It was during one of the many minor wars he’d participated in that he’d first come across one of the creatures. It was as foreign to this world as the Power itself. His magic had given him an instinctive fear of the new arrival. The Power actually feared the creature. It was a predator, and anyone with magic was its prey.
Yet, even as impressive and dangerous as it was by itself, the creature was merely a scout for a much greater being. If not eliminated quickly, it would alert its master to the presence of magic here on this world. Okubo began to think of the creature as a pathfinder of sorts, blazing a trail for its master. If the master followed, everyone with magic would be destroyed in the ensuing feeding frenzy, and the Power would flee this world as it had fled other worlds before. The Enemy would leave the Earth as nothing more than a lifeless husk.
The presence of such a profound threat had given Okubo the Wanderer a purpose, and he had become Okubo the Hunter. He had been alone and unprepared when he’d caught the first Pathfinder in the remains of a desolate village in the heart of Africa. The encounter had nearly cost him his life, but he had come away more experienced and with the sure knowledge that more of the creatures would come in the future.
That first confrontation had proven that he was the strongest warrior in history, but there was strength in numbers. So he had set out to build himself an army. Okubo was a charismatic leader, and a warrior and wizard without peer. Some followed because they understood the importance of their duty, others for glory, or power, or money. The ultimate reasons did not matter. He now had a small army of four hundred and fifty men at his back, each one picked for their magic, skills, and courage. Recruited in his travels, most were his countrymen, but he did not turn away barbarians as well. He had Chinese followers, a handful of Westerners, and even a young Russian holy man. As long as they were useful, they could serve. All of them were fanatically devoted to his cause. Okubo had named these warriors the Genyosha, his Brotherhood of the Dark Ocean.
They had followed the trail of the new Pathfinder for weeks, across deep forests, treacherous mountains, and scorching sands. Since most of the men of Dark Ocean were Nipponese, the Chinese military had taken them for some mercenary invasion force and attempted to stop them. Each time the fools had paid with their lives, but every skirmish had slowed them down and given the Pathfinder that much more time to gather its strength, which meant that it, too, would be stronger than last time.
If life had taught him anything, it was that the strongest would always prevail.
The army of the Enemy stretched before him like a gangrenous rot across the desert. Flesh mutilated, twisted, and regrown, the leering abominations barely retained any semblance of humanity. These creations were an insult to the senses. Their existence offended Okubo to the core of his soul. He could feel his magic within, recoiling in fear at the hungry presence of the Pathfinder.
Three words made up the totality of Okubo’s battle orders to the warriors of Dark Ocean. Kill them all.
And then he charged.
The first wave of Enemy troops fell before him in an instant, their flesh charring, their muscles twitching with uncontrollable spasms as crackling lightning leapt through their ranks. Okubo followed, a katana in each hand, turning and slicing any creature foolish enough to get in his way. Most human beings blessed with magic had access to but one small area of the Power, but Okubo alone could instinctively choose from many, and as one type of magic was exhausted, he would pick another. The second wave of soldiers burst into flames, the third froze solid and were shattered by his blows.
The men of Dark Ocean followed, but they were mere mortals. They could not keep up, but as Okubo cut a path of blood through the army, the Dark Ocean mopped up the chaos left in his wake.
The fourth wave was channeling their stolen magic, trying to shield themselves from his fury. These poor slaves had been Actives once. So Okubo quickly picked a different point from the tangled geometric mass of the Power, bent space, and stepped through to appear behind them. Another shift, and now he had the strength of ten men, and his swords cleaved through limbs as if they were grass.
The fifth wave had firearms. Time seemed to slow as ball and shot streaked through the falling bodies around him. The Power answered his plea, hardening his flesh to the consistency of rock as the projectiles ricocheted away to tear through more of the twisted peasants. Moving faster than the gunners could aim, he attacked. Okubo broke one of his swords cleaving through a pelvis, so he picked up the dropped musket, shot another corrupted solider, then used the musket as a club to bludgeon four others to death.
Sixth wave. This Pathfinder was a manipulator of living flesh, and did not limit itself to humans alone. The mighty beasts before him may have been oxen or horses at one point in time, only now they loomed over him like the oni from stories used to frighten children, but they burned like anything else.
He stepped through the fire. Seventh wave. Okubo turned his body to mist and stepped through a shield wall. A wave of telekinetic force rolled outward, flinging the troops away. His other sword had been left lodged in the skull of an ox-man-beast, and his musket club had been reduced to splinters, so he took up a spear and returned to his work.
Move. Slash. Lunge. Stab. Block. Repeat. The Power was a living thing. It needed time to rest and regain its strength just as any living thing would during such exertion. So Okubo took a moment to simply rely upon his own natural skill. The spear moved in a blur, piercing hearts and slashing throats. He stepped between the blades, relying on years of training against the clumsy yet incredibly strong attacks of the Enemy’s forces. Move. Slash. Lunge. Stab. Block. Repeat.
Yet no warrior, no matter how well trained, could survive for long in such a storm of steel and lead. They were closing. The enemy strokes were drawing nearer. His arms were tiring. The Power refreshed, Okubo reached deep inside and caused the very energy in the air to collect and then explode.
There were no waves now, only a red circle in the middle of the Pathfinder’s army. The world was carnage. The desert was wet with slaughter. Okubo was its king.
“Face me, coward!” Okubo roared.
The Pathfinder itself appeared.
The warrior Okubo prepared for the greatest fight of his life.
Okubo knelt on the rocks, facing the rising sun, deep in thought. Over half of his Dark Ocean had died gloriously in the battle, their bodies strewn across the desert, intermingled with the corpses of the Pathfinder’s army. Okubo’s armor was broken and hanging loose on his body, his clothing was tattered, and all of it was coated in sticky blood, though not a single drop of it was his. His body had suffered wounds sufficient to kill a mortal man fifty times over, but the Power had saved him, hardening his tissues against blows and immediately healing any internal damage.
The Power had kept him alive for a reason… It required a champion.