Chapter 6 The Name Beneath the Paint
Chapter 6 The Name Beneath the Paint
Sula's voice broke the silence.
"There must be something we can do," she said, quieter than before. Not to Rion. Not to the shaman. Maybe not even to herself.
Her eyes stayed locked on Jorta—his hands bloody, thigh wrecked, face unreadable. He wasn't just the tribe's champion. He was her only remaining family. Uncle. Guardian. The one constant after everything else had been taken.
He wasn't supposed to fall.
Rion looked at her. The war paint on her face hadn't smudged, but something in her expression had.
"He's not just the best fighter, is he?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
Didn't have to. Rion understood sometimes a symbol was more powerful than the man.
Rion crouched, dragging his boot through the dirt. He drew a shape: a cross. Plain. Clean. Not religious—just universal. A symbol for help, healing, hospitals.
"Do you know this?" he asked, looking up at Sula. "Have you seen it before? Anywhere nearby?"
She frowned at the mark. The younger healer leaned in, curious. The shaman didn't glance. But Sula's gaze shifted—like something ticked in the back of her memory.
Rion pressed.
"Old-world clinics. Emergency shelters. Places the ancients used when they were hurt. You want to save your uncle's leg? We need better gear."
Sula didn't look away. "Maybe," she said slowly. "There's ruins like these in the larger ruins but…" she trailed off.
Rion sighed "Let me guess it's forbidden"
Sula snorted "Nothing like that, we're not like the Nora."
"You know of the Nora?" he asked 'seems I was getting some hints of the original Horizon canon.' he thought
"Occasionally one will show up in our territory every now and then. We accept them if the crime was minor or stupid but if the crime is heinous they are dealt with" Sula said then put her hand to her chin as she recalled a story. "The only non-exile was a hunter who pursued a man with the ferocity of a hungry wolf, roughly before the Derangement."
'Rost', he thought, 'must have been during his time as the Nora's Deathseeker to get justice for the murder of his wife and daughter.'
He steered the conversation to the ruins "what's the problem with the ruins?"
Sula's eyes stayed on the cross, her voice low. "There's this type of machine that showed up after the start of the Derangement, very dangerous."
"Pure black, gold trim and purple muscles?" he asked, thinking it was HEPHAESTUS' work.
"Gray, orange trim, red muscles." Sula told me, she didn't show confusion, so that told him there were apex variants still out there.
"They're not old-world machines. Not machine beasts either."
"They're built to look like men... but like the same hand that made the beasts."
Rion's brow furrowed.
He stared. "You're saying they're human-shaped?"
She nodded.Sula's voice dropped as she remembered.
"The new ones... they looked wrong. Gray armor with streaks of orange like exposed nerves, pulsing in places that made no sense. Their torsos were shaped like men—broad shoulders, narrow waists—but too smooth. Like someone stretched metal over fake muscle and hoped we wouldn't notice."
She paused, eyes hard.
"They didn't have eyes. Just this blank faceplate that still followed your movement, like something was watching from behind the shell. And their arms… too long. Joints bent wrong. Fingers always twitching like they were learning what hands were even for."
She exhaled sharply through her nose.
"They moved like toddlers trying to copy their parents. Clumsy at first. At least that's how they start out." Sula said, looking into the ruins of Wichita.
"Overtime they get better at walking, better at moving through the ruins, and worst of all better at fighting. If we encounter one outside the city, make sure to kill it fast and for certain to not let it get away. Otherwise.." She said
"Otherwise what?" he asked, feeling dread.
"Otherwise it comes back stronger using the very moves you used to fight it. And then if you still don't kill it, their body will have been changed to become a more effective warrior."
GAIA didn't make human-shaped robots. Her machines were animals, tools, practical. Efficient. Purpose-built.
Humanoid shapes were something else entirely.
And only one group had ever done that—and none of them were from this timeline.
He straightened, mind ticking. Maybe the Institute from Fallout 4, but Sula said they start showing up once the Derangement started, so it can't be them.
Rion's thoughts raced. Human-shaped machines in GAIA's style? That shouldn't exist. Not unless someone had hijacked the subfunctions or—
His thoughts stuttered.
Subfunctions.
Hephaestus made machines. Eleuthia birthed life. Apollo stored knowledge.
But Apollo had been crippled. Robbed of its purpose. Denied its directive. What if...
His breath caught.
What if this wasn't an accident?
What if Apollo had found a way to act?
Not with animals. Not with terraforming. But with what it always wanted: knowledge. Understanding. Identity.
If it couldn't teach humans... maybe it had decided to become one.
And Hephaestus gave it the tools.
And Eleuthia gave it the blueprint.
His stomach turned. It all fits. Apollo's hunger for knowledge. Hephaestus's relentless production. Eleuthia's grasp on human biology and structure. Put them together and you didn't get another combat drone.
You got a student.
A mimic.
A machine built not to destroy... but to learn. To understand what it meant to be human. To take it apart, piece by piece, until it could wear the skin of culture.
And now it was copying warriors.
He was broken from his thoughts on this situation when Sula said "But they aren't the reason we are wary of entering the larger ruin."
"Then what is?" he asked
She hesitated, then said, more quietly, "The worst one the scouts talk about... he's different. Bigger. Faster. It doesn't mimic. It watches. Waits. And when it moves, it moves like it knows what you're going to do."
Rion looked up at her, listening.
"It talks sometimes. To the ones it doesn't kill right away. Told one scout its name. Said it called itself... Hell's Angel."
Rion blinked. "You're joking."
"I wish."
Her voice dropped further. "It wears bones. Arms. Jaws. Some of them... human. And its voice—it's wrong. Like it's echoing from a throat it doesn't have. But it uses words. Understands them."
The breeze shifted. The clearing grew colder.
Rion glanced at the half-scuffed cross in the dirt.
Sula watched him.
"Hell's Angel you know that name, don't you?"
Rion nodded slowly. "Yeah. Hell's Angel was the name used by a warrior from the old world. Sekibayashi Jun."
He paused, and something shifted in his voice—a mix of awe and memory.
"His fights were brutal. Bare-handed, blood-soaked, and loud enough to shake buildings. He fought for pride, for spectacle, and to test himself against the best. What made him legendary wasn't just the strength—though, believe me, he could lift a truck and smile doing it. It was how he fought."
Rion's voice took on an edge of reverence.
"Sekibayashi didn't dodge. Ever. It wasn't a gimmick. It was a philosophy. He believed a warrior should face every blow, take it head-on, and show the world that he could still stand. It wasn't arrogance. It was defiance. He used pain like armor—turned suffering into spectacle. And the more damage he took, the more terrifying he became. He was called the Immortal Wall because even when his bones cracked, he smiled through it and kept walking forward."
Sula stayed quiet, her eyes narrowed, listening.
"He stood in the ring like a mountain. Fists up. Chin high. And when he roared, the crowd roared with him. He wasn't fighting for points. He was fighting to remind everyone what it meant to be alive. I don't know if he ever lost a fight. But I do know he never gave an inch."
Rion exhaled, grounding himself.
"Jun was a fighter—but more than that, he was a symbol. And when he wanted to make a statement… he'd transform. Took on a persona."
He glanced at Sula.
"They called it Marvellous Seki. That's when things got wild."
His tone dropped, like he was speaking of a ritual or legend.
"He'd paint his face white. Thick—like a battle mask. Black streaks down through the eyes. Symbols across the cheeks in his native tongue. He moved like thunder. Laughed like it was all a game. Fought like he was possessed. You didn't just watch him—you felt him. Like every punch came with a story, and every roar demanded the world pay attention."
Sula didn't speak.
Not right away.
She stood there, breathing through her nose, eyes fixed not on Rion—but somewhere just past him. Through him. Inside herself.
"You said... white face," she said softly. "Black lines. Symbols on the cheeks."
Her voice was tight. Strained. Like it hurt to say.
Rion nodded.
Sula didn't blink. Didn't move. Slowly, her hand rose to her cheek, fingertips brushing the paint like it had become something foreign. Or sacred.
"The shamans tell a story," she said. "One of the first. They say an ancestor—no name, just the first—found a mural in the ruins. Faded by time. But the image stayed."
She took a breath. It trembled.
"A man. Standing in white. Roaring like a beast. Enemies all around him—and he smiled. He laughed in their faces."
She looked at Rion now, really looked. And there was a sheen in her eyes—not tears, not yet. But something close.
"They say our ancestor laughed too. Said, 'If that's not a god of battle, I don't know what is.' And he painted his face the same way. For fun. At first."
Her jaw tensed. Voice hardening.
"But when the mad machines came… the paint made them miss. And when we fought other tribes… they hesitated. Couldn't read our movements. Couldn't look us in the eye."
She pressed her fingers against the paint now, thumb smearing a line without meaning to.
"So the shamans named him the Great Inspirer. The First Kansani. Said our whole tribe came from that moment. That laugh. That defiance."
Her breath hitched.
"I thought it was just a story. A myth."
Her voice cracked. "But you just gave him a name."
She looked at Rion like the ground beneath her had shifted.
"Sekibayashi Jun."
A low gasp broke the silence.
Behind them, one of the masked shamans had stopped mid-step. The old man's staff—wrapped in feathers, bone beads, and frayed metal wire—lowered until it touched the earth with a dull clink.
The painted mask tilted slightly, as if the very name had weight.
"Sekibayashi... Jun," the shaman echoed, voice hoarse like wind scraping old stone. "That is the name of the First Kansani?"
He stepped forward slowly, each movement deliberate, reverent.
"For generations, we have spoken of the Laughing God. The Roaring One. But no name was ever given. No truth ever reached our firepits." His voice trembled now, more awe than disbelief. "And yet... this outsider speaks it like memory."
Sula turned toward the elder, lips parted. But the shaman raised one hand—not in warning, but in awe.
"You've answered a question older than our chants," he said, eyes never leaving Rion. "You've brought the shadow into form. The spirit into name. That is no small thing."
He turned his face toward the distant sky, where ash still drifted from the funeral flame.
"The War God now has a name. And all who mock it shall burn."
He said it with weight. Like it didn't just answer a question—it shattered something. Reforged something else in its place.
Silence hung between them.
Then Sula shoulders tightened. Her hands curled into fists.
"And now that thing... that machine... it dares to wear his name. His stance. It paints its body like ours, it fights like him, it mocks the scream that made us Kansani."
She turned away for half a second, like she couldn't stand the thought—then pivoted fast, driving her fist into the nearest tree.
CRACK.
Bark split. The trunk shuddered. Her knuckles bled.
"It's spitting on our blood," she snarled. "On everything he gave us. Everything we are."
She turned back to Rion, teeth bared now. Breath sharp and ragged.
"That's not just a machine. That's a blasphemy."
Then, through clenched teeth, her voice dropped into a growl.
"We don't just kill it. We erase it."
Rion didn't answer right away.
He just watched her—breathing hard, blood dripping from her knuckles, fury still burning off her skin like heat haze.
There was nothing performative about it. No righteous speech. No demand for comfort.
Just pain. Just truth.
He glanced at the tree she'd struck, at the fresh crack in its bark, then back at her face—paint smudged now, but the spirit behind it clearer than ever.
The silence held, and in it, something clicked.
They reminded him of the Tenakth.
Not just the war paint or the strength. But the way myth had become marrow. The way a single act—one scream, one laugh, one defiant moment—had shaped an entire people. They weren't just copying a symbol. They were the legacy.
But this time, Rion realized he had given the Kansani the origin.
He didn't smile. Didn't make a joke.
Instead, he said quietly, "Then we end it. For him. For you. For all of it."
A pause.
"And when we do… I'll make sure it knows why."
Sula didn't respond right away. Her hand lowered from the tree, fingers still curled, breathing slower now—but only just. Her eyes flicked to the blood on her knuckles, then past Rion.
To Jorta.
He still sat where they'd left him. Propped against a broken slab of concrete, jaw tight, sweat clinging to his brow. The pain was masked behind a warrior's silence, but even from here, the weakness in his leg was clear.
The fury in her posture began to shift—still sharp, but now with purpose. Urgency.
"To kill that machine," she said, quieter now, "we'll need Jorta at full strength."
Rion nodded. "We will."
He glanced down at the half-scuffed cross he'd drawn in the dirt earlier, the symbol already fading.
"There's a town north of here," he said, checking his Focus. "Old-world medical campus. It might still have something—if anything survived the centuries."
Sula's eyes met his, that fire still burning—but steadier now. Directed.
"Then we go north."
She looked back toward her uncle.
"We don't let him fall. Not now. Not after everything."
Rion holstered his revolver, rising to his feet.
"No," he said. "We keep him standing. Just like the man your tribe was born from."
The old shaman stepped closer, his faded war paint cracked like dried riverbeds beneath the mask. He studied both of them—Sula with blood on her knuckles, and Rion still crouched beside the fading cross in the dirt.
"Your fury is righteous, girl," Elder Heka said softly, "but it must be shaped, not spilled."
He turned to Jorta, still slumped in the shadow of stone and pain.
"Our War God's legacy has been mocked. Desecrated. And the blade we would use to answer it"—he gestured at the wounded warrior—"has been dulled."
Heka's staff struck the earth with a solid thump.
"Then we must sharpen another."
He looked to Sula first, then to Rion.
"The First Kansani was not just a warrior. He was a challenge to the world. A cry that said, 'I will not bend. I will not break.' You carry that cry now."
He knelt slightly, pressing two fingers to the dirt-streaked cross Rion had drawn.
"Go. Seek the forgotten halls. Claim the tools of the Old Blood. Heal our champion."
Then he rose, voice firm, louder now so others could hear.
"By the mask and the marrow, by the laugh that became our law—I, Elder Heka, give sanction to this quest. These two carry our purpose. Let no warrior hinder them. Let no soul forget what was spoken this day."
A hum rippled through the Kansani nearby. Warriors nodded. A few tapped their chests once in solemn rhythm. Even the other shamans stood straighter.
Sula bowed her head with quiet reverence.
Rion just stood there for a moment, feeling the gravity of something ancient pressing into his spine
Elder Heka's eyes lingered on Rion.
"You gave the First Kansani a name," he said, voice low with reverence. "You bridged the past to our bloodline. For that, you are no longer just an outsider."
He raised a hand, gesturing for Rion to kneel.
Rion hesitated, but Sula gave him a small nod. He lowered himself to one knee.
From a pouch tied at his belt, Heka drew a small lacquered bowl filled with ash-dyed pigment—deep black, like soot taken from the bones of the earth. Another pouch held white powder—crushed root and bleached machine dust.
He dipped two fingers into the mix and spoke in the Kansani tongue—guttural, slow, thick with meaning.
"I name you Witness," he intoned. "I name you Bearer of Truth. And I mark you in honor of the First."
With deliberate motion, Heka dragged one white line across Rion's brow, then two black streaks down his cheeks—perfect echoes of Marvellous Seki's war paint.
He added two short lines beneath each eye—tribal glyphs that marked Rion as a guest under shamanic protection.
Then, with surprising gentleness, he pressed his thumb to the collar of Rion's bodysuit—smearing a crude but deliberate streak across the black fabric, as if to say this armor serves a higher memory now.
The shaman's hand dropped.
Another stepped forward, carrying something wrapped in a coil of bone thread and dyed hide.
A mask.
Forged from a fallen Watcher's faceplate, its metal had been scorched, carved, and reshaped into something unmistakably Kansani—jagged along the jawline, etched with white lines slits for the eyes. The upper plating bore a painted sigil in white: a laughing mouth framed in black.
Heka held it out.
"This belonged to one who fell protecting the glyph stone. He died with laughter on his lips."
Rion accepted it with both hands.
It was heavy.
Not just in weight, but in meaning.
"Now," the elder said, stepping back, "you carry more than your own burden. You carry the echo of a god."
Around them, the Kansani watched in solemn silence.
Sula finally broke it with a single line.
"Looks good on you, tourist."
The Rion heard a ping and a screen enter the corner of his vision.
[Perk Unlocked] – Echo of the War God
Type: Passive | Slotless Cultural Perk
Unlock Condition: Revealed the true identity of Sekibayashi Jun to the Kansani; recognized as a living witness to the First Kansani's origin.
Effect:
Unyielding Presence
When Rion is reduced below 50% health, he gains +15% resistance to stagger, knockback, and critical injuries for 20 seconds. Triggers once per combat encounter.
Burn, But Don't Break
Every time Rion survives a combat encounter with less than 25% HP remaining, he gains a +1% bonus to Endurance-based actions (e.g., resisting toxins, pain tolerance, maintaining balance) for the next in-game day. Stacks up to +5%.
Cultural Link: The Flame That Laughs
Kansani warriors who witness Rion endure hardship are more likely to follow him, defend him, or defer to him in moments of tribal judgment or ritual. Grants +10% to Persuasion checks when appealing to warrior tribes or referencing shared legends.
Flavor Text:
"The man may be gone, but the spirit that stood tall through every blow now walks again—in you. And we do not bow to men. We rise with their fire."
— Sula, upon granting Rion the title of Witness
'Thanks Jun, I'll be sure to do you proud.'
As the last of the smoke cleared and the fire faded low, the Kansani had marked Rion not just with paint and words, but with steel and string. The bow over his shoulder was carved like a branch pulled from the wind itself. The machete at his side—new, clean, deadly—felt like it belonged there all along.
He had come into their world as a stranger.
Now he walked away as something else.
A witness.
A bearer of the War God's echo.
And soon… a hunter of the blasphemy that dared to wear his face.
He then heard another ping
🩸 Quest Initiated: Blood of the Champion
Type: Critical Path | Medical Recovery | Kansani Rite-Driven
Sacred Purpose:
Save Jorta, champion of the Kansani and living echo of their War God's spirit. His leg—shredded in a duel with Caesar's Legion—has been treated with all the tribe can offer: ash salves, binding chants, and a salvaged stim. It's not enough.
If he is to fight again—if he is to live—they need more. Something beyond tribal medicine. Something from the Old World.
Rion remembers the symbol. A cross in the dirt. A place of healing.
Sula remembers the ruin. The one they do not tread. A place of machines. A place of silence.
Newton Medical Center.
Sub-Objectives:
– Travel to the ruins of Newton Medical Center, located northeast beyond Ironwood Grove
– Locate functioning Old World healing equipment: – Neuromend Injector
– AutoMed Trauma Frame
– Nano-Suture Biogel
– Secure enough technology to stabilize Jorta's wound before full muscular collapse sets in
– Return safely with the medical payload
Rumored Hazards:
– The area has long been avoided by Kansani scouts
– Machines have been seen near the perimeter—silent, learning, moving differently
– No one who has entered has returned to speak of what lies deeper inside
Narrative Note:
Jorta's survival is more than personal.
If he dies, something sacred dies with him.
If he lives, the chant continues.
Projected Rewards:
Jorta Stabilized – survives and potential tutor for Kansani Deathclaw Kenpo
Kansani Reputation Boost – tribe-wide renown and recognition
Companion Perk Unlocked: Sula – "Blood for Blood"
Medical Crafting Unlocks (trauma kits, stim enhancers, burn binders)
......
🎭 Item Acquired: War Mask of the First Echo
Type: Headgear | Armor Class: Light Tactical
Origin: Kansani Forge Rite – Reforged Watcher Plate
Status: Bound (Kansani-recognized bearer of legacy)
📊 Item Stats:
Armor Rating: +1 vs Precision Hits (Face-targeted shots or strikes)Weight: Light (No movement penalty)
✨ Perks & Bonuses:
🧠 Echo of the Inspirer: +10% Intimidation against humanoids.🎭 Painted Spirit: +5% Stealth in ruins, overgrowth, or dusk conditions.🦾 Legacy Sigil – Unbroken Form: Once per long rest, survive fatal hit with 10 HP surge and brief enemy stagger.
🗣 Flavor Text: "This is not just armor. It is a declaration. A laugh in the face of death, worn by those who refuse to fall quietly." – Elder Heka
...
🧥 Updated Item: Horizon Reboot Suit Mk.I – Paint of Purpose Variant
📊 New Effect: Painted of Purpose – Visual Disruption Layer (Kansani Ritual Enhancement)
+10% Dodge Window vs AI targetingSensor Blur: 20% scan accuracy reductionEcho-Walker: Recognized by Kansani as Mask-Touched emissary🔒 Paint Status: Irremovable
🗣 Flavor Text: "Once the War God marks you, the world sees you differently. Machine or man, they'll feel it in their bones—and miss when it matters." — Sula
...
🎯 Item Acquired: Kansani Shortbow – "Windspine"
Type: Light Bow | Weapon Class: Ranged Precision
Origin: Bonewood Craft | War-forged in Ironwood Grove
Status: Gifted – Honor-Bound to Witness
📊 Stats:
Draw Strength: Moderate (balanced for stealth and mobility)Effective Range: 30–60 meters
✨ Perks:
🌬 Whispershot: First shot from stealth does not alert nearby enemies.🏹 Painted Arc: When used while wearing Kansani war paint, arrows arc truer—+5% to precision under stress.
🗣 Flavor Text: "It sings not when drawn—but when loosed. Like breath through leaves." — Kansani Fletcher
...
🔪 Item Acquired: Kansani Forged Blade – "Tooth of the Roar"
Type: Machete | Weapon Class: Heavy Melee
Origin: Kansani Warforge | Crafted from Watcher Spine Alloy
📊 Stats:
Base Damage: HighDurability: ExcellentWeight: Medium
✨ Perks:
🔥 Roaring Edge: +10% damage after Rion is hit in melee.⚒ Resonant Frame: Enhanced stability on blocks and parries.
🗣 Flavor Text: "This is not scrap steel hammered into shape. This is a memory given edge." — Elder Heka
….
Matching items bonus
+15% percent chance for robotic enemies to lose track of your movements.
+10% percent chance for organic enemies to lose track of your movements.
+ 1 Charisma when dealing with Kansani tribe members, 10% percent discount with Kansani merchants
- 1 Charisma when dealing with members of the New Rome Empire/Caesar's Legion 10% price increase with New Rome aligned merchants