God Obliterating Vajra [Esoteric Dark Fantasy]

"The same broken sword I behead my enemies with I shall use to decapitate my self. In this sense I cut through the pretense of ego and non-ego. In this sense I cut through duality and nonduality. And in this cutting shall truth arise. By slashing through truth and untruth are the enemies lies flensed away. And made to melt, like darkness upon the breaking dawn.

Do you not know? That truth is not like a beaming ray of sungleam? But the half-remembered and downtrodden seed beneath the rice paddies?"

The Gutter Sutras by Thrice-Awoken Dattreya Wairini

She emerged from the forest's throat. A birth of grime and muck and blood. A girl carved from a wound. And yet. And still. Beauty unmatched. A blasphemy of form.

Rengka raised Pestilent Thorn.

Its sheath was broken. A scabbard of air and memory. The sound it made was not of metal, but of a spine pulled taut. A nerve-string plucked. The air shivered. Skin remembered it was only a fragile covering.

No flower buckler now. No shield but the speed in her hands. The scorn in her heart. A geography of contempt mapped in the set of her jaw. The air tasted of coming violence. A metal tang on the tongue.

She stepped into the clearing. A stage of river-silt and moonlight.

And Akazha unleashed her darkness.

A beam of uncompromising black. Not a light, but an un-light. A maw. It ate the world around it. The light, the sound, the hope. It pulled. A gravity of negation. Rengka felt her soul lean toward it. A leaf toward flame. She planted her feet. Applied the counter-pressure of her meditation. A single, lucid thought in the whirlpool: I am here. I am here.

Trasan did not resist. He opened.

A three-layered barrier bloomed around him. A lotus of forced physics. With one of his Dark Hands—a limb of solidified shadow, with weight and heft and texture—he flung Raxri from the beam's devouring radius.

Then he cracked open his back.

A seam in reality. Just for a moment.

Three torsoes erupted. A violent blossoming. Three Dread Gods. The Trisintaksra. Their heads lolled, incompletely decapitated. Eyes bulged, wet and sightless. Fangs spiraled from their mouths, a geometry of hunger. Their bodies were the black of a dead star. Shock-white hair, a corpse's halo. Multiple arms, grasping, a nest of serpents. Veritable Semidevils of the Highest Order.

Bound to the High Chief's body by Will alone. What occultic sciences stitch terror into the space between skin and flesh? What prayers suture a hell to your own spine? He was not a man. He was a womb. A carriage for monstrosities.

He let them go.

They met the annihilating dark not with barrier, but with appetite.

The Trisintaksra caught the beam. Began to consume it. To eat it. Thick, creamy soup of nothingness. Umbral hands grasped. Clawed. Ebon teeth gnawed. Crunched. The sound was not of impact, but of digestion. A screaming that was also a feast. They screamed as if undergoing the karma-cleansing rituals of Hell, and found it nourishing.

It worked. The Black Magick: Trisintaksra Barrier swallowed the beam.

The cost was written in Trasan's body. His knees buckled. The Dread Gods dissipated. Eating their way back into the talisman-cage of his flesh. A slow, sucking return.

"Ngh!" A sound punched from his lungs. He fell to his knees. Then, a scream. Not of pain, but of expenditure. The price of housing gods.

The Scour Magick was not yet spent. A final, spiteful thread of black erupted from Akazha's hands.

Trasan's screaming turned to laughter. A wet, tearing sound.

Pestilent Thorn found its home. It ripped into Akazha's back. A punctuation of steel. Erupted from her belly in a bloom of red petals.

"Ack—" The magick died in her throat. The last of the Scour beam dissipated into the nothingness that is nothing. A final, quiet exhalation.

Raxri's scream was a thing torn from them. "No!"

Akazha was not done. The body is a temporary contract. Her hands moved, faster than sight. A final mudra. A signature in blood and air. She dissolved. Not into nothing, but into smoke and blood. A memory of a woman.

She reformed behind Rengka. A ghost with purpose. Nothing but her hands. She summoned Dark. Rippled it into a blade-form. A shard of solidified night. She struck to pierce.

Rengka shifted. A dancer's intuition. The Dark Blade only struck her shoulder. A kiss of cold fire.

Momentum is a language Rengka spoke fluently. As she spun from the dodge, she struck. Pestilent Thorn was not its rapier self, but a broadsword. A butcher's tool. It did not pierce, it ripped. It tore through Akazha's side. A red geography unveiled.

Akazha tried to swallow her scream. It escaped as a choked sigh.

Raxri, with a desperate call to their Monsoon Dancer, flickered forward. A skipped heartbeat in the world's pulse.

Past Trasan.

Straight to Rengka.

Raxri blinked.

The world fractured.

They were a passenger. A spectator in the vessel of their own flesh. They saw their own face from a third perspective. The mien it had taken was not their own. It was their Killing Intent given skin. A sharper jaw. Eyes of polished obsidian. A smile like a crack in the world.

Is my killing intent… saving me? But I do not wish to kill—

SHUT UP! The voice was not a sound, but a pressure inside their skull. You are on the verge of defeat. Your beloved friends are falling. And you cling to precepts? You think you will survive this without embracing the Path of Killing?

"But to Kill violates the most holy—"

—to be chained to precepts is to forestall your own Awakening. All things are temporary. All things are empty. Your Violence must be Compassionate, but it must be VIOLENCE.

"I… I do not understand!" Their conscience, a small, bright pebble in a black ocean.

Fine, said the Killing Intent, a wave of cold finality. You cling to moralism in a world of bone and consequence. Remember—what is Real is all at once cathartic and traumatic.

The world snapped back into place.

Raxri was returned to their body. Puksa was already sinking deep into Rengka's heart. A truth delivered by the blade.

Rengka scowled. The three of them, a tangled knot of sweat and swords and Dark-Blades. A single, wounded animal.

"Fool," Rengka spat the word like a piece of broken tooth. "You will die here." She reached down. Her hands, slick with her own blood, wrapped around Puksa's hilt. She pulled it out herself. A wet, unsealing. She flung it to the ground. Shattered it with a stomp of her aerosteel boot. The earth at their feet cracked. A spiderweb of finality.

Raxri was out of options. The well was dry. What now?

Akazha's dark blade came down again. Rengka saw it in the twitch of a muscle. In one motion—she pushed Raxri away, a gesture of startling contempt, and parried the Dark-Blade with Pestilent Thorn. Spirit meeting Darkness. A clash of different silences.

Akazha did not let up. A four-hit combo. A desperate, beautiful syntax of destruction. All blocked by Rengka's flashing Thorn. Sparks of contained night.

The Shark Knight unleashed her counter. Five hits. The wicked longknife form of Pestilent Thorn. A poetry of severance. Akazha dodged the first two, countered the third with a low kick, used that kick to kick herself into the air—a twisting, acrobatic evasion of the last two swings.

Stolen story; please report.

In mid-air, Akazha attacked thrice. Three strikes from a falling star. All three, deflected by the Thorn.

Before Akazha could even hit the ground from her somersaulting assault, Rengka lunged. She caught her. Not with hands, but with steel. Skewered her through the heart. A final, perfect strike.

Rengka was pale before. Now she was a ghost. But the blood spilled from Raxri's wound painted her in vivid strokes. Her veins pooled with blackness. The machinations of the Dark. A map of inner night.

"Enough," said Rengka. A period at the end of a sentence.

Akazha screamed. Tears were not water, but liquid pain. "Raxri! Leave me! Go, now!"

Raxri was a stubborn bastard. Have you realized this? A flaw carved into their soul. Instead of flight, they chose flurry. They had one more power to play. A last card. Their hand fulminated with the incandescent energy of the Whorl Hand. A star being born in their palm.

Trasan realized too late. His yell was a torn flag: "Rengka--"

Rengka turned. A slow, beautiful pivot. She turned just as Raxri's Whorl Hand Fist connected with her face.

The world became sound and light.

Skull-cracked. A pottery sound. Teeth flying like scattered seed. Blood splatter painting the air. Rengka hurtled back and away. The forest and the grasses swayed in response to the immense thundering force. A bowing to power.

"Blast! Rengka!" Trasan ran—was that the first time he truly ran?—to where she crashed. A comet's landing site.

Perfect! My moment! Raxri caught Akazha mid-fall. She was a bundle of broken strings. They put her on their back. The weight of a life. And then breathed. Fanned the last few flames of their Force Furnace. A guttering candle.

Raxri hesitated. The mind, even in flight, constructs cages. Even if we escape, will we find Blacklight City? Where to hide? Will our transport be there at dawnbreak? Won't they hunt us, forever, if we do not kill them now?

But I will not be able to kill them now.

Coward. Weakling. The Killing Intent, a cold stone in their gut. The Ultramystic will wield me yet. Understand this, Raxri Uttara—I am known by a different name. If you wish to learn what happened to you, how to make things right, how to topple heaven's pillars, you will have to learn my name. And take it. And use it for yourself. Your consummation is dependent on your understanding of who I am.

Before Raxri could process this—this cryptic inheritance—they saw Trasan turning. A mountain shifting its gaze. He flung out a hand. A Dark Hand extended from the space behind him, grasping, a net of shadows thrown at the Heaven Dancer.

Go!

Go.

Raxri erupted. A full-speed sprint. The Monsoon Dancer Technique made every stride a theft of space. Fifteen feet at a time. They bounded across the mountaintops. Not a person, but bouncing lightning. A fading streak of light.

Trasan saw the futility. His Dark Hands would not catch that light. This is not worth the chase. I will catch the Heaven Dancer as they disembark. A simpler net. He turned to Rengka. She was bleeding. But the Dark is a stubborn root. It kept her alive. For now.

"My beloved." Trasan knelt. The act of kneeling was both devotion and domination. His gauntleted hand traced the outline of her jaw. A caress of cold metal. She looked out listlessly, at some point beyond the world. "I will bring you to the Physicker. But first, promise me, you will hold on."

Somehow, Rengka nodded. Was this devotion? Was this delusion? Was this obliteration? Who's to say which is which? Who's to say it is only one, and not all three at the same time? A face can be a map of many countries.

Trasan's eyes softened. A calculated thaw. "That's my good girl." Like the master manipulator he was, he allowed his face to soften at command. A performance of tenderness. To let Rengka realize—or perhaps, imagine—that underneath his dark and abusive exterior there was a caring and tender man. Ambitious but misunderstood. Demonized for his love.

He reached down and kissed her. She let her bite his lip. A pact sealed in blood. His blackened blood, a healing poison, flowed into her. He let her drink of his Darkblood to empower her, to keep her tethered to this world. And then he kissed her more, to let her realize that she was his. A possession. A beloved weapon.

It was dawnbreak when he finally brought her to the Physicker. The sky was the color of a healing bruise.

Back, in his palace, Saint Ashtasi waited. Sitting upon his own throne. A man carved from patience and stone.

Raxri ran. A body become verb. They did not stop to breathe. Breathing was a luxury for the living. They were a message in a bottle, hurled down the riverbanks. They followed the Great Wetan to its mouth, where it exploded into the sea—a suicide of freshwater into salt.

They turned. Followed the craggy coast until it softened into sand. And then until that sand became the sparse cement and stone of Imos Seaport.

Dawnbreak was beautiful. A lie the world tells itself every day. It created a moment of reprieve. A pocket of silence in the scream. A moment where Raxri knew there was a chance yet for things to get better. Even as it all spiraled worse and worse into deeper and deeper doom. Hope is the last, most persistent parasite.

A few trading vessels drowsed in the seaports. But one great vessel dominated the vista—the Ogre Battle Mech.

A giant. Five hundred feet of primeval war-wrought into a bus. A god of slaughter repurposed for commerce. Its body was a hollowed-out mountain. Upon its chassis, the graffiti of a hundred hands—a vibrant scar tissue. Its six arms were cradles, holding luggage and box-cars, wombs for commuters.

Even now, amidst the commotion that was no doubt about them, people filed in. A makeshift entrance at its knees. For normal height people to board, the Ogre had to kneel. A god genuflecting to the mundane.

It stood upon the waters. Mantra etched onto its feet and legs allowed it to magickally run on water, a blasphemy of physics, like a Monsoon Dancer Cultivator skipping a stone across reality.

Its entire body was a hollowed relic. Parts of its intricate karma-circuitry had been gouged out, replaced with empty space, hallways, ladders. A cathedral of forgotten purpose. It was, in essence, a bus. A vessel. A hearse. In the shape of a beast god.

There! But… where was Sintra Kennin? And Achi Angko? Wouldn't they need to know—

Goton and Isura were there, standing by the cargo. Two pillars of a familiar world. When they saw Raxri approaching, a bloodied stag with a semi-dead Akazha on their back, they beckoned. A frantic semaphore. "What are you carrying?!"

"The Shark Knight Rengka." Raxri's words came in gasps. The world was a thin cloth over a great exhaustion. "And High Chief Trasan. Attacked us in the dead of night."

Goton's eyes widened. A door kicked open. "What?"
Isura scowled. A mask of comprehension. "Hm. He… took matters into his own hands, huh?"

"Not at all! What the hell—"

"Calm, detective." Isura turned to Raxri. A pivot of focus. "You are headed to the Ultramystic, yes?"

Raxri nodded. A single, desperate dip of the chin.

"Good. Go there. Tell them of our plea and our problem. The Ultramystic will help you. But you must go now. We will attempt to expedite the process of loading passengers."

Raxri shook their head. A animal gesture of denial. They gestured to Akazha. A body becoming an object. "But what about—"

"The Ultramystic will be the only one that will be able to heal her. Her wounds seem… unsustainable."

"Yeah," said Goton, his voice a low rumble. "I would wager it's mighty past unsustainable."

"It was a euphemism, officer," said Isura. They adjusted their glasses. A shield of glass and wire. Isura turned to one of the dockworkers. A small crowd had coagulated around them, drawn by the scent of blood and crisis. Isura said something to the dockworkers, a low murmur. Then waved a dismissive hand. He said something about official worker matters. The spell broke. The crowd dissipated, returning to its own dramas.

Officer Isura turned back to Raxri. "Go, now. Blacklight is not far. It is three hours of travel from here."

"W-What about Sintra Kennin—"

"The Spirit Prince?" asked Goton. "Is he not with you…?"

"No. He stayed behind to keep Shark Knight Rengka at bay…"

Goton and Isura looked at each other. A silent conversation passed between them. Isura shrugged, a gesture of profound resignation. "We will find him for you as well. And he will be able to get to you in no time. But for now, please focus on boarding the ship. I do not want Trasan arriving here and causing havoc. There are vulnerable townsmen here."

"Fine," said Raxri, nodding. Now in agitated understanding. Was it okay to be agitated? Agitation was a form of life. "Please, do find Sintra. I am forever in your debt."

"Of course you are," said Goton.

"They are, officer?"

"Yes. And we are in debt forever to them. That is what friends are, is it not?"

Isura grappled with responding seriously or not. The battle was brief. Then, just when they made up their mind, they shook their head instead and said—"Nevermind that. Go, now, Raxri. You will be safe there. We will forestall Trasan as much as we can, should he arrive here."

Raxri knew of no other recourse but to follow the orders. To become a passenger. Perhaps this Ultramystic did have the answers? Not a person, but a place. A destination that was also an solution.

They fell in line. A lingering dockworker, eyes wide with pity and fear, wrapped some of Akazha's wounds in healing gauzes. A temporary holding action against the void.

Raxri asked: "Do you have any potions or medicine for her wounds?" The question was a prayer.

"Wounds like that? I am not so sure, mem," said the dockworker. Their voice was soft, a balm in itself. "Most healing magicks can only heal so much as the physical body can. I do not know how much can be recovered from that." The dockworker shook their head, a gesture as old as grief. "B-But don't worry, mem. I will do my best and bring it to your seat posthaste."

Raxri nodded their gratitude. A transaction of hope.

They turned. Ascended the Ogre Machine's knee. The metal was cool and ridged. Into the opening in the knee, into the vertical chamber. The air inside smelled of oil, old sweat, and salt. The smell of passage.

Raxri found a vacant seat. A hollow in the metal beast. They laid down the wrapped body of Akazha. She still maintained a faint breath. A butterfly's pulse at the wrist. Raxri bit their lip. Will she be able to survive this trip? Even they themselves were banged up and bruised and bloodied, but the adrenaline had seized them, moved them like an indomitable juggernaut. Now, the puppet-master was tired.

Raxri sat and relaxed.

The unspooling was immediate. A violent unraveling. Their Force burned low, embers in ash. Their Spirit was nothing but a faint, thin psychic wind. A phantom, haunting their own corridors.

There was one thing they felt for sure, sitting beside the near-dead Akazha: they were just as tired as she was. Two bodies on the same shelf, waiting.

They were both encrusted in blood and wounds. A shared crust. Raxri hoped, a small, desperate bird in their chest, that they would be able to give Akazha the healing she deserved.

And yet, even as Raxri thought that, they succumbed. The fatigue was a dark, warm sea. They let it take them. They unspooled into it—the smell of sea wind and the groaning of the metal god, they disappeared into the darknesses of rest. A temporary obliteration.