MEANWHILE, IN THE FAR FUTURE...

Yamamoto Genryusai stood at the edge of the smoking crater. His crimson cloak, half-torn by claws and shrapnel, billowed around his towering frame. He was ten thousand years old, yet his posture showed no weariness. The entire planet lay scorched behind him, its civilization reduced to ash and glowing rubble. He let out a slow breath, his molten eyes sweeping the charred remains. Flickers of fire still danced upon his warplate, reflecting the brilliant hue of destruction that had once been a sprawling xenos hive.

He had just conquered them, these pitiful creatures. They had dared to resist. Their planetary defenses had been impressive, at least for a fleeting moment. Now, nothing remained. Their final fortress melted under the onslaught of his flames hours ago. The planet's name did not matter. All that mattered was that it lay conquered in the name of the Imperium and in the name of the Devourers Legion, which Yamamoto commanded.

Yamamoto lifted one gauntleted hand, letting embers swirl around his fingertips. The faint remnants of his power still crackled in the air. The ground beneath him hissed, molten rock bubbling like tar. He was used to this. He was the Lord Commander of the Devourers, the mightiest of Ryomen Sukuna's Astartes. His pyrokinetic fury, his command over flame, had grown monstrous over millennia of warfare. Even so, he rarely let it loose to its full extent. Today had been an exception.

He stepped forward, ignoring the liquid rock clinging to his sabaton. A few paces behind him, Devourers in black and red armor formed a semicircle. Their weapons were lowered, their stances wary, as if expecting more xenos to burst out from the rubble. The acrid stench of burned flesh and scorched metal hung in the air. No xenos remained, not a single living soul. They had been reduced to cinders.

Yamamoto's vox-bead crackled. A Devourer captain, breath hitching with nerves, spoke quickly.

"Lord Commander, a missive has arrived. It bears the highest priority. A code from Shibuya. Will you receive it?" The captain paused, voice trembling just slightly. "The courier says it's urgent."

Yamamoto's eyes narrowed. The swirling flames around him subsided a fraction, the ground cooling from white-hot to a dull red. He tapped a rune on his vambrace. "Patch it through."

Static buzzed. Then, a crisp voice emerged. "Lord Commander, we have a situation. A squad of ours, an Expeditionary Squad, led by Captain Jimu, sent to aid the Space Wolves on a pacification campaign, was found slain. Their remains show signs of Cursed Energy residue, the same signature we've traced before."

Yamamoto's posture stiffened. His fingers twitched at his sides. "Gojo Satoru?"

A pause crackled in the vox. "Yes, my lord. All signs point to the white-haired Curse User. The entire squad is gone."

Yamamoto's teeth ground. The ambient temperature spiked again. Nearby Devourers shifted, trying to give their commander some space. Even with their superior warplate, the heat was unbearable.

"Where?" Yamamoto asked, voice clipped.

The courier's tone grew more strained, as if reading from a dread script. "On Valdaris. A minor planet. They were sent to aid the Vlka Fenryka's campaign to purge the Orks. We suspect Gojo Satoru triggered a daemonic incursion, then fled. He apparently tore open the veil long enough to spew forth a massive host of daemons, enough to ravage much of the world, including the local PDF. Reports are mixed, but we do know that a great number of the Wolves were killed. And the Expeditionary Squad was wiped out."

Yamamoto hissed, the sound like steam forced through a furnace. "All of them?"

"All of them, my lord. No survivors."

He let out a snarl, the pitch low and feral.

"Gojo Satoru…" The name dripped contempt. Yamamoto had heard it whispered for months now. A white-haired Curse User, rumored to be from ancient Terra's hidden enclaves of sorcery, or perhaps from a timeline that had bled into this one. Nobody knew. They only had scraps of intelligence, fleeting sightings. He had braced for a nuisance. He had not expected a full-blown monster who toyed with entire worlds.

The courier continued. "The Adeptus Mechanicus also reported that he singlehandedly repelled one of their invasions on an Aeldari Craftworld. Though, I suspect this news does not interest you, Lord Commander."

Yamamoto's scowl deepened. Heat rippled outward from him, dancing off his armor in visible waves. "An entire squad, you say"

"Yes, my lord," the courier said, voice hushed. "We found traces of an immense technique, something that parted reality, forming that single Warp gate. He left after that, but not before slaughtering our brothers. However, with their bodies so utterly destroyed, it is difficult to discern anything more - for now."

Yamamoto said nothing for a moment. The flames around him built, swirling in a localized vortex. A nearby Devourer lifted a hand to shield his visor from the intensifying brightness. Another took a cautious step back, armor plates hissing. The Lord Commander inhaled slowly, trying to quell the inferno within.

"Very well," he said, voice steady but cold. "I will address this matter. Keep me informed if there are further sightings."

The courier bowed out. The transmission ended with a static hiss. Yamamoto let his arm drop. He turned his gaze toward the devastated horizon, scanning the orange-stained sky and the drifting ashes.

"So," he said quietly, "the white-haired Curse User is more than a nuisance."

He pivoted on his heel, striding back toward the cluster of Devourers. They parted to let him through. Their body language spoke of tense respect. Flames still danced around him, though he tried to subdue them.

"Prepare for departure," Yamamoto commanded, his voice loud enough to echo off the scorched rubble. "We are done here. The xenos are ashes."

A few Devourers nodded, quickly relaying orders to gunship crews and logistics squads. The Lord Commander moved with purposeful steps, each footfall scorching the ground anew. He cared nothing for this planet now. Its civilization lay in tatters. His duty was finished. Another crisis beckoned - one bearing the face of a dangerous foe.

As he reached the boarding ramp of his personal gunship, a senior captain approached. The captain's stance was stiff. "Lord Commander, shall we do a final sweep to ensure no survivors remain?"

Yamamoto shook his head.

"No. There's nothing left worth conquering. Begin evacuation in fifteen minutes. I want the entire legion off this rock." Then he halted, considering. "Send an astropathic note to the Mechanicus if they want salvage. Otherwise, let this planet vanish from memory."

The Cursed Network would've been far quicker and more reliable, but none beyond Shibuya and the Devourers even knew - or could be allowed to know - of its existence.

The captain bowed. "As you command."

Yamamoto ascended the gunship's ramp. Inside, the cabin glowed dimly under red lumens. The console hissed with static as pilots readied for lift-off. He folded his arms across his broad chest, his mind churning with new purpose. The threat of Gojo Satoru overshadowed the victory here. Ten thousand years had passed since the Great Crusade, but even now, new foes emerged from unknown corners of the galaxy. The Devourers would not be idle.

He recalled fleeting reports from the Vlka Fenryka, referencing sightings of a white-haired sorcerer who wielded energies reminiscent of "Cursed Energy." The Space Wolves had fought him on two separate occasions, each time forced to retreat or losing men to bizarre, intangible attacks. The Wolf Priests suspected warp spawn, but more cunning, more refined than daemons. They had tried to warn others. Few listened. Now, Yamamoto had no choice but to heed the warning. Satoru had killed his men. That alone demanded swift retribution.

Not because death was a tragedy or anything remotely close to sentiment - as their father, Ryomen Sukuna, always saw fit to remind them that death was something that came for everyone, no matter what - but because this was a stain on the reputation of the legion, one that needed to be removed.

Settling into the command seat, Yamamoto removed his helm, placing it on a stand. His features, ancient and stern, were lined with faint cracks from centuries of heat exposure. White stubble ringed his jaw. His gaze flicked across the runes on the interior hull. It bore the insignia of the Devourers: a stylized maw, reminiscent of their Primarch's own brand. He let out a breath, focusing on the tasks ahead.

"Engage engines," he said to the pilot. "Set course for Shibuya. We have business to attend to."

The warp voyage was relatively short. Shibuya lay on a well-charted route, and the Gellar fields of the Devourers' fleet were strong. Within days, they emerged from the warp near the planet's orbit. The world below glowed with city-lights, forging yards, and bastion spires. Hundreds of factory-complexes churned out weapons and war machines. At its poles, grand fortresses loomed, bristling with orbital cannons. Even from orbit, one could see the faint glimmer of countless ships on the planet's surface, carrying supplies and recruits.

Yamamoto's flagship, the Hellfire's Maw, touched down at a designated starport. Gunships disembarked, their engines screaming as they set down on massive landing pads. Servitors and Tech-Priests rushed forward to begin rites of maintenance and refueling. The Lord Commander strode out of the hold, the heat of his aura prompting curious glances from surrounding personnel. They had grown used to his presence, but rarely did he return so quickly from a campaign.

A grizzled Devourer officer greeted him at the base of the ramp, bowing stiffly. "My lord. We have intel regarding Gojo Satoru's last known location. The squad on Valdaris managed to transmit partial data before they died."

Yamamoto nodded curtly. "Show me."

The officer led him through a labyrinth of corridors, each one echoing with the clang of machinery and the hum of servo-lights. They reached a tactical briefing chamber deep within Shibuya's central fortress. The chamber's walls were lined with holo-screens. At the center, a large round table projected a swirling star map. The officer tapped a sequence of runes, and an image of Solkvir Beta flickered into view.

"There." The officer indicated a region marked in red. "One of the planet's lesser continents. The warp signature spiked, then vanished. The energy signature is distinctly of the Eldar; we believe he may be working with them - or they with him."

Yamamoto's jaw clenched. "And the Fenrisians?"

"They continued their campaign once they sealed the portal, though the Orks were similarly ravaged by the Daemonic Incursion. No sign of Satoru. We suspect he may have teleported or used some sort of dimensional shift with the aid of the Eldar. He left minimal trace. Our tech-adepts found only the faint residue of cursed energies."

Yamamoto stood, arms folded. Flames flickered along his gauntlets. "No sightings since, correct?"

"None, my lord."

Yamamoto's gaze lingered on the star map. The projection zoomed out, revealing countless star systems, each one teeming with potential battlefields.

"He's unpredictable," Yamamoto said softly, "and deadly."

"Yes, my lord."

"Then we strike with unpredictability as well. Summon the Reapers."

"Which of them, my lord?"

"All of them."

The officer bowed. "As you command."

The Reapers were the Devourers' deadliest killers, an elite cadre handpicked from the legion's ranks by Yamamoto himself. They specialized only in one thing: killing. Yamamoto was the first of them, even becoming their first commander. And now, ten thousand years later, he was still their commander.

Yamamoto waited in a vast training hall, its walls scorched from repeated combat exercises. Dozens of servo-skulls hovered overhead, capturing data. Stationary targets littered the floor, many of them sliced or burned into ruin. A few sparring servitors lay motionless, their limbs severed. The Reapers had been here, practicing.

He sensed them before he saw them. They moved in silence, melding with the shadows. One by one, six figures emerged from behind battered columns and half-toppled walls. Each wore dark, heavily modified power armor, etched with runes of the Devourers. Their helmets bore skull-like visors, tinted black, reflecting no light.

Yamamoto's eyes flicked from one Reaper to the next. He saw a tall figure carrying paired swords, their edges glimmering faintly with cursed runes. Another held a halberd crackling with contained energy. Each Reaper's stance spoke of lethal confidence, a quiet readiness to kill.

"You called, Lord Commander," the lead Reaper said, his voice rasping through the vox-speaker. He bowed low, a gesture of deep respect. The others followed suit.

"Yes," Yamamoto answered, his tone curt. "Gojo Satoru. I want him ended."

The Reaper nodded. "We have awaited such an order. But, we have limited intel on him, mostly secondhand from the Space Wolves and the Mechanicus. We believe his Innate Technique is some form of space-time manipulation, but then what else could it be?"

Yamamoto's fingers tightened into fists, faint flames dancing around his knuckles. "He is strong."

"Yes, my lord. Some sources claim he can deflect almost any attack, as though an invisible field protects him from harm. Others speak of illusions or mind tricks, though the data is incomplete."

A second Reaper spoke, voice hushed. "That he is aided and accompanied by the Eldar complicates matters; through them, we believe he has access to the Webway."

Yamamoto let out a low growl. "No matter his trick, you will corner him. You will force him to face me, or kill him yourselves. I don't care which. Just ensure he cannot escape unscathed."

The Reapers bowed. "Understood, Lord Commander."

Yamamoto nodded. "Prepare at once. I will lead the next campaign personally, but I rely on you to track him. My flames will be waiting." His gaze shifted, scanning them. "He hunts on worlds ripe for chaos. He intervenes in wars that catch his eye. Find the conflict that would interest him next."

The lead Reaper dipped his helmet. "We have a lead, my lord. Intelligence suggests the White Scars have begun a campaign against Ork freebooters near the Zelakar Belt. Their might interest Satoru, given the rumors that the White Scars, too, have dabbled in Jujutsu under the guidance of Sukuna ages past. Satoru seems to have an affinity for crossing paths with Jujutsu wielders or significant warp phenomena."

"Then start there," Yamamoto said. With the size of the galaxy, however, the probability of Satoru actually being there was close to nothing, but definitely higher than everything else. "If he does not appear, we will shift to the next hot zone. Keep searching, no matter how long it takes."

They bowed again. Then, like specters, they vanished into the training hall's gloom. Yamamoto stood alone, the dying embers of his power flickering across the cracked floor. He stared at the hologram of Gojo Satoru, etched in azure lines on the stone.

"You should not have drawn our ire," he said softly, voice tinged with anger. "Now you die."

Hours later, Yamamoto commanded from the bridge. Holo-screens displayed star charts, conflict zones, supply lines. Fleet movements were rapid. Entire strike groups of Devourers mobilized, along with Black Wing squadrons and contingents of shackled Men of Iron. Tech-Priests oversaw the last checks for warp translation. The warp engines hummed, resonating through the hull.

Yamamoto stood at the command dais, arms folded behind his back. He gazed into the swirling pattern of warp-route predictions.

"Zelakar Belt," he said to no one in particular. "It has been quite a while since we last collaborated with the White Scars."

His sub-commanders nodded. A stooped Devourer half-cybernetic stepped forward. "The Reapers stand ready, Lord Commander. The fleet can jump on your command."

"Begin," Yamamoto ordered.

Alarms sounded, lights dimmed. The Gellar field generators rumbled. One by one, the starships in the Devourers fleet formed up, their engines flaring as they slipped into the swirling madness of the warp. A dozen cruisers, half a dozen battle barges, an array of escorts and gunships vanished in coruscating light. The entire war host, aimed at one goal: to find the cursed white-haired sorcerer and end him.

The warp spat the Devourers out near a cluster of shattered planetoids, each fragment of rock caught in a slow, silent dance around a dim, aging star. Asteroid fields filled the void, jagged debris spinning and colliding in a grim ballet. In the flagship's command center, Yamamoto Genryusai stood with arms folded, his gaze fixed on the flickering hololith. The entire system looked like a graveyard of worlds, battered and left adrift.

Vox traffic flooded in, garbled with bursts of static. The White Scars had begun their assault on a roving Ork fleet across multiple planetoids. The sensor chief, a stoic Devourer whose hooded cowl obscured much of his helm, manned a bank of blinking instruments. Each beep and click drew a frown or a huff from the rest of the bridge crew, who waited for clear signs of any unusual warp phenomena.

Yamamoto frowned, letting his eyes roam over the data screens. Orks were brutal, sure, but predictable. Satoru was anything but.

He turned to the sensor chief, his voice low. "Any sign of Satoru?"

The chief consulted a glowing dataslate, lines of runic script scrolling rapidly across its surface.

"None, my lord," he said evenly. "Only Ork warbands and White Scars strike forces on the outer planetoids. We see fleeting warp distortions, but likely from Ork shokk weaponry."

Yamamoto's lips thinned. "So be it."

He tapped a rune on the holo-map. Planetoids labeled with Ork glyphs blinked red. White Scars battle barges registered as pale icons circling the smaller rocks.

"We join the fray," Yamamoto said, loud enough for the entire bridge to hear. "Deploy ground troops. Alert the White Scars of the possible threat. If he's here, we'll lure him out by taking his vantage."

He paused, letting a note of frustration seep into his tone. "If not, we move on."

Landing craft poured from the Devourers capital ships, streaking toward the scattered planetoids. Each vessel was a slab of grim, functional design, painted dark as night. They braved drifting asteroids and enemy fire. The Orks had begun lobbing crude rockets into space, hoping to knock out an unsuspecting gunship. But the Devourers flew with lethal precision, weaving between hazards like predators in a cosmic jungle.

Yamamoto himself boarded his personal gunship once more, ignoring the flicker of disappointment that Satoru might not appear here. Satoru had proven elusive, dancing just out of reach, always leaving behind scraps of cursed energy and rumors. The Lord Commander's frustration flared, a smoldering heat that coursed just beneath his skin.

He strapped in, refusing to let anger distract him.

"Launch," he commanded. The pilot obeyed, engines roaring, carrying them down toward a planetoid shrouded in swirling dust.

The planetoid was a bleak stretch of rock, scarred by centuries of Ork occupation. Explosions echoed in the distance, columns of acrid smoke rising from scrap-fortresses hammered by White Scars artillery. Ork war cries mingled with the roar of bike engines. The White Scars were known for their swift, hit-and-run strikes, and this place showcased that talent to the fullest.

Yamamoto stomped out of the gunship's hold, dust swirling around his colossal boots. His black cloak, lined with faint runes of the Devourers, whipped in the harsh wind. Behind him, Devourers in black armor and crimson trim advanced in disciplined ranks. Their bolters gleamed under the hazy sunlight, muzzle flashes reflecting off the rocky terrain.

An Ork warchief, towering and brutish, spotted Yamamoto from afar and bellowed a savage threat. The creature thundered forward, an energy klaw crackling around its massive fist. Yamamoto barely gave it a glance. He lifted one hand, letting molten flames surge across his palm. The Ork melted in an instant, consumed by white-hot fire so intense it reduced the beast to drifting ash. Surrounding Orks faltered, howling at the sight, just before Devourers opened fire, bolter rounds tearing into thick green hides.

Simplicity, Yamamoto thought. Just savage warfare. Not the cunning illusions or cosmic trickery he expected from a curse user like Satoru. Still, if the white-haired sorcerer was watching, perhaps he'd be drawn out by the Devourers' presence.

Overhead, White Scars thundered by on bikes, leaving trails of dust. They carved through Ork mobs, slicing limbs and leaving scattered bodies in their wake. The Devourers advanced steadily, eliminating any xenos that dared stand and fight. Soon, Yamamoto reached a rusted scrap-tower at the center of the Ork encampment. Twisted metal beams jutted from the ground like iron bones.

He raised both hands, letting waves of scorching heat crackle along his gauntlets. A torrent of flame erupted, slagging the tower's base. Metal shrieked, twisting under the onslaught, until the entire structure collapsed in a cascade of molten debris. Orks scrambled, shrieking as they fell amid the rain of sparks.

A roar of bike engines approached. White Scars soared over a shattered ridge, skidding to a halt near the collapsed tower. Their leader removed his helmet with a smooth motion, revealing a weathered face crowned by close-cropped black hair. He approached Yamamoto carefully, shoulders squared in respect.
"Lord Commander Yamamoto," he said. His voice echoed through the vox. "The White Scars welcome your presence. We did not expect the Devourers to join this fight."

Yamamoto's expression remained stony. "I do not come for the Orks. I come seeking a curse user."

The White Scars' Great Khan - Jubal Khan - frowned. He eyed the scorched wreckage around them. "We have no sign of such. But if you seek a white-haired foe, we have heard tales. Some Astartes from Fenris mentioned him as well. The Vlka Fenryka hunt the same as you."

Yamamoto's eyes narrowed. Flames rippled faintly around his boots, causing the dust to spark. "Then you confirm no presence here?"

Jubal shook his head. "None. Our scans show only Orks. We would have noticed a Jujutsu Sorcerer of that magnitude."

Frustration seethed in Yamamoto's glare. Heat pressed outward, swirling around him. Jubal flinched, raising an arm as the temperature soared.

"I see," Yamamoto growled. "Then this is a waste."

Jubal remained silent a moment, letting the tension stand. At last, he offered a subdued comment. "We will continue to watch for him, if it helps."

Yamamoto hesitated briefly, then jerked his head in a curt nod.

"Do so," he said. "We will complete the Ork purge with you, then withdraw. The next lead awaits."

With that, he stalked away, leaving Jubal to watch the flicker of flames around Yamamoto's retreating form. The Devourers resumed their campaign, blasting Ork bunkers and incinerating any meager resistance. Within hours, the planetoid lay subdued, and the White Scars were free to chase what remained of the fleeing xenos. Yamamoto wasted no time. He recalled his forces, uninterested in the spoils of this hollow victory. They had bigger prey to chase.

Days blended into weeks. The Devourers roamed warzones across multiple systems, sometimes alone, sometimes brushing shoulders with other loyalist legions. The Reapers, masters of infiltration and stealth, led the efforts to probe any rumor that mentioned a "white-haired psyker" or "sorcerer with a blindfold." They scoured outposts, rummaged through half-destroyed archives, interrogated prisoners. But each clue ended in nothing.

A pilgrim claimed to have spotted Satoru near a shrine world under siege, but by the time Devourers arrived, the planet was silent. Another rumor placed him in a rebellious governor's palace, repelling an Imperial crackdown with ease. The Devourers arrived days later, finding only scorched halls and frightened survivors who could barely describe the confrontation. It was always too late. A hair's breadth out of reach.

Yamamoto's fury built like an inferno. The heat around him became almost constant, forcing subordinates to keep a careful distance. The Reapers, cunning as they were, found only scraps. Some described illusions so lifelike that entire squads walked into traps, only to find themselves ridiculed by echoing laughter. Others insisted that Satoru could open miniature warp rifts at will, flitting through them to vanish from the battlefield.

At last, a new rumor emerged from an unexpected source: Shibuya itself. The fortress-world was the Devourers' sanctum, bristling with factories and forges. A courier brought coded dispatches, the words stark in their simplicity: White-haired sorcerer spotted walking openly in Shibuya's secondary hives, sometimes hooded, never staying long. The missive carried the highest priority, as it came from Shibuya's spymasters who rarely made mistakes.

Yamamoto sat in his private quarters aboard the Hellfire's Maw when he read those lines. Tension bled from his face, replaced by a simmering heat that pulsed in the air. Rage. The walls trembled. Hololith projectors flickered, threatened by the surging energy he emanated. The entire room took on a haze, as though it were midday in a scorching desert.

He read the message twice more, disbelief turning to anger.

"He dares to walk on Shibuya?" he breathed. "In our stronghold? Right under our nose?"

Fire crackled at his fingertips, the metal of his desk warping from the sudden spike in temperature. This was unthinkable. Satoru had evaded them across half the galaxy, only to slip casually onto Shibuya.

He nearly burned down his own chambers in anger. The floor melted in spots. Alarms beeped, detecting the temperature's rise. Servitor orbs drifted inside, scanning for damage. Yamamoto had to calm himself with a conscious effort, letting his breath slow. The heat receded a fraction, but the air still shimmered around him like a desert mirage.

He stood abruptly, cloak swirling around his formidable physique.

"So you choose to step into our realm," he muttered, each word a subdued threat. "Fine. Then you will not leave it. Not this time."

He paused, glancing at the blazing spot where the metal desk had fused to the deck plating. He muttered a curse and marched out, ignoring the way subordinates in the corridor hastily backed away.

Within minutes, he convened a war council in the ship's strategium. The Reapers gathered around the central holo-table, their expressions grave. One of them tapped a control rune, displaying Shibuya's planetary map with key hives, fortresses, and spire-cities. Another zoomed in on the location of reported sightings.

A Reaper, voice tight, declared, "We have multiple confirmations of Satoru. Some watchers reported him wandering the lower levels, apparently unopposed, speaking with locals."

Another Reaper added, "He never stays. Each sighting lasts minutes or an hour at most. Then he disappears. Some suspect he wields illusions or teleports. He could be anywhere."

Yamamoto drummed gauntleted fingers against the table.

"That fool. Thinking he can walk among our stronghold unnoticed." The corners of his mouth twitched, heat rising again. "We'll show him the might of the Devourers on our own soil."

He glanced at each Reaper, his gaze fierce. "Prepare a full lockdown of the entire planet. No one leaves without thorough inspection. Deploy infiltration squads to every district. If Satoru is among the populace, we'll corner him. We'll flush him out."

The Reapers bowed. A third Reaper said, "It's possible he's using advanced illusions. We might need the highest-tier wards or jujutsu-binding runes to corner him. We must also be cautious about panicking the citizens."

Yamamoto's mouth pressed into a thin line. Civilians were a trivial concern to him, but he disliked wanton slaughter. He hated wasted lives, especially among the inhabitants of Shibuya who served the legion's needs. "Do what you must, but minimize casualties. I won't have chaos in our own homeworld. Understood?"

They nodded. "Yes, Lord Commander."


AN: Chapter 52 is out on (Pat)reon!