, one and all.

Height is our only advantage, and these heroes use it well, striking at hands and heads as they appear above the parapets and sending their foes crashing back into the crowd. With fifty men and women like them, we could hold this thirty metre stretch of wall for hours without end, but a mere twenty leaves us overstretched and over-committed, with no relief force to step in when the front line grows tired. In truth, it might not even come to that as it already looks like my soldiers will soon be overwhelmed by the endless swarm of frenzied Defiled.

Then Kuang Biao takes action, and the odds shift heavily in our favour.

The Royal Guardian turned Death Corps Guard can only be described as poetry in motion as he dances across the battlements, his sword gleaming in the torchlight every time it darts out to claim Defiled lives faster than I can follow. Gliding left and right with effortless grace, he lends aid wherever it’s needed and almost single-handedly keeps the Defiled from claiming a foothold on the wall. Song and the other Death Corps do the same and lend their efforts to the battle, but none are even half as effective as Kuang Biao who hardly even looks like he’s trying, his passionless expression teetering on the edge of boredom and indifference.

If someone were to only look at his face, they might think Kuang Biao was sitting down to do his taxes rather than fighting for his life and the lives of the people around him, yet there are none so deadly as this former Royal Guardian.

Despite having little to do besides stand and watch, my shirt is soon soaked in cold sweat which leaves me shivering from the night’s chill. Clad in leather armour and a thick, fur coat, I still feel exposed standing atop the battlements with only Red One, Green One, and a meditating Dastan to guard me, but it’s not death I fear, only helplessness. The last time I was here, I stood on these same fields and stared death in the eye, but that was nothing compared to this feeling right now, this inability to affect the outcome while my soldiers fight for their lives around me. I would rather face Zhen Shi himself with sword and shield in hand than stand here on the battlements and do nothing, because at least then I could actually do something. Even if he’s an eight-hundred year old psychotic murderer, I could at least take a swing at him and hope for the best, but here, in this battle, I’m less than worthless.

Gotta say, I’m not loving this. I need to figure out how to Cleanse my collected Spectres and use the resulting Heavenly Energy to fix my shattered Core, but I have no idea where to even begin. With Spectres and my gourds of Water Chi, I believe I have all the tools at my fingertips, but it’s the how that’s beyond me. Accomplishing things inside my Natal Palace was as easy as imagining it, but things aren’t so easy out in the real world. How do I affect things inside my shattered Core if I can’t even get in? Heaven knows I’ve tried. What am I supposed to do? Science it out? I’ve tried, and the only hypothesis I’ve proven is I. Don’t. Know. Science!

Maybe it’s time I gave religion a real shot...

Time passes and the battle drags on. After an hour of quiet meditation, Dastan joins the battle with Red One and Green One at his sides, and their combined presence bolsters the spirits of my stalwart soldiers for a little while longer, but spirit and determination can only go so far. Another hour passes, then two, but despite suffering significant casualties at the hands of the defenders and Alsantset’s mounted harassment out on the plains, the Defiled continue assaulting our position with indefatigable fury, setting foot on the battlements multiple times despite my people’s best efforts. With no other choice left to me, I arrange them to take short breaks in small shifts starting with Sahb, Camsul, Red Two, and Green Two, offering them food, water, and first aid while they rest their weary limbs. Four people doesn’t seem like much, but it’s one-sixth of our total forces, and the pressure redoubles on those left to defend. Ten minutes is hardly enough time to rest, but Sahb and the others head back into the fray to give Song and three others time to quench their thirst and patch their wounds.

Draining a waterskin dry, Song gasps for air and wipes her face without taking her eyes off the battle, wholly focused despite being thoroughly exhausted from the constant fighting. Offering her another waterskin, I smile and quip, “Bet you wish you stayed in camp with the others now, don’t you?” The smile dies on my lips as I note a gash on her bicep, hidden by layers of caked blood and viscera. Clean cloths, that’s what I need, something to wipe away the gore, dirt, and sweat, but I make do with a little water and the hem of my cloak. Hissing at the sight of the deep wound, I fumble for the needle and thread I should’ve already had waiting. Working on instinct, I set to stitching her wound as quick as I can, though my needlework leaves much to be desired if Song’s pained grimace is anything to go by. “Not an order or anything, but it’d be helpful if you spent a little effort on learning to Heal. I know you’ve got this fancy Runic Armour to keep you safe, but it offers no protection to your head or limbs.”

“Uhn.” Responding with a non-committal grunt, Song stoically accepts my advice and ministrations with little change in expression, though she might just be too tired to process it, so I leave off the commentary and finish patching her up before moving on to check the others and ultimately sending them back out to fight so a new batch can come back and rest. The cycle continues until everyone’s had a chance to rest, but there isn’t too much work for me to do. Having been with me for so long, most of Dastan’s retinue are good enough to use Panacea during battle, but I never shared the trick with my Death Corps guards. Still, their blackened steel armour has kept them more or less intact aside from an assortment of minor and not-so-minor scrapes and bruises, though I suspect the Abbot’s been Healing injuries wherever he can while hiding somewhere nearby.

I appreciate the effort, but I can’t help but wonder how he rationalizes it with his beliefs. Even though he’s against violence, he’s Healing soldiers while they commit acts of violence, albeit in self-defence, which in a way makes him at least partially responsible for the violence they inflict. A conundrum to be sure, but if he hasn’t noticed it, I’m not gonna bring it up.

Our good fortune soon runs out as Tarsov slips on a severed limb and takes a glancing blow to the skull, which renders him senseless as he crashes to the ground. With a scream of incoherent rage, Saida dispatches the offending Defiled with a boot to the face and stabs two others in quick succession, standing over the body of her fallen comrade and fighting off all comers to protect what might well be a corpse lying at her feet. Leaping into action, I charge forward cane first and stab at a Defiled face peeking over the battlements, but my feeble attack glances off the man’s bone-helmet and barely makes him flinch. Devilish grin widening as he pulls himself up, the Defiled tribesman rips the cane out of my hands and raises his axe to deliver the killing blow.

Saida’s sword materializes in his neck and his corpse drops lifelessly from the battlements, taking the thrown weapon with him. Left with only a single blade to cover too much area, she quickly falls into a dis-favourable situation and screams, “Get him out of here!” Reacting without thinking, I dive down to cradle Tarsov’s head while dragging him away to safety on my hands and knees, only making it a few centimetres before realizing that not only is he too heavy, but Saida might’ve been talking about me instead. In for a penny, in for a pound, so I continue dragging Tarsov with me despite seeing the white of his skull through the gaping head wound and not knowing if he’s dead or alive. Either way, the only way he survives is with a Healer’s attention, and leaving him at Saida’s feet might get both of them killed instead.

Hell, for all I know, Saida’s already dead and there’s a Defiled weapon hurtling down towards the back of my head.

Don’t look back. It’ll only slow you down. Eking out every ounce of strength I have from my gaunt, frail body, I drag him away from the parapets with no regards for my pain or exhaustion and continue even though it feels like my arm will tear off, but no matter how hard I try, my progress remains painfully slow. The others are too busy fighting to lend a hand, but it’s better this way. Division of labour and whatnot. I do what I can, leaving them to concentrate on what matters the most, keeping the Defiled off the wall and out of the fort. Not even halfway back, my lungs and muscles are already burning with effort, but I refuse to give up, dragging the comatose warrior back to safety mere inches at a time. Inwardly cursing with every movement, I thank the Mother it’s Tarsov here instead of the gargantuan Balta, or worse, one of the Death Corps in their heavy ass plate armour.

Still... How fucking wide is this fucking wall? I’ve been dragging this bastard forever now, and I still haven’t reached the end...

Strong hands lift me from the ground and pull me away to safety, only a pitiful few steps away but far enough that I would’ve collapsed before getting there on my own. Blinking in surprise as I look up at my benefactor, I see Masahige’s powdered face twisted in a grimace. “See to your man,” he screeches, pointing at Tarsov laying prone in the arms of another soldier, “And call the rest of your people back. You and yours have monopolized enough glory for yourself.” Turning away, he draws his sword and raises it high to address his soldiers, yelling, “Warriors of the Empire! Will you stand idle while slaves and traitors fight the Empire’s battle? Forwards to battle! To glory!”

Though Masahige remains rooted in place, his soldiers rush in to fill the gaps with a cheer while my people slink back, each and every one of them exhausted from their efforts as they slump down around me, and it is with a heavy heart I notice Saida being carried back by Kuang Biao. Unfortunately, I can only work on one person at a time and Tarsov is closer, which means Saida’s fate is in the hands of the Abbot and the Mother above for now. While my hands set to work tending Tarsov’s wounds, I can’t help but wonder why the Lieutenant stepped in now when my people were ready to crumble. I mean, I know Jixing doesn’t want Dastan and the others to die so quickly, since it’d mean I’d no longer have reason to be out here, but if Masahige had waited a little while longer, the Defiled might’ve killed a few of my people and broken through while I lay helpless on the floor, which was a reasonable enough death which I think they could’ve accepted.

Noticing my inquisitive sideways glances, Masahige sniffs and says, “Traitors and slaves they might be, but like you said earlier, it would be foolish to dispose of them so soon when they can still be of use in future battles.” Pursing his lips in conflicted indecision, he reluctantly adds, “If the Commander does not remove me from this assignment, then we will speak regarding future arrangements. The battlements will be better defended if your people are supported by my troops.”

...Did my struggle to save Tarsov win him over?

...

Probably not. If anything, I bet it was Dastan’s phenomenal display of Martial Strength. Let’s be honest here, even at my best, Dastan looked more like an Imperial Hero than I ever did, and that’s a fact.

If only my facial hair wasn’t so thin and patchy... I’d look pretty awesome with a beard...

Chapter Meme