Sukuna: The Last Sorcerer 15 (Patreon)

The ink on the parchment dried too quickly in the heat.

Useful as that was, it served as an annoyance.

The heir to the Fire Nation sat beneath the wide brim of a parasol, crimson silk serving its purpose in shading her skin. A brush hovered over the scroll that sat in front of her, posture rigid against high-backed teak as grain shipments from the Southern Isles stared back at her. A disaster… 

More than that, it was a downright travesty.

The quartermaster had miscalculated the tonnage by a margin worthy of corporal punishment, at the very least. Three percent…  Far from an oversight, three percent was a weakness in the supply chain that could starve a battalion during any siege worthy of the title. Azula drew a slash of a line through the man’s name. 

She would have him reassigned to menial labor, his family to the next generation punished in lesser measures. Maybe the coal mines. 

Or, to make the matter simpler, an execution. 

The time to decide would be later, when the heat was less of a bother.

Azula set the brush down, bamboo clicking sharply against the table as she lifted her eyes to the sounds of combat and grunting.

The courtyard was nothing but white stone spaced perfectly in a perfect square, the training space thick with the same clean and quick-to-fade smoke that always lingered in the presence of lesser firebenders.

He fought shirtless atop the stones, dark skin gleaming with each movement in the center of the training yard. The black markings on his flesh, a historical artifact in and of themselves, stood out even moreso with the sheen of sweat coating his upper body. Courtiers, scribes and historians had been eager to curry favor with her regarding information on them, yet they were as useless as always.

Once again, it was the Fire Sages — old and decrepit as they were — who managed to prove they were something of use. It was from them the princess learned as much as she did and even more so about those markings; about how each one had a story to it, a connection to a dark spirit of infamy in the history of the Fire Nation.

So infamous in fact that to be cursed with one was to live with the knowledge that said crime defined your person.

And that was only one.

Eighteen of those very same cursed marks shifted and rippled with every movement her Avatar made, what Azula knew to be something more than simple ink twisting over lean muscle. Each drew the eye, as he drew hers; a weapon that possessed no concept of its own danger, a baby moose-lion dropped into a cage with blind rats and told to play.

Hm. Azula raised her tea to her lips. 

In all fairness, the guards surrounding him were neither blind, nor were they playing.

They were some of the finest men the Fire Nation had to offer, men that had faced boulders the size of houses with gritted teeth and a will to live. Against charging ostrich-horses and Water Tribe raids, they had proven themselves worthy to serve another day.

Yet, right now, they were struggling to survive against a boy of four and ten. 

She had mandated these sessions nearly three weeks past, placing them into official record and requisitioning both men and resources for her purposes. The stated purpose, filed with the Minister of War, was the conditioning and training of the newest asset of the Fire Nation. The actual purpose was…

Well, vivisection was as good a word as any.

Golden eyes tracked the path of a spear-wielding corporal as he circled Ryo at a fair distance, another guard echoing his path. Smart. Even with her Lord Father silencing any rumors of the Dark Avatar’s return and his first public ‘appearance’, news had spread regardless, and these men had at least some understanding of what they were facing.

Azula smiled. Certainly enough to know fear.

Both guards moved in at once, spears thrusting out in a pincer that would have gutted any normal man. 

Yet, Ryo just shifted where he stood and both spearheads met empty air, boxing him in but doing no harm to his flesh.

Dark hands snapped out, both wooden shafts held fast. There was no pulling or tugging, at least not from Ryo, as he held the weapons in place. The corporal and his partner threw their entire armored weight into pulling the spears back, boots scraping desperately against the white stone. 

Yet, as Azula watched, her Avatar’s arms barely even shook.

Instead, he grinned.Both men went flying back with a single push back from him, their own force and his sending them off their feet and onto their backs with a heavy crash of armor.

A third guard rushed forward, a heavy jian — live steel, of course — aimed at Ryo’s ribs. The Dark Avatar grunted, feet planted as he stepped inside the arc of the blade. Eyes didn’t even glance down at the lethal edge, attention focused forward as he drove his fist into the man’s chest plate.

Golden eyes narrowed, the moment before impact clear as the sun above. Weakness.

Ryo pulled his blows, that was something Azula knew well. Yet, these three weeks had done little to dissuade him of that foolish concept. Even with men commanded to and paid very well to kill him, he still held back that inhuman strength of his as if mercy such as that served any purpose.

Yet, even with restraint, his strike still struck with enough force to dent the lacquered armor and send the guard sliding back to the point his boots left long scuff marks on the stone. Even still, it was little more than a push. 

Nothing like she’d seen from him in combat.

Nothing like the strikes that shattered ribcages and punctured the lungs beneath. 

Sergeant Chen rushed deeper into the ring, leaping over the groaning broadsword wielder like an afterthought. The massive slab of a man was surprisingly agile for his size, shaped more like one of the Earth Kingdom than a denizen of the Fire Islands. Jaw square and heavily scarred from earthbent shrapnel, he was just as blunt as the mud-slingers he faced in battle.

Never was that more obvious than right at this moment, as the man dropped his weapons and raised both bare hands. 

Red eyes blinked up at the big man. “Hey, you… you don’t wanna do this…”

Chen didn’t seem to hear as he lunged forward, surprising Ryo with that same odd agility that belonged to much smaller men. The surprise did not end there, the sergeant contorting his grapple against the smaller boy until thick arms wrapped themselves tight around Ryo from behind, hands locked together to trap the boy in a near-perfect hold.

“...okay, not bad, but…” Ryo simply shrugged.

The movement had no technique to it, no martial skill to note. It was the dismissive lift of shoulders one might use when asked a question they did not care to answer. But the physical force behind it spoke otherwise.

The iron grip shattered as the boy bucked and the massive sergeant flew backwards as if shot from a cannon. Another armored body became a dark blur traversing the courtyard, yet farther and further than all others had gone. Finally, Chen came to a hard stop outside of the arena, body collapsing against the far retaining wall. 

Chen crumpled to the ground, a groaning heap of dented armor and limp limbs.

“Sorry!” Ryo held up a hand, a wince on his face as his voice cut through the sudden, dead silence of the courtyard. Despite his attempt, he didn’t sound all that sorry. "You good, man? Swear I barely pushed."

Chen let out a rattle of a graon from the base of a wall.

The remaining guards froze and Azula chose that moment to rise, all attention turning back to her where it belonged as she stood. The servant sitting behind her closed the silk parasol with a sharp snap that echoed like a whip crack across the yard.

“Enough.”

Her voice had all the volume of a conversation yet it served its purpose; the absolute cutting edge of imperial authority needing no such impropriety as a raised voice. “The display has become tedious. Guards, you are dismissed. See to your wounded and clear yourselves from my sight.”

The men practically scrambled in their rush to bow in her direction before rushing to drag Chen and the others out of the training arena. 

Azula watched Ryo as the men cleared the space, amber eyes meeting red. “My turn.”

Fine hands untied the heavy crimson sash of her formal outer robe, expensive silk sliding free from her shoulders to pool on the bench beside her inkwell. Beneath it, she wore her training leathers — form-fitting in dark red and black — perfect for ease of use. 

After all, authority was an illusion if one could not enforce it with one’s own hands.

Patient steps carried her atop the large white blocks into the center of the yard, Azula in no mood to hurry while Ryo smeared sweat deeper into dirt as the back of his hands scrubbed at his face.

“You mentioned a technique.” Ryo’s head tilted to the side as she spoke, blinking at her words like he didn’t understand her. “After our first mission at Ember’s Rest, a method of announcing your presence.”

Ryo’s arms fell to his sides, muscles tightening beneath the black ink. “...yeeeaah?” He dragged the word out, the hollow tone returning to his voice as he looked away; eyes on the far wall where Chen had dented the stone.

“Show me.”

“Uhh… I mean, nah, it’s kinda draining.” A hand rose to scratch the back of his neck. “Takes a lot out of me and slaps me with a headache too. Like, a bad one.”

“You will rest after the demonstration.” It was no simple request. As much as she respected the ancient spirit, she needed to see the depths of that power again; even if only sparingly. “Show me.”

Bright eyes lowered as she commanded him again, a hollowness to them that spoke of as much irritation as it did actual exhaustion. She would allow him that much, especially as she was dealing with a spirit, not a servant. Spiteful compliance is still compliance. 

“Whatever, princess. Your funeral.”

Those same red eyes closed fully as the Dark Avatar stood in the center of the arena, hands at his sides. There was no breath of air, no obnoxious gathering of chi in the deeply obvious manner of a base firebender. 

No, Ryo simply stood there, arms hanging loose, with his eyes shut..

Then the air bent.

Azula, a good distance away, felt the breath leave her chest.

A weight dropped onto her shoulders, no physical mass there to be seen as she nearly toppled over. What… Suffocating.

Suffocating and crushing and overwhelming, it bypassed flesh and bone entirely and squeezed her lungs and heart directly. The sunlight hitting the white stones suddenly felt dim, as though the sky itself was cowering.

Then, the true weight hit.

Raw will bled out of the boy just across from her, an unseen tide of pure hostility. Thick and sickening, it tasted of blood and bile and dead things in the back of Azula's throat.

Along the far walls of the courtyard, the sconces that held fire of their own hissed. Bright yellow flames guttered, shrinking down to sputtering embers before dying completely.

Azula heard the clatter of wood on stone.

At the far archway, a hundred feet away, the remaining guards were collapsing. One had already dropped his spear as he fell right to his knees, heavy hands clawing at his throat as if he were drowning in dry air. Another gagged violently, face bloodless and eyes rolling back in his head.

No… Azula’s jaw locked. No! Her teeth ground together hard enough that it hurt, but pain was nothing she was not familiar with. Never!

Yet, her knees bent.

She did not order them to, her body acting on its own and entirely independently of her own will in the face of a far greater one. 

One who wished her dead and decapitated and defiled andandand-No.

Azula’s jaw clicked, legs locking in place as she held tight. Even as her thighs trembled against the invisible weight, she held fast. Even as her breath came sharper and faster than it ever had, she held tight through the feel of powdered glass in her lungs. No. The pressure wanted her on her knees. 

It demanded she press her forehead to the white stone. 

It demanded she beg and plead and cry for the right to exist. No. 

Five fingers formed a fist. I am heir to the Fire Nation. A princess of the line of Azul I, bearing his name as well. I am royalty. 

She bowed to no one but the Fire Lord.

Through the swimming edges of her vision, she looked at Ryo.

He was shaking, his own body fighting him nearly as much as hers was.

Yet he was smiling all the same, a sharp-toothed hollow grin stretched wide across his face as a single line of dark red leaked from the corner of his nose and tracked its way down his lip. A tongue flicked out and licked it away, red eyes glowing like twin drops of blood as he watched her suffer.

This is what they fear. The thought cut through the animal panic in her mind, a knife of knowledge granting her clarity. This is why the Fire Sages whisper in the corridors. 

Not because he can throw a heavy punch. Not because he cannot be burned. 

Because Sukuna is power itself. Unbound, unearned, and completely unchained.

At once, the pressure vanished as quickly as it came and air rushed back into the courtyard with the sound of a thunderclap.

The silence that followed was far from absolute, not with the pathetic sounds of grown men weeping and emptying their stomachs against stone.

Controlling her chest and easing the pace of her breath once again, Azula straightened her posture slowly, easing her spine back into perfect alignment worthy of a princess. 

In the center of the yard, Ryo let out a shuddering breath, the glow dulling from his eyes as they returned to their normal flat crimson. He swayed on his feet, looking suddenly very tired, the fourteen-year-old boy bleeding back through the monster.

He looked her way, that wicked grin softening as he waved her way. “You good?”

For a long second, Azula could not speak, throat too bruised from the inside. 

When her voice finally returned, it was not the crisp, imperial sneer of the crown princess. It was a breath. A whisper of pure avarice, dragged from the very bottom of her lungs.

"Power."