The Mark of Khaine on Satoru's right hand flared, its brightness swelling with every passing moment. It burned like molten fire, searing ash and embers etched into his skin, though the pain was dull, distant. He stared at it, tilting his head slightly as the glow intensified. There was something in the way it pulsed, rhythmic, insistent, like a second heartbeat. It wasn't just the light – it was something deeper. A pressure building in his mind, subtle at first, like a whisper he couldn't quite hear.
Then it clicked.
Satoru's grin faltered. His eyes narrowed, and his head cocked to the side, like a dog hearing a sound out of place. He felt it now. A presence. Not foreign enough to feel like an intruder, but not his own, either. It slithered beneath the surface of his thoughts, buried deep in his subconscious, subtle but undeniable. It had been there for a while, molding him in tiny, imperceptible ways. Not direct commands – nothing so obvious. No, this was different. It worked through feelings, impulses. Little nudges in the right – or wrong – direction.
It hadn't stood out before. But now, amidst the chaos, the carnage, and the rising tide of violence, its influence grew louder, more insistent. And because it grew stronger, Satoru noticed it.
He blinked, his grin gone now, replaced by a faint scowl. So, that's what's been going on.
"Oh," he muttered, turning his gaze back to the burning mark on his hand. "You sneaky bastard."
The realization hit him like a spark snapping against his brain. The emotions – the bloodlust, the apathy, the overwhelming pull to escalate everything to its most violent extremes – weren't his. Not entirely. He was no stranger to destruction, sure, but this? This senseless carnage for the sake of carnage? This willingness to toss an entire planet to Tzeentch like a toy just to save himself the hassle? That wasn't him. At least, not the him he used to be.
The Mark of Khaine pulsed again, brighter this time, as if mocking him. It didn't speak, didn't need to. The meaning was clear enough. Khaine was a god of murder, of slaughter, of senseless death for its own sake. The mark wasn't some harmless trinket. It was an anchor, a piece of that god lodged in his very being, twisting his thoughts to suit its purpose. Subtle, insidious. Satoru might have even admired it if it wasn't currently pissing him off.
He flexed his fingers, watching the light ripple across his skin. The pressure in his mind ebbed slightly, but it didn't leave. It wouldn't. Not as long as the mark stayed.
"Guess that explains a lot," he muttered, his tone flat. His gaze shifted to the battlefield below. Smoke billowed in dark columns, blending with the unnatural glow of Tzeentch's portal. The ground churned with blood and mud, the bodies of Orks, Guardsmen, and Space Marines tangled together in piles. Above it all, daemons surged and cackled, their grotesque forms twisting as they tore into anything that moved.
He frowned. It wasn't guilt he felt – he wasn't wired for that anymore, not really. But there was a nagging sense that, without the mark's influence, he might have done things differently. Not much differently, sure. He still didn't care about strangers or nameless faces, and he sure as hell wasn't about to lose sleep over some Space Marines or Orks. But this? Consigning an entire planet to a Cursed God just to wrap things up quickly? Yeah, even he could admit that was a bit much.
The mark pulsed again, sharp this time, like a knife grazing his thoughts. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, shaking his head.
"Alright, alright. I get it. You want me to keep the murder train rolling." He flexed his fingers again, his gaze narrowing. He was still going to absorb Khaine's other shards, but he was gonna have to make a better effort towards stopping the leakage of emotions. "Too bad. I think we're done here."
His eyes drifted back to the portal. It towered over the battlefield, a gaping wound in reality spewing wave after wave of daemons into the material world. Pink horrors, blue horrors, towering Lords of Change – all of them spilled forth, filling the battlefield with chaos. Their screeches and laughter echoed through the smoke, blending with the roars of Orks and the dying screams of mortals.
But Satoru knew the truth. The portal wouldn't stay open forever. It was tethered to his will, to his Cursed Energy, and it was already starting to wane. He could feel it fraying at the edges, its connection to the material plane weakening. Maybe another hour, if that, and it would close on its own. And when it did, every single Cursed Spirit, every single thing that had poured through, would fizzle out, their forms unable to sustain themselves in this reality.
He smirked, a flicker of amusement returning to his face. The thought of the Space Wolves and Orks fighting tooth and nail, only for the daemons to vanish mid-swing, was pretty funny. Desperate alliances forged in blood and fire, only to fall apart the moment the threat was gone. Classic.
Still, the realization brought him back to his earlier conclusion: his job here was done. The Space Wolves were tied up in the chaos, their forces scattered and battered. The Orks? They were just having fun, as far as he could tell, and they'd probably keep smashing things until there was nothing left to smash. Either way, the planet was screwed. Mission accomplished.
He stretched, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the mark's influence.
"Well," he said, his tone light, almost cheerful. "Time to pack it in."
The mark pulsed again, a last, defiant flicker of heat. He ignored it, shoving his hands into his pockets as he turned away from the battlefield. The portal loomed behind him, its swirling colors casting eerie shadows across the scorched ground. He could feel the pull of it, the raw power of Tzeentch radiating through the rift, but he didn't look back. Let it burn itself out. Let the galaxy deal with the mess he'd left behind.
His grin returned, sharp and unapologetic. Whatever came next, he was ready for it. Because now, at least, he understood one thing: no matter how deep the mark of a god might sink, no one controlled him. No one can control him.
Not Khaine. Not Tzeentch. Not anyone.
Satoru reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the smooth crystalline artifact that Caoimhe had given him. He pulled it out, holding it up to the light. It caught the dim glow of the battlefield below, refracting into sharp rays that danced against the scorched sky. The thing was small, barely the size of his palm, shaped oddly like an old walkie-talkie. Caoimhe had explained its purpose before they'd parted ways—something about being directly connected to her. Once his mission was complete, all he had to do was speak into it, and she'd arrange for someone – or something – to pick him up. She hadn't elaborated much, though.
Typical.
He sighed, rolling the artifact between his fingers. Being in the middle of a battlefield wasn't exactly ideal for a rendezvous. The ground below was still a mess of fire, ichor, and bodies, and even the air itself seemed to pulse with chaos. Not the best place to stand around waiting for a ride.
He tilted his head, scanning his surroundings. A mountain range loomed in the distance, jagged peaks cutting through the smoky haze like serrated knives. Perfect. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned Blue. The cursed energy surged around him, compressing space with a sharp hum. In an instant, the battlefield blurred, the sounds of battle fading as the landscape twisted and snapped into place. When he stopped, he was standing at the highest peak, the cold wind whipping through his hair.
The view from the top was almost serene. The battlefield stretched out far below, a chaotic tapestry of fire and smoke, yet from this height, it seemed distant. He pulled the artifact close to his lips, the crystalline surface cool against his fingers.
"Caoimhe, I'm done here," he said, his tone casual, almost bored. His gaze wandered over the horizon as he spoke. "Not sure where the Drukhari are or what they're up to, but I'm pretty sure they have their own ways of handling things. Anyway-"
Before he could finish, a sudden surge of energy enveloped him. The artifact pulsed in his hand, and a wave of shimmering light exploded outward, surrounding him in an instant. His body jerked, a sharp pull yanking him upward. The mountain, the battlefield, everything blurred into a kaleidoscope of twisting light and shadow. He barely had time to react before it all snapped into focus again.
He stood on the bridge of a ship.
Satoru blinked, taking in his surroundings. The room was vast, the walls lined with sleek panels that glowed with a faint, ethereal light. The floor beneath his feet was smooth, polished to a mirror-like sheen. A massive viewport stretched across one wall, revealing the planet below in all its battered, war-torn glory.
Kneeling figures surrounded him. Dozens of Asuryani and Drukhari bowed low, their heads touching the floor, their postures rigid with reverence. Their ceremonial garb shimmered faintly in the dim light, intricate designs etched across their armor and fabrics. Lelith Hesperax stood among them, her Wytches flanking her in a semi-circle, their postures as sharp and poised as blades. Lelith's crimson hair caught the light, swaying gently as she raised her head to meet his gaze. Her lips curled into a small, knowing smile.
"Welcome back, Lord Britheim," she said, her voice smooth, almost purring. This woman was hot and she knew it and everyone else knew it too.
Satoru raised an eyebrow, taking a moment to process the shift in scenery. He pocketed the artifact, his hands slipping back into his pockets as he tilted his head, his gaze drifting from Lelith to the others in the room. The kneeling figures didn't move, their silence almost oppressive. "Everyone, get up. We have more shit to do, I think, and we'll need to prepare... for what? You may ask. No idea. Caoimhe's group should've recovered... whatever it was they were hoping to get."
Because, the whole point of them being here was to recover an artifact that would aid them in resealing the awakening C'tan, a celestial god that was apparently on par with a Cursed God, but not limited to the Cursed Realm, something that would definitely become a problem for every living creature in the entire Galaxy.
He turned to Lelith. Curse her for being so damn sexy. Also, it was entirely possible that he might've bad a thing for crazy, psychotic goth chicks, but – honestly – who didn't? "And I suppose you're done with whatever hidden mission you were running around doing?"
Lelith's smile did not fade as she smiled and nodded. "Of course, Lord Britheim. I have ensured that, when the portal you've created eventually fades, there are enough... distractions left on the world to occupy the Orks and the Astartes... while making their lives far more difficult than they'd like."
"Ah, so, standard Drukhari surprises. Noted." Satoru said, raising a brow. He then turned to the closest Asuryani, one who probably had a greater rank than the rest of them, on account of the brighter and bigger head dress. He had no idea who this person was – or if they were male or female, because the Howling Banshees really blurred that distinction. Actually, even now, Satoru had already forgotten most of their names. The only ones he remembered were the very few who actually interacted with him or made an imprint in his memories. "You. Did Caoimhe leave a to-do list for me or should I just walk into the nearest room with Lelith here and show everyone a real incident in Shibuya?"
"... what?"
AN: Chapter 62 is out on (Pat)reon!