The boundaries between the seen and unseen fractured beneath the presence of Kinslayer's metamorphosis. Darkness pooled across the scorched battlefield like spilled oil, creeping through shattered stone and molten fissures before swallowing the wasteland beneath a blanket of living shadow.
The air trembled into gales.. Space warped like stressed fabric.. It seemed as though reality itself recoiled from the thing standing before the wounded Executioner.
But Rao did not care..
The dying Mazoku warrior stared into the abyssal silhouette before him with eyes devoid of wonder.
Devoid of fear.. hesitation.. or even reverence for this glorious battle.
Only rage churned within those ivory voids.
In this state, Rao was little more than primal instinct given flesh. He could not comprehend cosmic truths.. nor could he understand or recognize the significance of Kinslayer's transformation.
All his instincts understood was failure.
Despite his desperate efforts, his prey still drew breath.. refusing to die. Refusing to yield before the extent of his might. A true testament to the resilience of his foe, as well as an egregious insult..
A low growl escaped his ruined throat.. A subtle effort that alone shook the entire wasteland.
Rao's mangled fingers curled into trembling fists as the muscles along his ruined body tightened.
Then he inhaled, and the atmosphere physically convulsed.
The terrain ruptured for miles in every direction as Rao used Shinjutsu to seize hold of the world itself. Naten surged upward through unseen channels beneath Vescrutia's crust and poured toward the Executioner in endless torrents.
The shattered remains of forests bent inward. Clouds twisted into spiraling vortexes overhead. The air itself seemed to collapse toward the Executioner as though reality had become trapped within the pull of an invisible singularity.
And as Rao continued drawing breath, the wounds across his body began to twitch and mend. Although, incredibly slowly.. It was significant .
The same energy he was pulling into his lungs from the world around him was simultaneously stitching ruined flesh together strand by strand. Fractured bones creaked as they realigned.. Torn muscle reattached itself. Damaged organs struggled toward function once more.
Even his soul began to mend the wounds carved into it by the Crimson Orchid.
This was the true purpose of this trance. It was a restorative, hibernative technique geared toward repairing spiritual lacerations by using the planet as an engine.. which in turn, allowed his body to heal as well. He simply needed to rely on his primal reflexes until the process was done.. but his rage wouldn't allow it to reach that point.
Entire fault lines widened beneath Rao's feet as he continued to inhale.
Molten rock erupted from fissures stretching across the horizon as Vescrutia itself groaned beneath the burden of what was coming. Kinslayer's aura pressed against him like a furnace of gravitational force. But Rao persisted through the vibrational barrage from his voice.
His jaw slowly became wider.. and wider.. until it seemed impossible that flesh and bone could withstand the strain. And he compressed every joule of energy he amassed into a single point held behind his fangs.
Then Rao roared, but this time, the otherworldly attack was different.
The first wave had been a cataclysm.
An indiscriminate detonation that sought to annihilate everything unfortunate enough to exist within its reach. This time it was more focused. Like a personal execution. Rao released a piercing pillar of incandescent doom from his unhinged jaw that crossed the wasteland in an instant. And the beam itself was massive— large enough to dwarf entire Kingdoms in its shadow as it ripped bedrock into the darkened skies enroute to Kinslayer.
The Throes of Prophecy
-
The Bhalian Empire
- War Herald
- Posts: 95
- Joined: Sun Jan 14, 2024 4:09 pm
Re: The Throes of Prophecy
The canopy of Kinslayer’s black locs swayed, not in the wind, but in response to the rhythmic, hypnotic pulses of his own aura—a tide of obsidian shadow that clung to him like a second skin. Beneath those heavy locks, his eyes—hollow, ancient, and utterly indifferent—remained fixed on Rao.
Rao was an anomaly. To watch the mortal pull life from Vescrutia, to witness the planet itself mend his wounds and soothe his burning spirit, was to watch a dance of divine synchronicity. For a moment, Kin had almost felt the stirrings of a question he had long buried: Who are the true villains here? B’halia or humanity?
But Kin’s empathy was a cold, distant thing. Rao’s power was formidable, drawing from realms Kin understood only in abstract terms. The Mazoku’s connection to the planet ran deeper than mere magic; it was symbiotic, spiritual, almost divine. Where Kin drew from the void—the origin of all things—Rao drew from life itself.
And yet despite its prominence, its power, it was...
Limited.
Kin felt the foundations of reality like a seasoned sailor felt the tides. Where Rao manipulated the planet's energy, Kin commanded the very seams that stitched existence together.
Time.
Reality
Space.
The black canvas upon which all creation was painted. These were not powers to be wielded; they were extensions of his being, born from the primordial chaos that predated light itself.
Rao, the Mazoku, stood trembling with the exertion of his craft. He was a testament to persistence, a collection of scars and stories earned through blood. Kin could see it all—the tapestries of struggle, the endless hours of discipline etched into the young warrior’s soul. It was impressive. It was, in any other context, worthy of honor. But Kin’s anchor was not built on respect. It was built on the defiance of the mortal condition.
"I must thank you, Mazoku," Kin’s voice drifted, resonant and devoid of warmth. "You have helped me come to terms with things that I have been fighting to accept."
Rao did not answer. He was channeling, his spirit raw and exposed as he prepared a Primordial Roar. The air grew brittle, fracturing under the pressure of his intent.
"Earlier," Kin continued, his shadow-coils slithering in the air like predatory serpents, " I asked your fellow what mattered most. The form of a thing, or its nature. But now, I have my own answer."
The Primordial Roar erupted. It was a torrential column of searing energy, a blinding defiance that threatened to scour the very earth clean. It tore toward Kin, a golden sun manifesting in the dark.
Kin did not move. He did not brace for impact. He reached out with his mind—and the manifested night beneath his feet erupted in several coils of black that shimmered like moving serpents.
This was space itself thickening, turning from an opaque barrier of absolute density. The roar hit the barrier without piercing it. Instead, the beam suffered the indignity of bending. It swirled, curling like liquid gold around an invisible, swirling vortex. Kin wasn’t blocking the attack; he was rewriting the geometry of the immediate area.
Rao’s expression shifted from ferocity to dawning, hollow terror. He felt it then—the heavy, suffocating pressure of his own technique being folded back upon his reality. Kin was not just a fighter; he was the master of the seams. He captured the roaring energy within a sphere of finite, isolated reality.
"My form matters not," Kin whispered, though his voice boomed within the collapsing pocket of space. "My nature matters not."
The trapped beam pulsed, frantic and trapped, reflecting off the warped planes of reality like a dying star in a mirrored box. Kin tightened his grip. The sphere shrank. The roar, once a weapon of cataclysmic liberation, became a volatile, compressed burden that turned inward. It did not explode outward to level the landscape. It imploded, a gravitational suicide that drew all light into a singular, agonizing point of collapse.
Reality screamed as it snapped back into alignment. The correction was absolute.
A sudden, towering eruption tore upward, a pillar of force so focused and intense it punched through the sky. Clouds were shredded like lace, and the higher atmosphere groaned as the shockwave pierced the asteroid belt, shattering leagues of stone into celestial dust.
Then, silence.
The dust settled, and the last vestiges of Kin’s technique dissipated, bleeding back into the unseen seams of the world. Standing amidst the scorched, obsidian ruin, Kin watched the empty space where the Mazoku had been. There was no victory in his gaze, only a lingering, cold clarity.
" I am darkness itself," Kin murmured to the empty air, his black locs finally coming to rest. "I am void. I become what I must to achieve what I must. I am the arbiter of change, the agent of chaos, and its architect."
He looked up at the stars, those distant, mocking pinpricks of light that governed the destinies of lesser things. He felt no tether to them, no debt to the dogma of B’halia, and no kinship with the mortals who bled for status or salvation.
" While others may cling to fate and destiny," he said, his presence fading until he was little more than a shadow cast by the dying embers of the battle, " I am the reflection of the before—the silence from which such notions were sired."
Rao was an anomaly. To watch the mortal pull life from Vescrutia, to witness the planet itself mend his wounds and soothe his burning spirit, was to watch a dance of divine synchronicity. For a moment, Kin had almost felt the stirrings of a question he had long buried: Who are the true villains here? B’halia or humanity?
But Kin’s empathy was a cold, distant thing. Rao’s power was formidable, drawing from realms Kin understood only in abstract terms. The Mazoku’s connection to the planet ran deeper than mere magic; it was symbiotic, spiritual, almost divine. Where Kin drew from the void—the origin of all things—Rao drew from life itself.
And yet despite its prominence, its power, it was...
Limited.
Kin felt the foundations of reality like a seasoned sailor felt the tides. Where Rao manipulated the planet's energy, Kin commanded the very seams that stitched existence together.
Time.
Reality
Space.
The black canvas upon which all creation was painted. These were not powers to be wielded; they were extensions of his being, born from the primordial chaos that predated light itself.
Rao, the Mazoku, stood trembling with the exertion of his craft. He was a testament to persistence, a collection of scars and stories earned through blood. Kin could see it all—the tapestries of struggle, the endless hours of discipline etched into the young warrior’s soul. It was impressive. It was, in any other context, worthy of honor. But Kin’s anchor was not built on respect. It was built on the defiance of the mortal condition.
"I must thank you, Mazoku," Kin’s voice drifted, resonant and devoid of warmth. "You have helped me come to terms with things that I have been fighting to accept."
Rao did not answer. He was channeling, his spirit raw and exposed as he prepared a Primordial Roar. The air grew brittle, fracturing under the pressure of his intent.
"Earlier," Kin continued, his shadow-coils slithering in the air like predatory serpents, " I asked your fellow what mattered most. The form of a thing, or its nature. But now, I have my own answer."
The Primordial Roar erupted. It was a torrential column of searing energy, a blinding defiance that threatened to scour the very earth clean. It tore toward Kin, a golden sun manifesting in the dark.
Kin did not move. He did not brace for impact. He reached out with his mind—and the manifested night beneath his feet erupted in several coils of black that shimmered like moving serpents.
This was space itself thickening, turning from an opaque barrier of absolute density. The roar hit the barrier without piercing it. Instead, the beam suffered the indignity of bending. It swirled, curling like liquid gold around an invisible, swirling vortex. Kin wasn’t blocking the attack; he was rewriting the geometry of the immediate area.
Rao’s expression shifted from ferocity to dawning, hollow terror. He felt it then—the heavy, suffocating pressure of his own technique being folded back upon his reality. Kin was not just a fighter; he was the master of the seams. He captured the roaring energy within a sphere of finite, isolated reality.
"My form matters not," Kin whispered, though his voice boomed within the collapsing pocket of space. "My nature matters not."
The trapped beam pulsed, frantic and trapped, reflecting off the warped planes of reality like a dying star in a mirrored box. Kin tightened his grip. The sphere shrank. The roar, once a weapon of cataclysmic liberation, became a volatile, compressed burden that turned inward. It did not explode outward to level the landscape. It imploded, a gravitational suicide that drew all light into a singular, agonizing point of collapse.
Reality screamed as it snapped back into alignment. The correction was absolute.
A sudden, towering eruption tore upward, a pillar of force so focused and intense it punched through the sky. Clouds were shredded like lace, and the higher atmosphere groaned as the shockwave pierced the asteroid belt, shattering leagues of stone into celestial dust.
Then, silence.
The dust settled, and the last vestiges of Kin’s technique dissipated, bleeding back into the unseen seams of the world. Standing amidst the scorched, obsidian ruin, Kin watched the empty space where the Mazoku had been. There was no victory in his gaze, only a lingering, cold clarity.
" I am darkness itself," Kin murmured to the empty air, his black locs finally coming to rest. "I am void. I become what I must to achieve what I must. I am the arbiter of change, the agent of chaos, and its architect."
He looked up at the stars, those distant, mocking pinpricks of light that governed the destinies of lesser things. He felt no tether to them, no debt to the dogma of B’halia, and no kinship with the mortals who bled for status or salvation.
" While others may cling to fate and destiny," he said, his presence fading until he was little more than a shadow cast by the dying embers of the battle, " I am the reflection of the before—the silence from which such notions were sired."
-
The Yaarou Clan
- Drifter
- Posts: 129
- Joined: Tue Nov 05, 2024 6:42 pm
Re: The Throes of Prophecy
The battlefield had finally grown silent..
The celestial echoes of Rao's voice had faded into silence..
And the spatial distortion left behind Kinslayer's final blow dissolved soon after..
What remained was just an endless ocean of ash drifting across the ruined wasteland, obscuring the horizon beneath curtains of gray and crimson dust.
And somewhere within that graveyard... A wet cough broke the silence.
Then another, splattering black blood across scorched stone.
Slowly, Hiroshi Yaarou dragged himself from beneath a mound of charred rubble.. and the sight was almost pitiful.
Almost..
One of his arms had been completely torn from its socket, and his remaining hand shook violently as it pressed against the ground for support. Most of his flesh had been stripped from his boned by Rao's Primordial Roar.
The left side of his face was little more than exposed sinew scorched to his skull, with one eye swollen shut beneath burns so severe that even Shokotsu struggled to recognize where the damage ended and his body began.
He tried his best to draw breath, but with every haggard attempt, he could feel fragments of his shattered ribs shift beneath ravaged muscle. So he wheezed quietly.. and painfully.
By all reasonable measures, the man should have been dead.
And yet, despite all odds, the sorcerer decided to laugh.
A low, ragged sound that sifted through the holes in his throat before it rapidly devolved into violent coughing fit.
Again, blood poured from his mouth.. but still he laughed.
Shokotsu crawled sluggishly through his body, desperately attempting repairs with what little slivers of Naten remained within him. The technique stitched ruined flesh together millimeter by agonizing millimeter, but the process was pathetic compared to its usual efficacy.
His reserves were exhausted..
His body was ruined..
And still...
The sorcerer laughed.. The sound carried across the barren lot like the maniacal cackle of a fiend who found humor in his own failure.
But then the laughter stopped as his expression twisted beyond what seemed to be the onset clutches of madness.. and what replaced his devilish smile was a ghoulish scowl one would expect from a man with half a face.
"You..."
The word emerged as little more than a growl as he forced himself upright on mangled legs. But as Hiroshi's remaining eye found Kinslayer in his new form.. every ounce of restraint left him.
"Have you.. ANY idea of what you've done?"
His voice cracked. Overwhelmed by cascading waves of pure vitriol..
“..you fatuous.. ignorant fuck..”
..and tides of excruciating of pain
"I was there."
He mused, staggering forward toward the arbiter of this nightmare. Toward this cosmic.. petulant creature.
"I was RIGHT THERE."
His remaining hand fell into a trembling fist that he could hardly hold firm..
"Do you understand what you've taken from me? Do you—?"
His voice trembled.
"I had done it.. I solved all of it."
The words spilled from him now.
Years. Centuries. Millennia of obsession pouring from a shattered man who could no longer contain himself.
"I had them."
His eye widened.
".. the Executioners.."
".. the city.. The council.. The throne.. All of it!"
Every word came louder than the last as hjs lips peeled back into a grizzly, broken grin.
“..I even had you.. the Nether Serpent..”
He exclaimed.. no longer able to control the volume or fury in his voice.
"I was going to become Xhi'on!"
The declaration echoed across the ruined wasteland. Not as arrogance.
But conviction.
Absolute conviction. Hiroshi genuinely believed his destiny had already been decided.. That after years.. centuries.. millennia of work and planning, that victory had already belonged to him.
"..it was my destiny."
And now, he'd merely been robbed at the final moment. By this.. child wielding power beyond their imagination.. and undoubtedly beyond their control.
It was in that instant something became horrifyingly clear in Hiroshi's mind.
"..it IS my destiny."
Despite his injuries.. Despite his missing arm.. Despite standing literally one step from death's door.
Hiroshi still believed he could win.
"I should kill you where you stand.. for your.. impudence.. "
His remaining eye narrowed, burning with a faint vermillion hue.
"..no.. Perhaps I.. tear your soul apart.. and bind it to my own.” He hissed as blood spilled from his lips. And slowly, this angry husky closed the distance between him and Kinslayer.
"I should make you watch while I build my kingdom from your filthy Shi bones.."
His body nearly collapsed, but hubris and spite pushed him forward.
Shaking. Bleeding..
The irony was almost tragic.
For all the fury pouring from him… There was scarcely enough Naten left inside his body to keep his heart beating. Yet Hiroshi continued forward anyway, because surrender had never been part of his nature.
Even now, as the dream he had spent a thousands of lifetime chasing was fading reduced to ash before his remaining eye.. Hiroshi would prefer death than submission.
Because If destiny would not kneel before him willingly… He would toil through hell until he found a way to take them by the throat, and bend the fates to his will. As he had always done.
"..you are nothing..to me. To.. thr Xhi’on. "
The celestial echoes of Rao's voice had faded into silence..
And the spatial distortion left behind Kinslayer's final blow dissolved soon after..
What remained was just an endless ocean of ash drifting across the ruined wasteland, obscuring the horizon beneath curtains of gray and crimson dust.
And somewhere within that graveyard... A wet cough broke the silence.
Then another, splattering black blood across scorched stone.
Slowly, Hiroshi Yaarou dragged himself from beneath a mound of charred rubble.. and the sight was almost pitiful.
Almost..
One of his arms had been completely torn from its socket, and his remaining hand shook violently as it pressed against the ground for support. Most of his flesh had been stripped from his boned by Rao's Primordial Roar.
The left side of his face was little more than exposed sinew scorched to his skull, with one eye swollen shut beneath burns so severe that even Shokotsu struggled to recognize where the damage ended and his body began.
He tried his best to draw breath, but with every haggard attempt, he could feel fragments of his shattered ribs shift beneath ravaged muscle. So he wheezed quietly.. and painfully.
By all reasonable measures, the man should have been dead.
And yet, despite all odds, the sorcerer decided to laugh.
A low, ragged sound that sifted through the holes in his throat before it rapidly devolved into violent coughing fit.
Again, blood poured from his mouth.. but still he laughed.
Shokotsu crawled sluggishly through his body, desperately attempting repairs with what little slivers of Naten remained within him. The technique stitched ruined flesh together millimeter by agonizing millimeter, but the process was pathetic compared to its usual efficacy.
His reserves were exhausted..
His body was ruined..
And still...
The sorcerer laughed.. The sound carried across the barren lot like the maniacal cackle of a fiend who found humor in his own failure.
But then the laughter stopped as his expression twisted beyond what seemed to be the onset clutches of madness.. and what replaced his devilish smile was a ghoulish scowl one would expect from a man with half a face.
"You..."
The word emerged as little more than a growl as he forced himself upright on mangled legs. But as Hiroshi's remaining eye found Kinslayer in his new form.. every ounce of restraint left him.
"Have you.. ANY idea of what you've done?"
His voice cracked. Overwhelmed by cascading waves of pure vitriol..
“..you fatuous.. ignorant fuck..”
..and tides of excruciating of pain
"I was there."
He mused, staggering forward toward the arbiter of this nightmare. Toward this cosmic.. petulant creature.
"I was RIGHT THERE."
His remaining hand fell into a trembling fist that he could hardly hold firm..
"Do you understand what you've taken from me? Do you—?"
His voice trembled.
"I had done it.. I solved all of it."
The words spilled from him now.
Years. Centuries. Millennia of obsession pouring from a shattered man who could no longer contain himself.
"I had them."
His eye widened.
".. the Executioners.."
".. the city.. The council.. The throne.. All of it!"
Every word came louder than the last as hjs lips peeled back into a grizzly, broken grin.
“..I even had you.. the Nether Serpent..”
He exclaimed.. no longer able to control the volume or fury in his voice.
"I was going to become Xhi'on!"
The declaration echoed across the ruined wasteland. Not as arrogance.
But conviction.
Absolute conviction. Hiroshi genuinely believed his destiny had already been decided.. That after years.. centuries.. millennia of work and planning, that victory had already belonged to him.
"..it was my destiny."
And now, he'd merely been robbed at the final moment. By this.. child wielding power beyond their imagination.. and undoubtedly beyond their control.
It was in that instant something became horrifyingly clear in Hiroshi's mind.
"..it IS my destiny."
Despite his injuries.. Despite his missing arm.. Despite standing literally one step from death's door.
Hiroshi still believed he could win.
"I should kill you where you stand.. for your.. impudence.. "
His remaining eye narrowed, burning with a faint vermillion hue.
"..no.. Perhaps I.. tear your soul apart.. and bind it to my own.” He hissed as blood spilled from his lips. And slowly, this angry husky closed the distance between him and Kinslayer.
"I should make you watch while I build my kingdom from your filthy Shi bones.."
His body nearly collapsed, but hubris and spite pushed him forward.
Shaking. Bleeding..
The irony was almost tragic.
For all the fury pouring from him… There was scarcely enough Naten left inside his body to keep his heart beating. Yet Hiroshi continued forward anyway, because surrender had never been part of his nature.
Even now, as the dream he had spent a thousands of lifetime chasing was fading reduced to ash before his remaining eye.. Hiroshi would prefer death than submission.
Because If destiny would not kneel before him willingly… He would toil through hell until he found a way to take them by the throat, and bend the fates to his will. As he had always done.
"..you are nothing..to me. To.. thr Xhi’on. "
Re: The Throes of Prophecy
The air hung thick with the reek of pulverized stone and burnt flesh, a testament to the nightmarish collision of Edo and B'halia. Where once proud spires pierced the sky, now only jagged teeth of concrete clawed at a bruised, smoke-choked firmament. From the very heart of this apocalyptic canvas, a figure stirred.
Hiroshi Yaarou, architect of a millennia-long destiny, crawled from the rubble. He was a mockery of his former formidable self. One arm was a mangled ruin, a shredded sleeve clinging to nothing but raw bone and sinew. Half his face was a grotesque landscape of raw, weeping tissue and splintered bone, a stark contrast to the singular, burning eye that remained, alight with an inferno of rage. He scurried, not walked, his movements closer to a broken, desperate scuttle. Like the vermin he was, innovative, hard to kill. Even now, despite suffering from an amalgam of afflictions and wounds that struggled to heal, he remained… teetering, but alive.
Each step a tremor of agony that wracked his body. His breath came in ragged, hacking gasps, each exhalation a cloud of dust and spittle. Yet, his voice, though hoarse and grating like stones grinding together, found its venom.
Hiroshi’s tirade was a symphony of sputtering rage and grandiose self-pity.
It was not until Hiroshi was a bare few feet away, his remaining eye blazing with a desperate, incandescent hatred, that Kin finally acknowledged him with words.
“Come then, Hiroshi…” Kin’s voice was a low hum, a resonance that vibrated through the very air, calming the inferno around them for a fleeting moment. He opened his arms wide, a gesture both inviting and terrifying, challenging Hiroshi to unleash whatever arbiter he could think of, whatever final gambit he could bank his victory on, to unleash it now while Kin was defenseless.
The Warlock snarled, a grimace distorting his mangled features further. With a final, guttural cry, he struck with a fist balled as tightly as he could, using his body weight, every last shard of his dying strength, to unleash a haymaker towards his jaw, and lost his footing. Coliding into Kinslayer.
A dark tendril of shadow snaked from Kin’s open palm, delicately touching Hiroshi’s ruined face. “Do not be so hard on yourself, Defiler…” Kin’s voice was soft, laced with an ancient, weary pity. “After all…”
His touch lingered, then withdrew. “You are only human.”
The words were a hammer blow, crushing Hiroshi’s millennia-spanning hubris, his dreams of divinity, his every carefully constructed lie. Only human. The ultimate dilution of the grandeur he inspired to obtain.
Kin first considered devouring Hiroshi’s soul, keeping it for himself, a trophy, a source of power. But one thing he understood was that Hiroshi’s level of cunning, his relentless, insidious ingenuity, was probably the closest thing to a divine trait he possessed. He would not risk this pest finding a way to return, or worse, to overtake him, to corrupt even his boundless power. No… what Hiroshi deserved, what Kin would grant him, came to complete and total oblivion. An end so absolute, so profound, that no trace of him would ever remain.
“Kiss the void…”
With that final statement, Kin, wreathed in Malice, plunged his shadowy hand into the Warlock’s chest, not through the withered flesh, but through the very fabric of his being. And from that gaping, ethereal wound, a pulsing orb of light, no larger than a child’s fist, emerged. It was Hiroshi’s soul. Manifested within the palm of Kin’s hand.
It was a crude, decrepit thing, saturated with sin ungimable. Things that caused even Kin to shudder. The atrocities Hiroshi had committed against his own family, children, had been whispered through the ages, crimes so heinous they transcended mere human depravity. Between the two of them, Hiroshi was the more deserving of the mantle of Kinslayer. His hands were steeped in the blood of his kin, his heart a tomb of betrayal. He deserved nothing less than total discretion, a complete erasure from existence.
And that is exactly what Kin granted. His clawed hand, amassed with vast, cosmic energy, compressed around Hiroshi’s spiritual essence with a terrible vehemence, a fearsome vice grip. To Hiroshi’s dying perception, it felt like the weight of the world itself compressing around him, a python around his neck, an anaconda crushing his torso, squeezing the very air from his lungs. His decrepit soul pulsed, flickered, tried desperately to resist, but could take no more.
It was obliterated. There was no scream, no final gasp, only a silent implosion of light and malice, a sudden, blinding nothing where a soul had been.
Kin’s violet gaze, hitherto obscured by the swirling shadows of his power, was revealed, and for the first time since this fray began, Hiroshi truly saw his eyes in his last, fading instant of awareness. They were… beautiful, hauntingly so, like peering into the starlit seas of the skies, vast and indifferent.
“I will concede to your beliefs, Hiroshi.” Kin’s voice, now devoid of all malice, was a quiet, resonating sorrow. “The moment you decided to make me your prey… this was always meant to be your fate.”
As Kin spoke those final words, he felt a fierce pain deep in his chest; it spread through his neck, spiderwebbing along his face. Crackles of burning light began to seep from those filigree lines, brilliant against his shadowy skin.
“Dammit… this… is as far as I can go.”
His transformation had reached its capacity, cracking like the carapace of a crustacean before shattering entirely, revealing his original humanoid form. The coiled shadows recoiled, dissipating into the ruined air, leaving behind a man. Extreme exhaustion overwhelmed him, forcing him to his bended knee. His breath was ragged, but at the very least, his most troubling wounds had healed. Yet, he could scarcely move, his muscles screaming in protest. An adequate price to pay for the victory he had barely achieved today.
This… power was something beyond anything he might have ever imagined. If he learned to truly master it, to wield it without such devastating personal cost, there would be nothing… no one that could stop him from achieving Stellar Supreme. The dead city lay around him, a monument to the price of conflict. And in its ashes, a new, greater ambition began to take root in the heart of Kin.
Hiroshi Yaarou, architect of a millennia-long destiny, crawled from the rubble. He was a mockery of his former formidable self. One arm was a mangled ruin, a shredded sleeve clinging to nothing but raw bone and sinew. Half his face was a grotesque landscape of raw, weeping tissue and splintered bone, a stark contrast to the singular, burning eye that remained, alight with an inferno of rage. He scurried, not walked, his movements closer to a broken, desperate scuttle. Like the vermin he was, innovative, hard to kill. Even now, despite suffering from an amalgam of afflictions and wounds that struggled to heal, he remained… teetering, but alive.
Each step a tremor of agony that wracked his body. His breath came in ragged, hacking gasps, each exhalation a cloud of dust and spittle. Yet, his voice, though hoarse and grating like stones grinding together, found its venom.
Kin’s gaze sat upon Hiroshi as the wounded sorcerer waddled towards him. The Nether Serpent stood amidst the devastation, a dark, silent sentinel, his form a coalesced shadow against the infernal glow of the burning landscape. He offered no immediate response, allowing Hiroshi his cathartic release, his furious lamentations about the master plan that had taken centuries to weave, the conquest of the city he had meticulously orchestrated, the very throne he had envisioned himself upon as "Xhi'on.""You..."
The word emerged as little more than a growl as he forced himself upright on mangled legs. But as Hiroshi's remaining eye found Kinslayer in his new form.. every ounce of restraint left him.
"Have you.. ANY idea of what you've done?"
His voice cracked. Overwhelmed by cascading waves of pure vitriol..
“..you fatuous.. ignorant fuck..”
Hiroshi’s tirade was a symphony of sputtering rage and grandiose self-pity.
Kin said nothing, not at first. He understood something that Hiroshi, in his deepest, most primal fear, finally did as well. He could not kill Kinslayer. The tragic irony was palpable. Even now, so close to the end of his life, his very essence bleeding out onto the desecrated ground, he still spouted this nonsense. His pride was greater than his fading heartbeat. His proclamation felt hollow, empty, as if he was trying to convince himself rather than Kin, to somehow will a different reality into existence through sheer force of ego.But conviction.
Absolute conviction. Hiroshi genuinely believed his destiny had already been decided.. That after years.. centuries.. millennia of work and planning, that victory had already belonged to him.
"..it was my destiny."
And now, he'd merely been robbed at the final moment. By this.. child wielding power beyond their imagination.. and undoubtedly beyond their control.
It was in that instant something became horrifyingly clear in Hiroshi's mind.
"..it IS my destiny."
Despite his injuries.. Despite his missing arm.. Despite standing literally one step from death's door.
It was not until Hiroshi was a bare few feet away, his remaining eye blazing with a desperate, incandescent hatred, that Kin finally acknowledged him with words.
“Come then, Hiroshi…” Kin’s voice was a low hum, a resonance that vibrated through the very air, calming the inferno around them for a fleeting moment. He opened his arms wide, a gesture both inviting and terrifying, challenging Hiroshi to unleash whatever arbiter he could think of, whatever final gambit he could bank his victory on, to unleash it now while Kin was defenseless.
The Warlock snarled, a grimace distorting his mangled features further. With a final, guttural cry, he struck with a fist balled as tightly as he could, using his body weight, every last shard of his dying strength, to unleash a haymaker towards his jaw, and lost his footing. Coliding into Kinslayer.
A dark tendril of shadow snaked from Kin’s open palm, delicately touching Hiroshi’s ruined face. “Do not be so hard on yourself, Defiler…” Kin’s voice was soft, laced with an ancient, weary pity. “After all…”
His touch lingered, then withdrew. “You are only human.”
The words were a hammer blow, crushing Hiroshi’s millennia-spanning hubris, his dreams of divinity, his every carefully constructed lie. Only human. The ultimate dilution of the grandeur he inspired to obtain.
Kin first considered devouring Hiroshi’s soul, keeping it for himself, a trophy, a source of power. But one thing he understood was that Hiroshi’s level of cunning, his relentless, insidious ingenuity, was probably the closest thing to a divine trait he possessed. He would not risk this pest finding a way to return, or worse, to overtake him, to corrupt even his boundless power. No… what Hiroshi deserved, what Kin would grant him, came to complete and total oblivion. An end so absolute, so profound, that no trace of him would ever remain.
“Kiss the void…”
With that final statement, Kin, wreathed in Malice, plunged his shadowy hand into the Warlock’s chest, not through the withered flesh, but through the very fabric of his being. And from that gaping, ethereal wound, a pulsing orb of light, no larger than a child’s fist, emerged. It was Hiroshi’s soul. Manifested within the palm of Kin’s hand.
It was a crude, decrepit thing, saturated with sin ungimable. Things that caused even Kin to shudder. The atrocities Hiroshi had committed against his own family, children, had been whispered through the ages, crimes so heinous they transcended mere human depravity. Between the two of them, Hiroshi was the more deserving of the mantle of Kinslayer. His hands were steeped in the blood of his kin, his heart a tomb of betrayal. He deserved nothing less than total discretion, a complete erasure from existence.
And that is exactly what Kin granted. His clawed hand, amassed with vast, cosmic energy, compressed around Hiroshi’s spiritual essence with a terrible vehemence, a fearsome vice grip. To Hiroshi’s dying perception, it felt like the weight of the world itself compressing around him, a python around his neck, an anaconda crushing his torso, squeezing the very air from his lungs. His decrepit soul pulsed, flickered, tried desperately to resist, but could take no more.
It was obliterated. There was no scream, no final gasp, only a silent implosion of light and malice, a sudden, blinding nothing where a soul had been.
Kin’s violet gaze, hitherto obscured by the swirling shadows of his power, was revealed, and for the first time since this fray began, Hiroshi truly saw his eyes in his last, fading instant of awareness. They were… beautiful, hauntingly so, like peering into the starlit seas of the skies, vast and indifferent.
“I will concede to your beliefs, Hiroshi.” Kin’s voice, now devoid of all malice, was a quiet, resonating sorrow. “The moment you decided to make me your prey… this was always meant to be your fate.”
As Kin spoke those final words, he felt a fierce pain deep in his chest; it spread through his neck, spiderwebbing along his face. Crackles of burning light began to seep from those filigree lines, brilliant against his shadowy skin.
“Dammit… this… is as far as I can go.”
His transformation had reached its capacity, cracking like the carapace of a crustacean before shattering entirely, revealing his original humanoid form. The coiled shadows recoiled, dissipating into the ruined air, leaving behind a man. Extreme exhaustion overwhelmed him, forcing him to his bended knee. His breath was ragged, but at the very least, his most troubling wounds had healed. Yet, he could scarcely move, his muscles screaming in protest. An adequate price to pay for the victory he had barely achieved today.
This… power was something beyond anything he might have ever imagined. If he learned to truly master it, to wield it without such devastating personal cost, there would be nothing… no one that could stop him from achieving Stellar Supreme. The dead city lay around him, a monument to the price of conflict. And in its ashes, a new, greater ambition began to take root in the heart of Kin.
The team