Susanoo Hakase

“He Who Invites Chaos to Bring Order”

A tinker and handyman in his past life, Susanoo only ever sought to bring order to the chaotic world around him. Inventing new tools and making old things better was his calling. The work was never-ending, and many of his inventions failed—but there was always a new project to focus on, something to distract from failure.

His workshop was a madhouse of gears and sprockets, coils and belts, half-finished projects and inoperable machines piled everywhere. Finding new material was a full-time job, but one new invention was meant to change that: a new type of smelter, one that could take in any meltable item and spit out its base metals. It was not going well. Who was he fooling? It wasn’t going anywhere without a functional Essence induction regulator.

With no real choice left, Susanoo abandoned his workshop and headed for the market. The local harvest festival was tomorrow, and merchants had already begun to arrive. As shops bloomed across the square like daffodils, one vendor caught his eye—selling old power sources, all far beyond his means.

“Couldn’t hurt to look, though, could it?” he muttered to no one in particular.

The merchant was busy taking inventory, wares not yet laid out, but that didn’t stop Susanoo. And there it was—beneath a baton crackling with unseen energy—a hearthstone mount. Used, but well-maintained. Smaller than expected, but workable. He reached out slowly, dreamlike, only for the merchant to slap his hand away.

That slap changed everything.

His hand fell instead on the baton. Cold metal—no, not steel, something else. Energy surged through him, teeth buzzing as if they might shatter, and then the vision came.

Creation itself unfolded before him like the control panel of a divine machine. Solar flares leapt from the Undying Sun, switches thrown, levers pulled, the gears of consequence grinding into motion. He saw the other realms and how they fed one another—how shrinking one caused another to grow, how imposing order only bred further chaos.

If Chaos could not be ordered, then perhaps Chaos could be made to become Ordered.

The vision spanned centuries—small actions rippling through eternity, becoming tsunamis of possibility. That possibility was the Wyld.

Then the vision ended.

Spears surrounded him. Orders were shouted. Exaltation? Him? He barely had time to process the accusation before pain exploded through his ribs as a spear pierced his chest.

He knew that if the spear was removed, he would die.

What followed was a blur of light and motion. He swung the baton blindly—and it answered. Golden Essence erupted, tearing through armor and bone. His anima flared like the noonday sun. Another man fell, hurled aside like debris.

Accused of something impossible, wielding a weapon of a bygone age, Susanoo fled.

Three homes and a year later, he learned to never stay still. Like a deer sensing a predator, he grew comfortable with discomfort. The wilderness made hiding easier, and necessity turned him into a relentless persistence hunter. He endured hunger, exhaustion, paranoia—and survived.

His pursuers named him when they thought he couldn’t hear. “He invites chaos… and order follows.” Susanoo took the words and wore them like armor.

Boats came next. Boats became something to fear.

Driven onto the sea during a violent storm, sorcery clashed with wind and lightning. Essence screamed through timber. When the storm passed, no ships remained. No survivors were reported. Susanoo washed ashore days later, half-dead and shaking, with a new hatred for the ocean and a new fascination with its power.

He drifted until he reached Great Forks—a city strange enough to ignore him so long as he stayed useful. Twenty years ago, it became the closest thing to stability he had known.

Fifteen years ago, he discovered a ruined Manse and within it an Alchemical Exalt: Dreams of Past Futures. Together they repaired it, and Dreams taught Susanoo control—along with a darker truth.

Solar Exaltation, Dreams claimed, was an infection. A flaw in Creation.

Susanoo didn’t fully believe him. But believing would have made the responsibility unbearable.

When Dreams departed, Susanoo remained as steward of the Manse, hearthstone in hand, and for the first time in decades, something resembling a home.

He filled it with work.

Constructs followed—Xylohi, Nestor and its sub-units, Nibbler, Sly Rathers—machines of purpose and personality. Word spread. Some called him a spirit. Others a mad god of scrap and gears. Merchants simply knew he did good work and asked no questions.

Time changed him. His hair turned green and stopped growing. His skin yellowed. His nails grew claw-like. Eventually, he stopped caring how strange he looked.

Rumors returned. The hunt resumed, driven by descendants chasing stories instead of truth. Susanoo did nothing to dispel the myth.

He has been running for thirty years. He is fifty-five. He knows his former fiancée is alive and happy, and that is enough. He does not know what became of his parents. Some memories are stored away like tools he can’t bear to discard.

Susanoo Hakase keeps moving. Keeps building. Keeps inviting chaos and trying, stubbornly, to make something orderly emerge from the wreckage.

Because someone has to.