Chapter 5 Blood in the Stone, Fire in the Steel
Chapter 5 Blood in the Stone, Fire in the Steel
I stuck to the high ground, trailing the sound through the outskirts of Wichita—its shattered skyline rising like broken teeth. Crumbling towers. Overgrown concrete. The scent of fire and rust riding the breeze.
Then I saw them.
Two factions squared off in a clearing framed by twisted trees and collapsing buildings. They weren't clashing, but they were ready. Every stance, every held breath, screamed restraint on a hair trigger. One wrong move and this would go from a standoff to a slaughter. But I could tell—this wasn't a battlefield. Not yet. Something else was going on beneath the surface.
On one side: the Kansani. Tribals clad in intricate bone-and-metal armor, faces hidden behind fearsome masks carved from ancient machine parts. Their torsos were wrapped in dark hides reinforced with scrap plating, accented by bold black and white warpaint. Each bore unique totemic markings—some with feathers woven into braids, others wearing coils of wire and teeth around their necks like grim trophies. Their armor wasn't just protection—it was history worn loud. When they moved, the rattling of bone beads and chime-like plates made it feel like spirits were walking with them.
These weren't just tribals. They were disciples of an idea. A legacy.
I didn't understand it at the time, but later I'd learn of the First Kansani—a warrior from the old world whose painted face and fearless stance had once been found on a crumbling ruin wall. That mural became a myth. The myth became a ritual. And from that ritual, a culture was born.
They didn't know his name. Not truly. Just a figure, defiant and laughing, facing down impossible odds. He wore white on his face, black streaks like war tears. And he stood tall, like he dared the world to try harder.
That image was their origin.
The paint? At first, a joke. But it worked—on people, on corrupted machines. Distorted depth. Broke rhythm. Now it's a ritual. A shamanic benediction. Warriors apply it before every battle, whispering their intent to the War God.
As the Kansani prepared for the duel, the other warriors stood in reverent silence as the elder shaman approached Jorta alone. The champion knelt before a flat stone slab, shoulders broad and still, head bowed in solemn focus. The shaman dipped a bone-carved brush into a bowl of ash-dyed pigment and began the ritual known as the Paint of Purpose.
Each stroke was deliberate—arcs, stripes, and streaks painted across Jorta's scarred face. His breath was steady. His eyes closed. And when the brush paused, he whispered a single line into the pigment bowl: his intent, his vow, his message to the War God.
The shaman nodded once, and stepped back.
Then the shaman lifted his staff. He began to chant—a low, rhythmic cadence that resonated deep in the chest.
The Roaring Litany.
Kansani warriors took it up like thunder. At first, a hum. Then a growl. Then a roar. By the end, every voice bellowed in unison, heads thrown back as they shouted defiance into the sky. They started chanting.
"JOR-TA! JOR-TA! JOR-TA!"
It wasn't just battle fervor.
I realized then—they were chanting his name. Not just as a cheer, but as a rite. A summoning. Their war god had once worn a man's face, and now they believed Jorta wore that spirit in the flesh.
It was a call to arms. A call to memory. A call to their War God to watch, to remember, to bear witness.
Jorta was a giant of a man, easily over six and a half feet tall.
His mask was shaped from the faceplate of some Old World machine, horned and snarling, with a stark white stripe bisecting its dark shell like a war banner of vengeance. His body was a wall of muscle, wrapped in thick leather and scavenged metal armor, blackened by soot and battle. Shredded furs draped across one shoulder, and bone talismans rattled from braids in his hair. The pelt of a predator hung down his back like a war cloak. His massive spear—half polearm, half jagged executioner's tool—rested in his grip like an extension of his will. You didn't look at Jorta and think "tribal." You thought "executioner.
Opposite him stood the red-and-gold wall of Caesar's Legion.
[Lore Drop: Caesar's Legion – skip if you know them
They weren't just a bad memory from another world anymore.
Caesar's Legion had crossed timelines, and they'd adapted.
Still the same core: a brutal, slaver society built on conquest, discipline, and fear. Founded by a man who called himself Caesar—"Kai-sar" if you wanted to keep your tongue—they had reshaped over a dozen tribes into a single war machine. In the old world, they swept through Arizona and the Mojave like a plague of order, crushing anything that didn't kneel.]
Lorica segmentata that wasn't scavenged at all—no rust, no mismatched parts, no desperation. It looked forged. Purpose-built. That worried me. Back in Fallout, even the Legion's elite wore armor cobbled together from conquest and scrap. But these guys? Their gear was unified. Clean. Like they had industry behind them. Bull motifs stamped on their shoulder guards. Formation tight. Movements sharper than doctrine.
At their front stood a Centurion—scarred, stoic, and built like a siege engine. His bronze helm bore a crimson crest, plumed like a vulture's shadow. A red cloak draped over his shoulders, flowing with every breath of wind like spilled blood waiting for a body. His breastplate gleamed with oil and discipline. In one hand, he held a heavy rectangular shield embossed with the Bull of Mars. In the other, a gladius—short, brutal, and worn smooth at the hilt. His expression was carved from stone.
My stomach dropped.
"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered.
Where the hell had they come from? Terra's stipulations were clear—core elements of Horizon had to stay intact. So what was the origin point here? Texas? Alabama? Some offshoot tribe from the Gulf that went full Roman cosplay in the dark? The Kansas native part of me snorted. Maybe they'd spent the last few generations being bushwhacking Missourians.
"Actually... that kind of makes sense," I muttered to myself.
Then my eyes narrowed. Etched onto the front of a few Legion shields—stylized, but clear—was the St. Louis Arch.
I grumbled, "Yep. From Missouri."
This wasn't cosplay. This was them. The real thing—flags, discipline, indoctrinated hate. Caesar's Legion, in the flesh. And they were here. In this world.
They'd evolved.
They weren't just scavenging scraps anymore—they were forging new armor from machine plating, training their recruits to fight like they were going into the pits of a Kengan tournament. Some wore Watcher lenses as trophies. Others had serrated blades shaped from Ravager claws.
The ideology hadn't changed. Women were still denied power. Outsiders were still enslaved. Mercy was weakness. But now they hunted machines alongside men, turning their kills into ritual and rank.
Caesar's Legion had found fertile ground in this post-GAIA frontier.
And the worst part?
They were thriving.
As the two sides stood in tense silence, an old figure stepped between them—a Kansani elder draped in layered bone necklaces and ash-dyed animal-hide robes. His mask, cracked and worn by time, bore faded symbols of the War God. He raised a staff wound in cord and feather, and a hush rippled outward.
When he spoke, his voice was weathered—like dry wind scraping ancient stone.
"We gather not for bloodlust, but to honor the one who stood unshaken. The one who roared back at fate and carved defiance into the bones of our people. The Great Inspirer watches, and so must we."
He turned, looking to each side in turn.
"Warrior of the Kansani—fight not to win, but to endure. Warrior of the Legion—if you mistake our silence for fear, may your pride weigh heavy on your last breath."
He approached Jorta and placed a hand over the warrior's chest.
"By ash and iron, by blood and roar—may the First Kansani's courage steady your stance. May his wrath fuel your strike. And may his laughter echo through your victory."
Then he stepped back.
And I felt pain like a crack of thunder.
I was so focused on what was happening before me I didn't notice someone creeping up behind me—
Until pain exploded in my groin like a precision strike from a vengeful god.
I collapsed. Hard. Knees to dirt. Vision gone white.
"Mother of—" I wheezed.
Strong arms hooked under mine and dragged me back like a sack of bad decisions.
When the fog cleared, I found myself staring up at a blonde Kansani woman, war paint slashed across her cheekbones, axe resting in one hand like it belonged there. Her hair was tied back in a high tail, catching the wind like a banner of defiance. Straps of hide and scavenged steel armored her shoulders and forearms, marked in the same black-and-white pattern as the others, but hers looked more utilitarian—built for speed and violence. A compact spear was strapped to her back, and the confidence in her stance made it clear she knew how to use both weapons.
Her expression was flat, but her eyes were sharp enough to skin machines.
"Are you watching for fun, or are you just stupid?" she hissed.
Her grip didn't waver. Neither did her stance.
"Name's Sula," she said. "You move like a scavenger, not Legion. So if you're not one of them, shut up and watch. If you are…"
The axe twitched.
"You've got five seconds to pray."
I coughed, hands raised in surrender. "Not Legion. Just… a very unlucky tourist."
She narrowed her eyes, then grunted. Without another word, she dragged me closer to the clearing's edge like she'd done it a hundred times.
"Congratulations, tourist. You're now a guest of the Kansani. Try not to embarrass yourself."
I groaned. This world really hated my balls.
Then things got worse.
One of the Legion's officers—a Decanus, judging by the armor—stepped forward and jabbed a finger straight at me.
"What is the meaning of this?" he barked. "Who is that outsider in black gear? Is this some trick, Kansani? Are you in league with the Enclave?"
I froze.
Enclave.
[Lore Drop: The Enclave – skip if you know them] Think pre-war U.S. government fanatics with high-tech toys and zero moral compass. The Enclave are the final boss of old-world authoritarianism: isolationist, elitist, and deadly. Vault-born purists with access to labs, nukes, and experimental weapons. Their mission? "Restore America"—by erasing everything that isn't them. Including you. Especially you.]
My blood ran cold. The Legion was bad enough. But the Enclave? Just no.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" I shouted, hands still up. "Calm down Roman wannabe—I'm not Enclave. Not even close. I don't even vote authoritarian."
My eyes widened when the look of surprise went across the Decanus' face—and not the good kind. His jaw shifted slightly, his brow twitching beneath the shadow of his helmet. It was subtle, but in the language of soldiers and zealots, it was a revelation. He wasn't expecting me to know that term. That name. His whole bearing stiffened, as if some critical piece of intelligence had just fallen into his lap. To the Legion, knowledge was currency. And knowing about Rome—truly knowing—meant access. Insight. A potential rival source to their own archives. And in a world rebuilt on fragments, any extra scrap of history was sacred. I knew then I'd said too much. He stepped forward, eyes narrowing beneath his helm as if measuring me anew. That flicker of surprise was gone now, replaced by something colder. Calculating.
His voice, when it came, was low—almost reverent. "You speak of the Old World with a familiarity that doesn't belong to any mere delver scum." His gaze dipped to my suit, then back to my face. "Not salvaged. Not tribal. Tactical black. Reinforced seams. Compact profile. That's looks new not something rob from a ruin"
He turned his head slightly, just enough for the other Legionnaires behind him to start murmuring among themselves. One even stepped forward a pace, eyeing me like I was a relic wrapped in flesh.
The Decanus's lip curled—not quite a sneer, but not far off. "You're not just a stray. You're something lost. Something… preserved."
He spat once in the dirt, then raised his voice loud enough for both sides to hear. "This is no scavenger. This is a remnant."
That word—remnant—carried weight. To the Legion, it meant danger and opportunity. And I'd just painted a target on my back big enough to be seen from orbit.
Across the clearing, the Kansani reacted instantly.
One of the masked warriors near the edge of their formation didn't hesitate—his bow came up with fluid precision, a black-fletched arrow already nocked and drawn. Not at the Legion. At me. His intent was clear: if the Legion wanted me as a prize, they'd leave with ash instead. His eyes—barely visible through the narrow slits of his mask—burned with contempt, not for me, but for the idea that they'd be used.
Sula stepped halfway in front of me, not shielding but intercepting the line of fire with her presence. Her head tilted just slightly, a low signal in whatever unspoken code the Kansani used. The archer held his draw for a long moment… then lowered it.
Barely.
They weren't going to give me to the Legion. But they weren't going to risk me becoming a problem either.
Whispers rippled through the Kansani ranks—low, guttural phrases spoken in a tongue that sounded like wind dragging bone across stone. A few shifted their stances, blades loosening in sheaths, the tension of warriors caught between duty and instinct. I couldn't make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable: warnings, suspicion, fragments of ancient prophecy or taboo. One masked shaman muttered something into a bundle of feathers and wire, like casting lots or invoking spirits for guidance.
Sula didn't move, but her grip on her axe tightened.
On the Legion's side, the reaction was colder—more calculated. Several of the legionnaires adjusted their footing subtly, shields angled, eyes scanning not just me but the Kansani around me. One younger soldier near the front let out a single, dry laugh before being hushed by a grizzled veteran with a glare sharp enough to cut steel. Another leaned toward the Decanus and whispered something I couldn't catch—only to be waved off with a motion that said, 'Not yet.'
Whatever I was, they didn't agree on it. But both sides had decided the same thing: I was no longer a bystander.
I was now part of the board.
The air itself felt different—heavier, like the pressure before a thunderstorm. Somewhere above us, the clouds had thickened without notice, dimming the already ruined skyline into something close to twilight. Dust swirled through the clearing, catching on stray bits of ash from an unseen fire, painting the space in drifting embers.
Birds had stopped calling. Even the machines nearby—those ever-present background groans of servo and steel—had gone silent. It was like the world was holding its breath.
The Kansani didn't speak again, but a slow rhythm began to thrum—boots shifting, hands tapping against armor, metal charms clinking in sync. Not music. Not war drums. But something older. A cadence meant to ground the soul or ward off evil. It crawled under the skin and made the hairs on my arms rise.
On the Legion's side, their silence was equally ominous. Formations tightened. Shields angled in unison. The Decanus hadn't given a command, but the men moved like gears in a well-oiled machine. No chants. No noise. Just discipline, sharpened to a blade's edge.
If anything exploded now—if a single arrow flew, if a branch snapped underfoot—it wouldn't just be a duel.
It would be a war. I didn't know how this version of the Legion knew about Rome, probably some archive somewhere in St Louis that this World's Caesar found if I had to guess. But to the Legion an additional source was VERY important.
"New terms. Winner takes the boy. We'll settle the territory dispute next month," the Decanus said, shifting priorities.
My brain took half a second to catch up, and then it hit me like a train.
Oh shit. I stepped into it now.
I wasn't just some weirdo in black gear anymore. I was the prize. The trophy. The battleground.
And both sides—the masked tribals whispering omens and the disciplined death squad in Roman cosplay—were suddenly factoring me into their equations. One saw a threat to deny. The other saw a weapon to claim. And I was standing here in the middle of it all, groin still aching from Sula's welcome, trying not to look like the world's most confused political football.
This wasn't just a duel anymore. It was a message.
And I was the punctuation mark.
I sighed, muttering under my breath, "God damn it. I'm screwed."
Without missing a beat, Sula leaned closer and said, deadpan, "You did it to yourself."
I glanced at her, taking in the narrowed eyes, the dry tone, the way she delivered that line like it was a fact of nature. That snark. That attitude. That absolute refusal to coddle. For one weird second, I found myself wondering—was she descended from the gene stock of my niece in this universe? The timelines were twisted enough. It wouldn't be the craziest thing I'd seen today.
She glanced sideways at me. "You got a name, tourist?"
"Rion," I muttered.
"Well, Rion," she said, lips twitching into something halfway between a smirk and a threat, "how does it feel to be the prized bull?"
I deadpanned at her.
Yep. We're distantly related.
The Kansani leadership—shamans, elders, and war-chiefs—huddled in a low, murmuring circle. Words were exchanged in that same gravel-and-smoke tongue, sharp glances cast toward me, the Legion, and Jorta in turn. There was no shouting, just deliberation. Measured. Cold. Eventually, the oldest among them gave a slow nod.
Jorta stepped forward.
"As long as one of you dogs dies screaming today," he growled, "I don't care. Another match next month? Fine. That just means two of you will die by my hand."
Then he slammed the spear down.
The stone cracked beneath the tip like thunder hitting bone.
Silence.
No more talk.
The moment Jorta's spear struck the stone, the Kansani erupted.
Stomps thundered like war drums. Dozens of feet hammering cracked concrete in perfect rhythm. Fists pounded against chests, armor, bone plates—anything that would make noise. It wasn't just cheering. It was summoning.
"JOR-TA! JOR-TA! JOR-TA!"
The name rolled across the clearing like a rising storm. The Legion held their line—disciplined, unmoved—but I saw it in their eyes. Tension. Doubt. That pulse of hesitation that comes when you realize the thing across from you wants the fight.
Jorta didn't even flinch.
He just rolled his shoulders and began to circle, each step deliberate. Controlled. His eyes locked onto the centurion, watching for weakness. Or maybe just waiting for an excuse.
The centurion stepped forward, gladius in hand, face unreadable beneath the dented helm. He didn't match the stomps. Didn't respond to the chants. He just raised his blade in a silent salute—mechanical, ritualistic.
Then the duel began.
Third person Pov change
The Centurion moved like a gladiator out of some old-world epic. Blade up, shield tight, stance low. His footwork was surgical—measured pivots, tight turns, economy of movement honed in pits where hesitation meant death. Every advance was a calculated press. Every retreat, a setup. He fought like someone who had spilled blood in arenas, who understood that the audience didn't just want victory—they wanted spectacle.
Jorta didn't give a damn about spectacle.
He lunged like a beast off the leash.
The first clash sent shockwaves through the air—spear meeting shield, the stone floor cracking under the force. Jorta's blows weren't elegant. They weren't clean. They were annihilating. Wide arcs, crushing jabs, sudden stomps that staggered the Centurion with sheer kinetic hate. His style didn't rely on counters. It didn't need them. It was offense as defense. Pressure made flesh.
Watching him fight, I couldn't help but think of a Deathclaw—those savage, unstoppable swipes designed to rip through armor and bone alike. That was Jorta: a predator who didn't just want to win. He wanted the Legion to feel preyed upon.
And there was something else—something subtle and terrifying. The Kansani's war paint wasn't just decoration. The bold black and white lines across Jorta's body weren't random. They shifted as he moved, blurring his outline just enough to screw with your depth perception. It was a trick that worked on people, on machines, and even on Deathclaws, according to tribal whispers.
The Centurion faltered for just a breath, eyes tracking the wrong angle.
Jorta punished it instantly—spear slamming into the shield's edge and ripping it aside with a twist that sent a jolt through the Legionnaire's frame.
This wasn't going to be a clean fight.
It was going to be a message.
The Centurion struck first—gladius stabbing forward in a textbook thrust aimed for the ribs. Jorta twisted, letting it scrape against his pauldron, and responded with a brutal downward swing of his spear. The Centurion caught it with his shield, but the force drove him back two steps, boots grinding against stone.
Jorta didn't pause. He surged forward, shoulder-checking the shield with his full weight. The Centurion absorbed the hit, twisted at the last second, and countered with a hook of his gladius toward Jorta's side. It was fast—too fast for a man that heavy—but Jorta turned with it, letting the blade skim leather and not flesh.
Then Jorta slammed the butt of his spear into the Centurion's knee.
Crack.
The Centurion grunted, staggering—but his posture held. He raised his shield high, baiting a high shot. Jorta took it—and the Centurion ducked under, lunging forward with his gladius aimed at Jorta's gut.
But Jorta let go of his spear.
One hand caught the Centurion's wrist mid-lunge. The other drove a closed fist into his visor.
Metal rang like a struck bell.
The Centurion reeled. Jorta yanked his spear from mid-air, spinning it into a wide horizontal slash that the Legionnaire barely ducked. The cut shaved metal from the top of the Centurion's helm.
The Centurion responded with a savage knee to the thigh, then a slash upward across Jorta's chest—tearing fur and hide, drawing a shallow line of blood. It was the first clean hit.
Jorta looked down at the wound. Then smiled.
He pivoted low and swept the spear like a scythe, catching the Centurion's ankle. The man went down hard, shield clattering to the side. Before he could rise, Jorta leapt—feet leaving the ground—and came down with his full weight behind the spear.
The Centurion rolled, but not fast enough.
The spearhead stabbed through the rim of his shield, pinning it to the stone.
Jorta didn't wait. He dropped low, teeth bared, and roared into the Centurion's face.
Then came the fists.
Jorta straddled the Centurion, grabbed the rim of his helmet, and tore it free with a guttural roar. The metal clattered across the ground.
The Centurion barely had time to blink—but his gladius swung up one last time, carving a deep line into Jorta's thigh. Blood sprayed, hot and sudden. Jorta snarled through the pain, but it didn't stop him. If anything, it made what followed worse.
One. Two. Three. Each blow landed with a wet, echoing crack—blood, spit, and teeth spraying in all directions.
Four. Five. Six. A sickening crunch followed as the Centurion's nose shattered beneath the barrage.
Jorta didn't stop. He was a machine of wrath now, fists rising and falling like piston hammers, the Centurion's head bouncing against the stone like a broken drum.
By the time the fifth blow hit, the Legionnaire's body had gone slack—eyes glassy, mouth open, blood pooling.
Jorta finally rose, chest heaving, blood dripping from his knuckles like war paint. The Centurion swung his gladius weakly, scraping Jorta's side.
The Kansani warrior didn't even flinch.
He grabbed the Legionnaire by the throat with one hand, lifted him an inch off the ground—then slammed him back down hard enough to bounce.
"Why does that look familiar?" Rion muttered.
"He's using Deathclaw Kenpo," Sula murmured beside him, never breaking focus.
Rion glanced at her. "Is that the usual Kansani style?"
She shook her head. "No one else knows it. He invented it. Watched how the monsters fought when they first appeared—how they threw weight, how they finished things fast. He took the old Kansani forms and rewrote them.
"Her jaw clenched, voice low. "He calls it 'Deathclaw Kenpo' after learning that Old World martial arts were often named after animals—like crane, mantis, or tiger—whatever a tiger is. He said it wasn't right to break that tradition. Not when this one was born from something just as deadly."
I winced, he based his fighting style off Deathclaws?! The fact he developed it to this degree means he probably fought one and lived, in the Fallout games that is not a big deal as you got tech to deal with them. But Jorta was from a tribal background with no guns, no stimpacks to apply, no chance to reload a save if you screwed up. And he was still alive.
Needless to say the Centurion was fucked.
The Centurion went limp.
Jorta stood, blood steaming on his fists.
Then he turned to the Legion's line and pointed his spear at them.
No words. Just a silent challenge.
Come take him.
Rion watched the brutal execution of the Centurion and didn't dare move.
Didn't dare to breathe.
But finally he said, "What the hell!?"
It wasn't a question. It was a full-body reaction. His brain had no script for what he'd just seen.
One second it was a tactical brawl between warriors. The next—Jorta was kneeling on the guy's chest, bleeding from the thigh, stabbing down like a man possessed.
Even after the Centurion stopped twitching, the air still buzzed. Like the violence hadn't finished echoing yet.
Rion swallowed hard.
He'd seen fights before. Street brawls. Bar scuffles. The occasional game clip of a deathmatch from old underground forums.
This was different.
This was raw.
Jorta wasn't showy. He didn't gloat. He looked like he'd been trying to end something that started long before the duel began. And even now—wounded, limping—he wasn't victorious.
He was unfinished.
The crowd was going wild. The Kansani chanted his name like they wanted the ground to remember it. But Rion's eyes were locked on the blood dripping from Jorta's thigh. A steady pulse. Deep wound. Bad angle.
That wasn't a surface cut. That was trouble.
Rion glanced sideways at Sula.
"Does he always fight like that?" he muttered, voice dry.
She didn't answer right away. Just stared past the smoke and dust, her eyes fixed on Jorta's limp and the blood trailing behind him.
"Only when it comes to repaying blood debts that Legion scum dishonorably killed my father," Sula said.
"And my uncle Jorta has restored his honor by putting that man in the ground."
Her voice didn't shake. Didn't rise. Just a plain fact, spoken like stone.
Wait—uncle?
Jorta was Sula's uncle?
Rion's eyes snapped back to the blood-covered warrior, still standing like a force of nature, his spear dripping and cracked stone beneath him.
'I feel sorry for any guy trying to court her,' Rion thought, equal parts amused and horrified.
Healers moved fast once the duel ended.
Jorta didn't ask for help. Didn't signal. Just sat down hard on a broken slab of concrete and grunted through his teeth as the blood poured from his thigh. He kept one hand wrapped around the spear, even as his skin went pale and sweat pooled along his brow.
A pair of Kansani medics knelt beside him—young, quiet, efficient. But it was the old one that caught Rion's eye.
An elder. White war paint faded and cracked from age. Beads and bones hung from his neck, clinking softly as he walked. His steps were deliberate. Calm. Like time moved around him, not with him.
He knelt beside Jorta, reached into a weathered satchel, and pulled out a stimpak.
Old-world tech. Pre-war design. Looked like it had been bartered, scavenged, maybe even blessed. Rion squinted through the HUD of his Focus—no readout, no ID tag. Too degraded. Weak charge, if he had to guess.
The old man didn't hesitate.
He jammed the needle into Jorta's thigh, just above the wound, and depressed the plunger with one thumb.
The hiss was short. Barely audible.
Rion watched closely. The bleeding slowed. The worst of it clotted. But the muscle damage? Still there. Torn. Swollen. No real regeneration. Painkillers and clotting agents, maybe. Nothing restorative.
He frowned.
"That's a patch, not a fix," he muttered under his breath.
Sula glanced at him, brow raised. "You know medicine?"
"Enough to know your uncle's walking on luck and spite right now."
Jorta didn't react. He just stared across the clearing, face carved from stone, fingers still tight around the blood-stained shaft of his spear.
Rion crossed his arms, eyes still locked on the wound.
"Was he meant to be the fighter next month?" he asked. "Because with his leg like that, he'll need at least half a year."
The words hung in the air.
Sula didn't respond right away. She just looked at Jorta—still seated, still bleeding beneath the paint, jaw clenched like he could hold the injury together through sheer will.
The old shaman glanced back at them with cloudy eyes but said nothing. Just reached into his satchel again, this time pulling out strips of treated leather and a bone needle.
No more stimpaks. No second dose. Just stitches and silence.
Sula's jaw clenched as the medics worked and the elder stitched in silence, the rest of the Kansani didn't celebrate.
They gathered around the blood-soaked stone where the Centurion's body had fallen. One warrior stepped forward and placed a cracked lens from a fallen Watcher on the ground beside the Legionnaire's corpse. Another dropped a twisted length of scorched wire. Totemic offerings.
A shaman—his mask long and flaked with soot—knelt and reached into a pouch of bone and ash. With two fingers, he smeared a line across the broken concrete, forming a glyph Rion couldn't read.
Then the chanting began again. This time, lower. Slower. A death march, not a war cry..
Each warrior who had witnessed the duel whispered a word—sometimes a name, sometimes a phrase—into the smoke as the shaman lit a bundle of dried vines soaked in oil. As the flames took, they burned bright blue for a heartbeat.
One by one, they stepped forward and placed fragments—machine bone, broken armor, pieces of metal or claw—into the fire.
Sula did not join. She knelt beside her uncle, her hand resting on his good knee, silent. But her eyes watched the flames, and her lips moved in a soundless prayer.
Rion didn't move. Didn't speak.
Rion watched the blood-soaked bandages, the weak throb of healing under low-tech hands, and felt it building.
Pressure.
Someone else would have to fight next month.
And this time, it might not be a Kansani.
...…..
As the Kansani gathered around their wounded champion and the last chants of Jorta's name faded into the wind, something else watched from above.
High in the hollow cage of a broken tower—steel ribs exposed to the wind, glass long since swept away—a figure stood in the dark.
It did not breathe. It did not sway.
It calculated.
Gray armor, sleek but alien, shimmered faintly with pulsing orange veins. Red synthetic musculature flexed beneath its plating—shifting in spasms that resembled pain but were something far worse.
Refinement.
It stood on two legs. Human-shaped, almost. But too tall. Joints too sharp. Limbs asymmetrical—unfinished. Its fingers twitched, first in randomness, then in rhythm.
It had watched the duel.
It had recorded everything.
Jorta's charge. The spear feints. The downstrike. The brutal fistwork that turned bone to ruin. Six final punches—each with a different weight distribution. Each logged in.
OBSERVATION COMPLETE
SUBJECT IDENTIFIED: "JORTA"
CLASSIFICATION: Apex Tribal Combatant
STYLE MATCH: Adaptive Tribal Form – Kansani: Deathclaw Kenpo
OVERLAY ANALYSIS: 46.7% Match with Apex Predator Biomechanics (Deathclaw)
STATUS: LETHAL MARTIAL HYBRID
EMULATION VIABILITY: CONDITIONAL
The machine reached down, gripping a bent length of rebar embedded in the cracked floor. It raised it—too rigid, too vertical. It mimicked Jorta's stance.
Poorly.
Too stiff. Balance shifted too far forward. The swing was heavy but clumsy. It stumbled back, rebar dragging across stone.
It froze mid-motion.
Not from error.
From revelation.
POSTURAL FAILURE DETECTED
LIMB LENGTH: INSUFFICIENT FOR PIVOT ARC
SHOULDER ANCHORING: INCOMPATIBLE WITH LATERAL FORCE REDIRECTION
THIGH ROTATION LIMIT: 31° BELOW OPTIMAL
MODIFICATION REQUIRED: – Increase arm radius +6cm
– Reinforce lumbar spine with secondary torsion plate
– Reshape heel joint for rotational burst control
– Add elbow rotation coupler (Type-RX)
– Remove facial armor to allow for environmental intimidation
CONCLUSION: Current frame is improper for Deathclaw Kenpo.
But it will be corrected.
It moved again. This time slower, but closer. Its body remembered where its programming failed. The rebar came up. The weight shift compensated. A low, sweeping strike dragged sparks from the concrete.
Not elegant.
But better.
CURRENT FIDELITY: 17.2%
PROJECTION: 54.3% after recommended modification and first combat trial
Warning: Technique will destabilize current frame
Response: ACCEPTED
Then the machine twitched.
A silent, glitching laugh flickered through its audio banks. Not sound. Just vibration. A mocking echo.
It turned back toward the clearing where blood still steamed on the cracked dueling stone.
Where Jorta had stood. Where the War God's echo still lingered.
TARGET CLASS: DEIFIED FIGHTER
RESPONSE PRIORITY: MIMIC. ADAPT. REPLACE.
Then the machine stepped backward into the shadows.
Still learning.
Still evolving.