#the molten: Demon forge

[wyked-ao3]

Adoh Character intro

Name: Adoh Stone

Nickname: uncertain

Kind of Being: half-ling fire fae

Age: 47 by appearance

Sex: male

Appearance: 5'7, muscular, scars, burns, darker tan, dark hair beginning to pepper out, eyes can turn the color of molten lava if upset.

Occupation: blacksmith

Family members: secret

Pets: he has dibs on lord mew.

Best friend: Daimhín. Galen. Amon. Oisín.

Describe his/her room: a forge

Way of speaking: gruff, thick Scottish accent.

Physical characteristics (posture, gestures, attitude): he has dad vibes but he is traumatized by what he has seen in the past. He doesn't speak often but people listen when he does. (That'll be fun to write in his book)

Items in his/her back pocket/ purse: that's a long list.

Hobbies: blacksmithing.

Favorite sports: blacksmithing and sword play. Fighting might rank in there somewhere

Abilities/Talents/Powers: fire fae

Relationships (how he/she is with other people): once you have his trust you have it for life. Hell or high water.

Fears: losing his family,war, ice, cold, darkness

Good points: loyalty,

What he/she wants more than anything else: for everyone to be happy and for the bounty on their head to disappear... perhaps also to be forgotten by certain people.

One of the MC's for book four.

@thatuselesshuman @gioiaalbanoart @lychhiker-writes @goth-automaton

@thecomfywriter @evilwriter37 @saebasanart @the-golden-comet

@mauannacreates @kind-lion @alinacapellabooks @kuebiko-writing @kaeru483

@differentnighttale @theink-stainedfolk @unstableunicornsofasgard @mysticstarlightduck

@demon-sneeze @an-indecisive-nerd @smellyrottentrees @honeybewrites @pheonix358

[lucagray813]

Very niche exploration of how Elementals function in the Monkey Talk AU. Little guys that are very prevalent on the island during MS, MD time when it was teeming with mythical creatures and demons. This is not at all important to the overall plot, just a bit of worldbuilding. Elementals have only ever been mentioned in passing with no detail about what they are.

The Elements in this AU are based on Wǔxíng and are Earth, Metal, Fire, Water and Wood.

Thank you @sweetsrirachasauce for prompting this essay.

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The purest forms of an elemental are almost completely indistinguishable from their element - to the point where your average person could mine a Metal Elemental, have it forged into a sword and not realise there was something special about it, a very skilled blacksmith would know however and depending on how superstitious they were, refuse to work with it.

If you did manage to get a hold of an Elemental and knew what you were doing they can be all sorts of use for magic.

The purest forms generally can't be found outside of their element - Wood Elementals (TE) will be attached to trees and look like small branches, Metal Elementals (ME) will be attached to unprocessed ore and look exactly like that ore, Earth Elementals (EE) will be found buried deep underground and look like stones, Fire Elementals (FE) look like flames and only exist within fire, and Water Elementals (WE) are near translucent wobbly spheres that can be found in bodies of water.

But things get a little bit more interesting when a little bit of soul has been introduced. The more soul, the less pure the Elemental but the more complex the creature.

Simple FEs will travel to find more fire, or other FE's, if the fire they were occupying goes out. They burn little trails across the terrain as they go - they are rarely capable of starting big fires by themselves but it's not impossible given the right conditions.

Simple EEs want to be as deep in the earth as possible but have very limited movement, made even more difficult if they are in the form of an awkward stone, their only real way of moving is to vibrate/shake. If they have sharper edges and the ground below them is soft then it can be enough for them to sort of "burrow", if they're rounded it might cause them to roll around instead. Once deep enough they lie dormant.

Simple TEs form symbiotic relationships with certain bugs to create literal stick instincts. The TE will provide a home as well as nutritious sap for the bug, and the bug provides transportation if the host tree of the TE is dying. The bug will break off the TE by chewing along where it is connected before carrying (or wearing it) to another tree where the TE will attach itself.

Simple WEs are drawn to movement - while pure WEs just move passively with the water around them, simple WEs actively seek out whirlpools, rivers, currents. Simple WEs will merge to create bigger Simple WEs but they are often separated into smaller forms again by powerful forces such as whirlpools.

Simple MEs have different properties depending on the metal they are made of - Simple MEs want to be a stable, solid form and will strive to find the conditions this is possible. When in a molten form they will "slither" as best as they can in that form in the direction of the correct temperature and pressure to become solid.

Simple Elementals are also useful for magic but some have historically been used as guides/indicators for particular conditions. For example, some water demons have been said to use Simple WEs to avoid dangerous waters and fruit farmers have used Simple TEs for monitoring the health of their orchards.

Like MEs, other Simple Elementals have variant forms.

Simple WEs can exist in solid and gaseous states - taking the form of ice and clouds respectively.

Like Simple EEs, Ice Elementals have limited mobility but they do have the advantage of being able to slide and depending on whether there is still liquid at their core they do have some control over this. Once they are completely frozen however movement can slow to the speed of a glacier.

Similarly to Liquid WEs, as Clouds they seek out movement - hurricanes, air currents, etc. but they are often caught up in the water cycle relatively quickly and turn back to water in the form of rain. If they fall on land, rather than water, they will move as a unit of droplets until they find a body of water where they can reform as a wobbly, rounded 3D shape.

Simple TEs variants are tied to the type of tree they are - i.e. oak, elm, pine, etc. - and generally they can only attach themselves to a tree of the correct genus however grafting onto different types of tree has been witnessed but it has been theorised this is a temporary measure, a pit stop, to finding the correct family of tree.

Simple EEs can take the form of various gems. The gems function much like Stone EEs but are generally considered rarer, and more valuable. Many claim that these Gem EEs have other special properties to them, but evidence to support this is inconclusive.

Another form of the EE is the Mud EE. Many tiny Mud EEs generally form colonies that are as a unit mistaken for one Mud EE. They are generally unable to move on their own, attaching themselves to burrowing insects and animals in order to seek out healthier soil to inhabit. It is considered a good sign if you have Mud EEs present in your garden. Some even believe they can improve the quality of soil and as such they are much sought after.

It is considerably difficult to identify Mud EEs however due to their lack of independent movement or distinctive features but there are numerous stories and myths with advice on how to spot one - some say you can use worms to track them, others insist that if you touch wet earth and the dirt immediately slides off your hand and leaves it clean then you've just touched a Mud EE.

Simple FEs have been known to burn unique colours and at different temperatures and these rare flames have often been valued as a part of sacred rituals for various peoples throughout history.

Complex Elementals are broken into many subclasses but at a high level are defined as Elementals that possess additional appendages and/or features that could be classified as organs - these do not have to share any resemblance to that of organs typically found in demons, animals or humans but some do and at that point there is some debate as to when a Complex Elemental is considered a demon, or if they even should be.

Examples of a relatively simple Complex Elemental include a Mud EE that has an approximation of arms that it uses to move by dragging itself across the surface or a fire elemental that physically "eats" the fuel needed to sustain it.

Some argue that a clear distinction between whether someone is a Complex Elemental or a demon is their ability to produce offspring, although this has been highly contested, but it does appear to be true that Pure and Simple Elementals cannot do this.

No-one knows what causes Pure, Simple and many Complex Elementals to form, though there are many myths and legends that purport to have the answer.

Some say they are blessings, or even the children, of the Spirits of Wǔxíng left behind to reward those that live in harmony with the elements and/or to repair damage that has been done by a lack of harmony.

Some suggest that they are kin to the Spirits - that the Spirits are no more than Complex Elementals themselves - and help maintain the very balance that all life depends on.

But no-one had ever credibly reported seeing these Elementals form. Plenty had seen them "die" - their forms disintegrating as their energy was used for a spell or potion but there seems to be no need for concern that they may become endangered.

Elementals have a wide variety of myth and superstition surrounding them and despite evidence that they have been around for millennia we still know so little about them.

Many people suggest that demon equivalent Complex Elementals, particularly those capable of speaking human and demon languages, may have the answers - either on a "biological" level that can be studied or as something they intuitively know and keep secret from the world. Many Complex Elementals have suffered in the name of "discovery".

The prejudice towards and exploitation of Complex Elementals is a topic all of its own however.

[fallstreakfeathers]

Name: Enkai Yamauchi

Age: 19

Occupation: Swordsmith

Charlotte Ainsley-Kanda's weaponsmith.

An odd, but friendly man. He has many friends despite his partial muteness.

Enkai has had his strange hair color from birth, along with his pale gold eyes.

It's rumored that his mother swallowed starlight during her pregnancy and that's the cause of his unusual features, but others believe he is the child of a yokai.

His skill and creativity in weaponry means that he's well-respected either way.

Because of his easily recognized hair color, he must keep it hidden when outside the village, though he rarely ties it away when home.

His hair always seems to be floating about, which has led it to being lit ablaze multiple times as he works, since it's impossible to keep all of it contained.

He no longer flinches at fire in his hair, terrifying any who happen to pass by, and it's not uncommon to hear another smithy shouting in alarm about it and for a nonplussed reply to be called in return.

Enkai's body is littered with horrific torture scars from his capture by a female demon when he was 15 years old.

The demon thought he had a pretty face, and so that's the only thing she let be as she tried to squeeze information from him.

When Enkai realized that his will was breaking and that he would soon spill the secrets of the Swordsmith Village, he bit out his own tongue.

This leaves him often unable to speak properly, though he can still pronounce simple words that don't require use of a tongue.

To combat this, his body gestures can be rather animated, and he occasionally just writes down what he wants to say- meaning that he has to have an interpreter available when speaking to Charlie since she can't read Japanese well.

His mask belonged to his father, who was killed and eaten by a low-rank demon.

Instead of throwing the mask away, he repaired it with molten gold and now uses it himself.

Ironically, Enkai injured his face years ago in almost the exact area the mask had been broken- so perhaps it was fate that he was able to acquire it.

He is extremely selective in his cliental, as he refuses to forge katana- stating that such an art is 'boring' and that there are plenty other smiths to do that.

This refusal nearly got him kicked out of the village as a child.

The guy completely refuses to create anything that doesn't have imagination in it, so he is well known for more... odd weaponry.

So attached is he to 'his' Slayer that when his last was killed, Enkai became distraught, falling into a deep depression where he refused to forge anything, or even leave his bed.

This depression continued for months until he received word of a young woman restrained at the Butterfly Mansion who had, apparently, been raised and trained by a demon.

Upon seeing Charlie's unique fighting style, Enkai immediately went to work drafting a weapon as special as she is.

Enkai breaks code the first night he speaks with Charlie, removing his mask as a gesture of trust and friendliness that was maintained throughout their relationship.

Trivia:

- despite often drinking tea, Enkai CANNOT drink coffee. The caffeine levels cause him to go loony-toons level of bouncing off the walls.

- If Charlie never met Urogi/Hantengu, then there would be a strong chance that Enkai would have ended up breaking code, again, and furthering his relationship with her

- trained to be able to fight enough to defend himself, refusing to allow himself to die the way his father had, or to be captured again

- He is able to fight off low-rank demons and was able to destroy several of the fish-demons that Gyokko had created during his assault on the village

- He does survive that night, but Charlie is never told and presumes him dead for weeks until, after she flee's the Corps, she finds the stash of (comparatively) simple glaives he'd been ordered by Kagaya to create for her- along with a personal farewell note.

[demonicangelics-world]

Redamancy - Zestial x Angel!OC

Chapter Six: Welcome to Hell

Synopsis: In the shadowy realms of Hell and the celestial heights of Heaven, two souls grapple with the ache of unrequited love. Zestial, the formidable demon overlord, commands respect and fear. His past has forged a reputation that isolates him. Resigned to a life of power and isolation, he yearned for companionship and understanding, knowing that his intimidating demeanor made such connections seemingly impossible. Gabriela, once a radiant angel, admired the archangel Michael from afar, her heart swelling with unspoken affection for his divine strength and kindness. Casted into Hell on a mission, she now struggles to survive in a world where danger lurks at every corner, her angelic essence buried beneath a demonic exterior. Amidst the chaos of Hell and the secrets of Heaven, a profound and forbidden love ignites between them, challenging the very core of their beliefs

Chapter Six: Welcome to Hell Chapter Seven: Blackout

word count: 5,049

*********************************************************

The elevator doors groaned open, and I stepped out, the oppressive heat hitting me like a physical force. I blinked against the harsh red glow that seemed to emanate from the very rocks of the mountain. The elevators were set into the face of a towering cliff, their cold metal frames an alien contrast to the jagged, fiery stone. Steps carved into the mountainside led downward, an intimidating descent into the chaos below.

I moved with the crowd, trying to blend in. Around me, other sinners stumbled out of the elevators, their appearances twisted and grotesque, reflecting the torment they carried within. Fear and confusion were etched into their faces, their breaths coming in ragged gasps as they took in their new surroundings. 

I kept my expression neutral, blending in with their despair and bitter acceptance. As we made our way down the steps, the jagged rocks underfoot were a constant reminder of our new reality. Their despair was palpable, a heavy cloud that hung over us all.

My own appearance had changed too. I caught glimpses of myself in the reflective surfaces of the elevator doors and the occasional puddle of molten rock. 

As we descended, I glanced around, taking in the despair of those around me. Their demon-like appearances were a stark reminder of where we were and what awaited us. Their words and their pain echoed in my mind as I continued my descent, determined to carry out my mission, no matter the cost.

At the base of the mountain, we were herded towards a grim-looking building, its architecture sharp and angular, designed to intimidate. A sign above the entrance read “Abyssal Administration Building” and underneath the sign “Welcome to Hell" in bold, foreboding letters. The flow of sinners funneled into the entrance, where a pair of massive, iron-bound doors loomed before us. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of sulfur and despair.

I followed the crowd into a cavernous hall, its walls lined with flickering torches that cast eerie shadows. Demons that looked like public servants patrolled the room, their forms hunched and menacing. They barked orders, directing us into snaking lines that coiled around the room like a great, twisted serpent.

"Get in line! Move it!" one of them snarled, his voice grating and impatient. His eyes, dark and sunken, scanned the crowd with disdain.

I found myself in one of the lines, the pace excruciatingly slow. The demons behind the desks worked with deliberate lethargy, their expressions bored and hostile. They flipped through papers, stamped documents with heavy thuds, and occasionally glared at the waiting sinners with undisguised contempt. 

As I inched closer to the front, my nerves tightened. I had no idea what to expect, but I knew I had to maintain my composure. The sinner in front of me finally reached the desk, and I watched as the demon clerk looked up with a sneer.

"Name," the demon demanded, not even bothering to look at the poor soul in front of him.

"Uh, John... John Smith," the sinner stammered.

The demon's eyes narrowed. "John Smith? Really? You and a million others." He lazily picked up a device resembling a scanner and pricked the man's finger, drawing a bead of blood. He pressed the bloodied finger onto the scanner, which beeped, printed a coded ticket and displayed the man's basic information: 

Name: John Smith

Occupation: Accountant

Cause of Death: Heart Attack

The demon thrusted the ticket. "Move along," the demon grunted, waving the man away without another glance.

Blood. This is not good. My turn came, and I stepped forward, trying to keep my anxiety in check. The demon looked up at me, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Name," he drawled, his voice dripping with boredom.

"Ga—" I caught myself just in time. "Celeste…Avila."

He raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. He grabbed my hand with surprising strength, pricking my finger with the scanner. The sharp sting made me wince, and I watched as a drop of red blood, instead of gold, welled up and was pressed onto the scanner. The device beeped, displaying my forged identity:

Name: Celeste Avila

Occupation: Nun

Cause of Death: Undetermined

The demon glanced at the screen and then at me, a smirk spreading across his face. "Another religious one, huh? We've got so many of you down here, we could start our own choir. Though, I doubt the songs would be quite the same."

I forced a nervous smile, keeping my composure as he continued.. The red blood confirmed it—I was truly a sinner now, no longer an angel. My divine essence, once marked by golden ichor, was gone.

The demon handed me my ticket. "Welcome to Hell, Celeste," he said with a mocking smile. "Next!"

I was directed to another station, where a demon sat behind a desk, a pile of papers and forms spread out before him. He barely glanced at me as he gestured for me to sit.

"Ticket," he said in a monotone voice, staring at a form.

I hand the demon my ticket. He tapped something into a device and handed me a makeshift identity card. "Here's your ID. Next!"

At the next station, I sat down with another demon, who eyed me with a mixture of boredom and irritation. His desk was cluttered with papers and various infernal devices.

"ID," he demanded, holding out a clawed hand. I handed it over, and he scrutinized it for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he read the information.  “Nun," he read aloud, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Well, that's not going to help you find a job here."

Thinking quickly, I added, "I sold coffee and pastries to support the convent." It was partly true— spending time on Earth and helping Évangéline at her café, helped me pick up the skills quickly.

The demon finally looked up, a glimmer of interest in his otherwise dull eyes. "Really?That might be more useful." He tapped his pen on the desk, considering. "There are several cafés and restaurants in Pentagram City. It’s competitive work, but you might fit in there." He hands me a tattered pamphlet

I nodded, trying to hide my relief. "That sounds perfect. Thank you." 

I found it intriguing that Hell had an identification system in place. I had expected chaos, not this level of organization. Curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to ask the demon about it.

"This is quite a system you have here," I said, trying to sound casual. "I thought Hell would be... more chaotic."

The demon snorted, a dark grin spreading across his face. "Oh, we get that a lot. Control and organization are essential, even in Hell. Imagine the mess if we let all you lost souls wander around without any supervision."

I raised an eyebrow, encouraging him to continue.

He leaned back, tapping his pen against the desk. "Resource management, for one. We need to know who's good at what. Keeps everything running smoothly. Don't want a former accountant trying to shovel lava, do we?"

I shook my head, feigning understanding, while internally, I was piecing together the logic.

"And then there's the matter of security," he added, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Can't have you plotting rebellions. We keep an eye on everyone. Makes things... safer."

"Safer?" I repeated, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. 

The demon's grin widened. "Certainly not for you, if that's what you're wondering." He leaned in closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "There's also the little matter of the exterminations. Got to keep track of who's still kicking after those, don't we?"

Exterminations? My heart skipped a beat and my mind raced trying to piece together the implication. 

"What do you mean by—" I started to ask, but the demon cut me off with a loud, impatient bark.

"Move along! I don't get paid enough to answer questions!" he snarled, waving me away dismissively.

I opened my mouth to protest, but the cold, unyielding look in his eyes told me it was useless. I clenched my jaw, swallowing my questions and my fear, and hurried away from the desk. The word "exterminations" lingered in my mind. I took my ID and pamphlet. 

At the next and final station, I sat down with a demoness who exuded an air of cold efficiency. Her desk was meticulously organized, a stark contrast to the chaotic surroundings. She looked up as I approached, her eyes sharp and calculating.

"ID," she demanded, holding out a clawed hand. I handed it over, and she scanned it quickly, her expression remaining impassive.

"Celeste Avila," she read aloud, her voice dripping with skepticism. She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she examined the information on the screen. "Cause of death: undetermined," she muttered, a hint of curiosity in her tone. "That's unusual. Most sinners have a pretty clear reason for being here.

I forced a neutral expression, trying to hide my discomfort as her eyes bored into me, searching for answers I couldn't provide.

The demoness finally looked back at the screen, her skepticism morphing into a cold, detached demeanor. "Temporary housing is available for newly arrived sinners, but given your previous status, it's going to be challenging for you to make a decent living here."

I tried to maintain my composure, but her words made my heart race. "What do you mean?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

The demoness leaned back, studying me with a mix of pity and disdain. "Most religious sinners end up on the streets. It's hard for them to adjust to Hell's... unique opportunities. But given the extermination, I'd be surprised if you lasted a year."

Extermination again. My mind reeled with the implication. "Extermination?" I echoed, trying to keep my voice steady.

She gave me a humorless smile. "You really are new here, aren't you? Let's just say Hell has a way of cleaning house every now and then. Thins the herd, keeps things interesting."

I forced a nervous laugh, trying to mask my panic. Internally, I cursed the situation. I wished Sera had given me another sinner's soul, one that might have had a better chance of thriving in Hell.

The demoness leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "Listen, Celeste, you might have been someone important up there, but down here, you're just another soul trying to survive. Take this voucher," she said, sliding a piece of paper across the desk. "It’s for some basic assistance. But don't get your hopes up. You're in Hell now, and Hell doesn't care about your past."

I took the voucher, my hand trembling slightly. "Thanks… I guess," I muttered

"Welcome to Pentagram city and good luck," she said with a mocking smile. "You'll need it Next!"

I stood up, clutching the voucher tightly. The word "extermination" echoed in my mind. As I walked away, I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of unease. Hell was proving to be more organized and more perilous than I had ever imagined.

Exiting the building, I stepped into the harsh, fiery light of Hell. Before me, Pentagram City sprawled out in the distance, a chaotic blend of ruined buildings and flickering neon signs. Among the dilapidation, one structure stood out: a giant clock tower with an enormous hourglass. It loomed over the city, a stark and imposing figure amidst the wreckage. 

A wave of regret washed over me, threatening to pull me under. Had I made a terrible mistake? But then, I felt the knife in my pocket. Its presence was a comforting weight, a tangible reminder that I wasn't completely alone or defenseless. I took a deep breath, steeling myself against fear and doubt.

I couldn't waste time. If I wanted to integrate myself into Hell, I needed to find work and start blending in immediately. Determined, I pulled out the tattered pamphlet and unfolded it, revealing a map of the city along with several destinations. The paper was worn and faded, but the information was clear enough.

With the map in hand, I began to walk down the road to Pentagram City. Demons and sinners of all walks of life moved around me, their faces a mix of resignation and desperation. The city's pulse was frantic and unrelenting, a constant reminder of the new reality I had to face. 

I had a mission, and I couldn't afford to fail. As I made my way through, I focused on the task at hand, my eyes scanning the map for any promising leads. Hell was my new battleground, and I was determined to survive.

*********************************************************

In the dimly lit office of "Pandemonium Café," the clinking sound of coins and the rustling of bills created a symphony of wealth that brought a satisfied grin to Vincent "Vinny" Jaws' sharp-toothed face. Seated at his mahogany desk, Vinny meticulously counted the day's earnings, each note and coin passing through his clawed fingers with the reverence of a sacred ritual.

"Ah, music to my ears," he murmured, his cold red eyes gleaming with greed. The sales today had been exceptional, thanks to his cunning tactics—luring in the residents of the Pride Ring with promises of exclusivity and premium brews. Who knew sinners could be so profitable?

After tallying the final amount, Vinny leaned back in his plush leather chair, basking in the glow of his success. But before he could get too comfortable, he remembered his daily devotion. Rising from his seat, he walked over to a small, ornate shrine in the corner of his office, dedicated to Mammon, the Prince of Greed. The shrine was adorned with golden trinkets, stacks of cash, and other symbols of wealth.

"Great Mammon, I offer you my gratitude for another prosperous day," Vinny intoned, placing a fresh wad of cash on the shrine. "May your greed fuel mine and keep the riches flowing."

With his ritual complete, Vinny allowed himself a moment of nostalgia.

 He thought back to when Lucifer had introduced the new law permitting hellborns to apply for work permits and travel between the rings. It was a game-changer, opening up new avenues for ambition and enterprise. To his luck, Vinny's application to move from the Greed Ring to the Pride Ring had been swiftly accepted.

Establishing his work permit and residency, however, had been a painfully slow process. The Abyssal Administration, where he had to endure the bureaucratic nightmare, was notorious for its inefficiency. The workers, all from the Sloth Ring, moved at a glacial pace, their sluggishness testing even Vinny’s considerable patience. Still, the headache of dealing with the administration was worth it.

With his connections and abundant funds, Vinny tactically chose to open a café in an upscale part of Pentagram City. He managed to source fresh ingredients for his café, and soon, Pandemonium Café flourished. Vinny knew that sinners and demons wanted quality, and quality is what he provided. More importantly, his café offered a break from the harsh reality of Hell, a respite he capitalized on. His fresh brews and pastries gave sinners and demons a taste of the mortal world they once knew.

However, the downside was the costs of keeping up with the fresh supply. They were becoming harder to come by due to the annual exterminations. On top of that, he had lost clientele and employees because of the exterminations. This, Vinny mused, was why Lucifer had offered work permits in the first place: to establish a consistent labor force that wouldn't perish in the first extermination. The exterminations had their blessings and curses.

Vinny now focused on the list of applications on his desk. He needed to hire new employees, as a few of his staff hadn't made it through the latest extermination. He grumbled, sifting through the stack. He had too many hideous imps and demons working already. What he needed was a worker who would fit his standards. After all, ugly employees worked in the back; the most attractive employees were at the front. Everyone knows that good looks are a profitable asset. Vinny had noticed that attractive servers brought in more customers and, therefore, more money.

He flipped through the applications. "Ugh, this one must have fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down." He tossed the application aside.

"Hmm, this one might pass for decent if I squint. But that nose? Looks like it could plow a field. Pass."

"Ah, finally, someone who doesn't look like they crawled out of a sewer. Might have potential. I’ll put this one in the maybe pile."

Vinny continued, his comments growing more colorful and degrading. "Wow, this one’s so hideous, it's almost an achievement.. Almost."

Vinny flipped through yet another application and sighed in frustration. "What part of 'good looking' don't demons understand?" he muttered, throwing the entire stack into the trash bin with a dramatic flourish. 

Deciding he needed a break from the endless stream of unworthy candidates, Vinny stood up and straightened his suit. He stepped out of his office and headed downstairs to check on his café. It was evening time, and despite the recent extermination, his café had miraculously survived without a scratch, thanks to Vox's costly defense program. Another investment that drained his coffers, but it had paid off.

As he descended, the hum of conversation and the clinking of coffee cups grew louder. Even though it was late, the café was buzzing with activity. Sinners and demons of all types crowded the tables, their faces illuminated by the warm, inviting glow of the ambient lighting. Vinny took in the scene with a sense of satisfaction. His employees were working tirelessly, taking orders, preparing drinks, and serving pastries without a moment's pause.

Vinny's mind drifted back to how he managed to keep such a devoted workforce. Half of them were indebted to him because of loans, trapped in a cycle of servitude. They couldn’t leave even if they wanted to, and their desperation kept them in line. He watched as one of his baristas, a demon with tired eyes, handed a steaming cup of coffee to a customer with a forced smile.

"Keep it up, folks," Vinny called out, his voice dripping with false cheer. "Remember, happy customers mean more tips, and more tips mean... well, you might just be able to pay off a fraction of what you owe me."

The employees barely glanced at him, too busy with their tasks to respond. Vinny's sharp eyes scanned the room, noting the influx of customers. Despite the challenges and the costs, Pandemonium Café was thriving. The scent of fresh coffee and baked goods filled the air, a rare luxury in Hell, and one that kept patrons coming back for more.

Suddenly, the door swung open, ringing bells. An exceptionally beautiful sinner walked in. Even with her infernal appearance, Vinny could tell she had been stunningly beautiful in her mortal life. Her presence commanded attention, and the room seemed to momentarily hush as she stepped inside.

Vinny’s predatory instincts kicked in. He usually didn’t bother with greeting customers personally, but for this one, he was willing to make an exception. Before one of the hosts approached her, Vinny acted quickly, shoving the host aside with a smooth, yet forceful motion.

"Welcome to Pandemonium Café," he said, flashing his sharp-toothed grin. "My name is Vincent Jaws, but the locals call me Vinny. What can I get for you today? We pride ourselves on offering the finest brews and pastries in all of Hell."

The sinner looked slightly taken aback by his sudden approach, but her curiosity was piqued. 

"Something special, I presume?" he asked, his voice dripping with charm. "For someone like you, we have the best of everything."

The sinner glanced around the bustling café before her gaze landed on the "Hiring" sign in the window. She turned back to Vinny, her expression curious. "I saw the hiring sign outside. Are you still hiring?"

Vinny’s heart skipped a beat, and he silently thanked Mammon for hearing his prayers. This was exactly the break he needed. He usually doesn’t hire sinners as they easily perish in the exterminations, but for her, he will make an exception. "Yes, absolutely! You're hired."

The sinner blinked in surprise, clearly taken aback by the suddenness of Vinny's decision. "Don't I need to fill out an application or something?"

Vinny waved a hand dismissively. "No need for that, sweetheart. You’re exactly what I’m looking for. All I need is your ID to get you set up in the system, and you can start as soon as tomorrow."

She hesitated for a moment, then handed over her ID. Vinny glanced at it, noting the name "Celeste Avila." What really caught his attention was her mortal occupation: Nun. He couldn't suppress a laugh, a harsh, grating sound that filled the café.

"A nun, huh? Talk about falling from grace. What did you do, pray too hard?" He chuckled again, shaking his head. "Well, Celeste, consider yourself lucky. You've traded in your religious tunic for a coffee apron. You're in Hell, but at least you've landed a job in the finest café of Pentagram City."

Celeste’s eyes flashed with a mix of annoyance and resolve, but she held her tongue. Vinny noticed and appreciated her restraint. "We’ll get you set up and ready to work. Be here bright and early tomorrow." He took note of her ID and gave it back to her.

As Celeste nodded and turned to leave, Vinny called after her, "Oh, and Celeste? Don’t let the sinners overwhelm you. You're not in a convent anymore. Welcome to the Pandemonium family."

*********************************************************

Hours later, I stood in the tiny bathroom, the dim light flickering intermittently, casting eerie shadows on the cracked tiles. The sink dripped sporadically, each drop echoing in the cramped space. The showerhead, rusted and barely functional, hung limply from the wall. I turned my attention to the fractured mirror in front of me, its jagged edges reflecting a distorted image of myself.

My appearance had definitely changed. My once lustrous hair was now an inky black, falling in tangled waves around my face. My skin, previously glowing with an ethereal radiance, was now pallid, almost ghostly of its former self. I looked dead, a stark contrast to the vibrant, celestial being I once was.

Most striking, however, were my eyes. Gone were the vibrant blue eyes that had shone with divine light. In their place were demonic eyes, a chilling transformation that startled me every time I caught my reflection. My irises were now a deep, blood-red. The sclera, once pure white, had turned a sickly yellow. 

I stared at myself, the reality of my transformation sinking in. My angelic glow, the very essence of my being, was essentially gone. I felt like a shadow of my former self, my divine essence stripped away, leaving behind only a shell. The face that looked back at me was familiar yet demonic, a haunting reminder of the price I had paid.

My mind swirled with unanswered questions about Celeste. What had she done to end up in Hell? Only time would reveal those answers, I hoped. But the longer I spent in Hell, the more questions seemed to arise, each more perplexing than the last.

On my way to the temporary housing apartment, I noticed the state of the buildings around me. So many of them were in ruins, crumbling and decayed. Given Hell's nature, I had expected a certain level of desolation, but this felt different. It was as if Hell had recently been ravaged by war. Maybe I was just overthinking it, trying to find logic in a place that defied it. After all, this was Hell.

Yet, in the back of my mind, a nagging thought persisted: the mystery of the exterminations. It sounded like a terrifying concept and if it were true that demons and sinners were supposedly purged to make space, then I would have to be prepared. 

I almost gave up on finding work. Every hiring establishment would take one look at my ID, see ‘nun’ and turn me away. It was disheartening, to say the least. Just when I was about to resign myself to defeat, I somehow ended up in what seemed to be an upscale part of Pentagram City.

The smell of delicious coffee and pastries wafted through the air, a stark contrast to the omnipresent odor of brimstone and sulfur. It reminded me of Évangéline’s cafe, a small comfort in the midst of this infernal landscape. Drawn by the scent, I found myself standing in front of a place called "Pandemonium Café." To my surprise, there was a hiring sign in the window.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door and stepped inside. The warmth and the rich aroma of fresh coffee embraced me, momentarily easing the tension that had built up throughout the day. 

As I was about to be greeted by a host, I was instantly greeted by a towering demon with the features of a great white shark.

The demon shark, named Vinny, flashed a toothy grin that sent a shiver down my spine. I asked about current openings and I was instantly hired on the spot.

The suddenness and eagerness of the hire left me a bit uneasy, but I swallowed my doubts. I have to establish and integrate myself in Hell, to find my place amid the organized chaos and uncertainty. More importantly, I noted that Pandemonium Café was located in what seemed to be an upscale part of Hell, frequented by many clients. It meant I was likely to run into some influential figures, or at the very least, keep up with the latest stories and gossip.

With that, my uncertain journey in Hell took a definitive turn.

 I collapsed onto the worn mattress, the springs poking uncomfortably into my back. I stretched my aching body, feeling the strain from a long day of walking through dangerous streets and narrowly avoiding assaults and attacks. 

Each encounter required quick thinking and physical defense.The streets of Pentagram city had tested my every instinct, confirming that although I was Celeste in essence, my body and mind still possessed the trained combat reflexes from my angelic life. 

The moment a hand reached out to grab me or a weapon was drawn, my body reacted with a precision and swiftness that seemed almost automatic. I had disarmed a knife-wielding demon with a single fluid motion, and a swift kick had sent another attacker sprawling. The training, the discipline, it was all still there, ingrained deep within me. My body remembered the moves, the techniques, even if my soul felt weighed down by the loss of my angelic essence. The instincts were there, sharp and ready, reminding me that while Hell had taken much from me, it hadn't stripped me of everything.

As I lay there, I couldn't help but think back to the wings I once took for granted. The ability to soar through the skies, untouched by the chaos and danger below, seemed like a distant dream now. When I reclaim my wings, I will cherish every moment of flight, a privilege I had never fully appreciated until now. 

My gaze wandered to the old, battered television in the corner. It was clear from its shattered screen that bullets were shot and it hadn't worked in ages. I contemplated reaching out to Sera, wondering if I should update her on my situation in Hell. But what could I say? That I was alive?

Turning away from the useless TV, I sighed and rolled over on the bed. Outside, the cacophony of screams and violence pierced through the thin walls of my apartment. Despite the chaos outside, exhaustion weighed heavily on me and I slept. 

The air was warm, filled with the scent of fresh flowers and the sound of joyous laughter. In the heart of a small town, a wedding was taking place. The quaint church was adorned with garlands of white roses, and the sound of bells echoed in the air.

Father Erick, with his renowned beauty and humility, stood at the altar, performing the ceremony. His hair caught the sunlight, and his serene expression held the congregation in rapt attention.

Erick had come from an extremely wealthy and privileged family that claimed noble lineage from their settlement in the New World. On the verge of inheriting the De la Cruz vast wealth and estate, Erick claimed to have received a divine message from an angel, urging him to abandon his material wealth and embrace priesthood. His decision had caused outrage and a rift in his family, but his dedication had quickly made him a revered figure, even attracting attention from the Vatican. Over time, his family had warmed to him again, recognizing the power and influence he brought to their town.

I, on the other hand, come from humble beginnings. I had fled my home to escape abuse and poverty. With nowhere else to go, I had joined a strict convent. The convent had been grueling, but I had adapted and eventually became a nun. Now, here I was, admiring Erick as he gave his final blessings.

When the young bride and groom kissed, and the entire church erupted into joyous celebration. Part of me felt happiness for them, but another part of me mourned the life I would never have. I was married to the church and considered past the age for marriage. I was doomed from the start. My low and indigenous background had never afforded me the chance for personal happiness. Leaving my family and joining the convent had been my only option to obtain both an education and a roof over my head. 

Erick spotted me from a distance and smiled warmly. I returned his smile, though it was tinged with bittersweet longing. Throughout the ceremony, I had secretly imagined myself and Erick getting married, a hopeless fantasy that I knew would never come true. A member of the groom's family called out to me, "Celeste, come join us outside! The wedding festivities are starting!"

With a deep breath, I turned away from the altar, leaving the church behind. As I stepped outside, the scene shifted, the joyous village wedding fading away like a distant memory.

*********************************************************

Next Chapter: Blackout

Story available on AO3

[saellefanwork]

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕋𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕋𝕚𝕞𝕖

Reminder: This fic is rated Mature (adults only) for canon-typical violence and eventual suggestive or explicit sexual content

Return to Chapters List

Chapter 2: Our First Encounter

Rengoku Kyojuro encounters Kanoko for the first time merely a few weeks prior to his participation in the Final Selection. During their initial meeting, they engage in a spirited sparring session. They forge a deep connection in a remarkably short span of time.

Author Note: We go aboard the Flashback Arc for a few chapters, developping the relationship between Kanoko/the Reader and Kyojuro.

Seven years ago

"A smile that constant surely hides something," was the first thought that crossed your mind when you met Kyojuro for the first time.

It was a spring morning, and you were training alone with your wooden sword in a meadow not far from your family home on the outskirts of Ebara-gun when a powerful voice interrupted you.

"What an astonishing technique! What Breathing style do you use?!"

You turned around to face a boy about your age. His rebellious blond hair with red streaks gave off the impression of encountering a fiery spirit. The locks reached just above his shoulders, with a section tied up in a small high ponytail. His ruby and golden eyes, with white pupils like molten metal, sparkled as they gazed at you. He had a bokken fastened to his hakama belt.

Just by his unique appearance and age, you already knew who he was. The Rengokus, residing in the neighboring village of Komazawa, were celebrities in Ebara-gun due to their distinctive features and unparalleled wealth. You were also aware of their true occupation—a lineage of elite Demon Slayers. So, was the eldest son coming here to train as well?

You smirked, resting the back of your bokken on your shoulder. It wasn't particularly respectful to the sword, even if it was just a prop, but your admirer didn't seem to mind as he eagerly awaited your response.

"Rengoku Kyojuro-san, right? I'm Nagase Kanoko, a Time Breathing user. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine! It seems you already know who I am, even though I have never heard of Time Breathing or the Nagase family as a lineage of Demon Slayers. I feel quite embarrassed!"

"It's not surprising. We are the only users of this Breathing style, and we are not affiliated with the Corps."

"Oh, is that so?! May I ask why?"

What a peculiar boy. He was very loud while speaking. Was it a sign of nervousness? Yet, he didn't appear intimidated by your presence at all. Perhaps it was simply a reflection of his enthusiastic nature.

"Unlike the Slayers, we have no master above us," you replied, raising your head with pride. "We hunt demons on our own. The men in my family are swordsmiths, and the women are demon hunters. We don't need anyone. Since we share the same goal as the Kisatsutai, we tolerate each others, but there's no particular fondness between us. Your father must be aware of our existence; you can ask him."

"I see!" Kyojuro exclaimed with a smile. "So, we are like rivals then! Let's spar together! I want to witness the power of that Time Breathing of yours!"

"Alright, you've asked for it! Prepare yourself!"

Training with a Rengoku presented an extraordinary opportunity that you were determined not to let slip away. With your heart pounding, you positioned your sword in front of you, assuming the classic chūdan stance, while carefully studying your opponent.

Kyojuro mirrored your movements, adopting a similar pose, and before you could fully appreciate his unwavering guard, he vanished from your sight.

What a remarkable speed! You barely caught a glimpse of him on the side, poised to strike his bokken down upon your head. In a swift inhalation, you tensed your muscles.

Time Breathing, First Form: Morning Angelus.

The impending strike seemed to slow down, granting you enough time to observe Kyojuro's concentration faltering under the influence of your breath. The altered pace allowed you to evade the blow that would have resulted in a painful impact and adjust your posture to execute a slashing attack from bottom to top. However, he proved faster in his reflexes than you had anticipated, managing to adjust his attack mid-air and deflect your strike just before it could connect with his chin.

A few more exchanges followed, the dull thuds of the bokken echoing through the meadow. While holding your ground against a Rengoku was an impressive feat in itself, you couldn't help but feel infuriated that he had yet to employ his Breathing techniques. It agitated you to no end—did he not even deem you worthy enough to warrant their use?

His stance suddenly shifted, and you heard him inhale sharply, a fleeting moment that signaled the ignition of his next attack. Finally! You, too, sucked air into your lungs, prepared to execute any of the seven forms of your Breathing style.

His bokken erupted into flames as he launched a horizontal slash towards you. Anticipating your parry and counter-attack, you readied yourself, but he swiftly changed techniques, catching you off guard.

Flame Breathing, Third Form: Blazing Universe!

Time Breathing, Fourth Form: Death Knell Tolls!

The ominous tolls of your technique resonated heavily in the air, but it was too late—your muscles wouldn't allow you to strike him before he did. The blazing bokken was on the verge of colliding with your forehead, threatening to scorch your scalp.

However, displaying the prowess of a brilliant swordsman despite his youth, Kyojuro abruptly halted his strike and extinguished the flames. Only the searing breath of the impact ruffled your hair as you instinctively closed your eyes.

To his surprise, Kyojuro, who believed himself victorious, noticed that your bokken had also made contact with his neck, precisely where the carotid artery lay. Had real katanas been employed, both of you would have met a fatal end.

"Impressive!" he exclaimed, taking a step back, his excitement palpable. "You could easily join the Kisatsutai! Wouldn't you like to come to the Final Selection with me?"

"Ha... no, thanks. It goes against my family tradition anyway," you mumbled, a mix of awe and slight annoyance washing over you for not emerging as the clear victor. If your grandparents were to discover that you had challenged a Demon Slayer, especially a Rengoku, without the assurance of winning, they would surely be infuriated. They staunchly believed that nothing should tarnish the reputation of excellence upheld by solitary hunters.

Fortunately, you had no intention of divulging the details of this encounter to them.

"When are you going to participate in the Final Selection?" you inquired.

"In two weeks!"

Kyojuro glanced at the position of the sun in the sky, its reflection shimmering in his bright eyes.

"I have to head back home! See you tomorrow!"

"Wait, I..."

"Good evening, Himawari-san. Thanks again for the training!"

While he tried to be polite, it seemed that he wasn't inclined to let others speak until the end. He hadn't even said your name properly. You stood there, taken aback, as he energetically ran off as if your intense duel hadn't just taken place. He possessed remarkable endurance... Was this what it meant to be a child blessed by the gods? Despite feeling a sense of envy, a small voice reminded you that such comparisons were twisted. As the eldest in a renowned lineage of Demon Slayers, he likely faced his own personal struggles. Besides, talent alone couldn't explain his level of skill at such a young age—it must have required rigorous training. Massaging your sore muscles, you decided to linger in the meadow, replaying the fight in your mind and contemplating how you could have emerged victorious.

The following day, you adjusted your schedule to ensure that you would be in the clearing around the same time. As he had promised, Kyojuro appeared. "Good morning, Himawari-san! Are you ready for training?!" he greeted.

"My name is Nagase Kanoko, Kyojuro-san. Remember it properly, or should I smash it inside that head of yours?" you asked playfully.

He laughed at your provocation, clearly enjoying your spirit, and promised he would do his best to call you by your real name.

You swiftly engaged in sparring. The exchange was less exploratory than the previous day, with both of you striving to exploit each other's weaknesses. It was evident that Kyojuro had continued training while reflecting on your previous duel. However, after a few exchanges, you were the first to find an opening and immediately seized the opportunity. Your strike landed forcefully on his shoulder, lacking the finesse to soften the impact as you were carried away by your determination to hit him. The collision was so brutal that for a moment, you feared you had broken his collarbone.

"Sorry, Kyojuro-san! I was so focused on landing the strike that I didn't manage to cushion the blow..." you apologized, stumbling over your words. Anxiety and guilt gripped your heart. What would the rumors say if they discovered that you had injured the son of a Hashira? You sincerely hoped that this incident would not have any repercussions on your family...

"No worries, I've endured far worse!" he reassured you with a thunderous laugh. "And I'll face even greater threats when confronting demons! So feel free to give it your all!"

Despite his reassurance, you found little comfort in his words, even though you acknowledged their truth. This bruise was nothing compared to the trials that awaited him. You bit your lip and dampened your handkerchief with water from your wooden canteen.

"Still, partners shouldn't harm each other. Put this on your bruise to reduce the swelling... I am truly sorry. Let's take a break."

"Hmm! By the way, you handle the sword exceptionally well, Kanoko-san! I'm grateful to have found someone as skilled as you to train with. Progressing alone can be quite challenging at times."

"Are you the only disciple of the current Flame Pillar? It must be hard... but consider yourself fortunate to be able to train with a Hashira of your own Breathing style! Your father has quite the reputation!"

You sensed from his expression that the topic was unwelcome, as his smile momentarily faded. His gaze darkened, and he clenched his fists, displaying more frustration than anger. Observing him with a puzzled expression, you were about to apologize when he continued, his smile forced:

"Ah... My father is a formidable warrior, but unfortunately, he supervises me less and less! In compensation, I diligently study the three kata books written by my ancestors, which detail the usage of the Flame Breathing forms. I also train with my younger brother, although he's still in the early stages of his sword apprenticeship."

Before you could delve further into the conversation, he pointed to the position of the sun.

"Speaking of which, I have to head back home and prepare dinner. See you tomorrow!"

He departed without waiting for your response, waving his arms in farewell as he hurried away, a broad smile adorning his face. As you watched him vanish into the distance, you made a silent promise to yourself to remind him to give you a chance to respond... even though you weren't entirely sure if he would listen to you anyway.

As you strolled along the path flanked by cherry trees that led to your home, you reflected on what the boy had told you... like how he often trained alone and appeared to cook for his younger brother (and even his father?). In many traditional Japanese families, the mothers prepared meals for their husbands and children. However, it was widely known in Ebara-gun that Rengoku Ruka had passed away a year ago. Given the esteemed status of the Rengoku family, why didn't they have servants to handle their meals? Even without that, couldn't their father have taken over temporarily? Perhaps he was still mourning or engaged in a mission. Alternatively, it could be that Kyojuro took pleasure in cooking for his family and didn't require the assistance of servants. Though you wanted to believe in this last possibility, something within you hinted that the reality might be darker than that. Could it be that the Flame Pillar neglected his children...?

Besides the sadness that the idea brought you, you pondered how a teenager around your age could have achieved such a high level of martial prowess without the daily guidance of a master. But again, the eldest son of the Rengoku family was no ordinary boy... Upon reaching home, you bolstered your determination to surpass yourself and requested your grandmother to adjust your daily training accordingly. She found your prolonged absences in the afternoon somewhat suspicious, as you returned more fatigued and determined than usual. However, her contentment at witnessing your progress allowed her to set aside her curiosity when you explained that you were training with a friend.

Kyojuro and you continued to train together each day that followed. The number of victories you both scored in your duels remained fairly even, but strangely, you felt more challenged than he did. Your constructive feedback on each other's techniques facilitated rapid improvement for both of you... By the second week, you decided to bring him some food to share with his younger brother and father. He expressed great delight upon receiving the gift.

"Oh! Salt grilled bream! My favorite!"

"Well, I'm glad," you replied, taking note of it in the back of your mind. "I simply wanted to prepare something easy and tasty that you could share with your family. My grandmother also made caramelized rice cakes. Enjoy!"

"Thank you, Kanoko, and please thank your grandmother as well! I'm sure my brother and father will appreciate it. Unfortunately, I'm not a very skilled cook. I think it will be a relief for them to have a change from my usual takikomigohan!" (It seemed it was the only dish Kyojuro could master...)

You wanted to focus on the confirmation about the Flame Pillar's parental negligence, but you couldn't help but notice how your sparring partner had dropped the honorific after your name. Instantly, you blushed at the sudden and unexpected familiarity, as if you were part of his inner circle, even though you barely knew each other. On the other hand, Kyojuro showed no signs of embarrassment, his joyful expression unchanged as he struggled not to devour the dishes you prepared right away, his mouth watering. You tried to ignore the fluttering of your heart as you conviced yourself that he didn't drop the honorifics on purpose. Amusingly, you noted that he seemed to particularly enjoy eating, to the point where he could barely take his eyes off the food in his hands anymore. The dorado now seemed like your biggest rival.

Until the Final Selection, you brought dinner for Kyojuro every day, allowing him to linger a little longer with you after your sparring sessions. He started speaking to you in a more familiar manner, even without food involved, which was quite pleasant after the initial akwardness. It added a special dimension to your friendship. Your life had always revolved around your demon hunter legacy, barely leaving any place for friendship. You had the feeling it was the same for him. Although it was dangerous to become attached to a teenager who could die at any moment under the fangs of demons, you couldn't help yourself.

"Good luck in the Final Selection, Kyojuro!" you finally said to him on the day before his departure. "I'm sure you will do well!"

"Thank you! Are you still not considering joining? You once told me that technically nothing was forbidding you from participating in the Final Selection."

"It's not strictly prohibited in my family's code, but it's kind of an unspoken rule. We prefer to remain completely independent of the Demon Slayer Corps. My grandparents wouldn't agree, anyway. It's already challenging enough for them to raise and train me since my parents' death, I don't want to upset them."

Kyojuro appeared slightly saddened upon learning about the death of your parents, even though he had suspected as much, given that you only mentioned your grandparents when talking about your family. He nodded, understanding the importance of filial piety. He finished the rice biscuit you had given him and stood up.

"Well then! I have to leave now."

"Alright. Will everything be okay for your family? You seem to take care of them a lot, and you won't be there for a few days..." Or maybe never again, if he didn't return, but you didn't dare say it.

"Hmm! Even though there are fewer of them now due to my father's temperament, we still have servants. And Senjuro is quite resourceful for his age. Everything will be fine. See you soon, Kanoko! The next time you see me, I will have become a Slayer," he exclaimed with flamboyant confidence.

You grinned at his radiant enthusiasm. It would be dishonest to say that you weren't worried, but Kyojuro was undeniably strong... it was difficult to imagine him failing.

"Yes! I can't wait to see you in uniform!"

Your response seemed to make him blush, although it was so fleeting that you couldn't be certain. His smile widened, and he nodded with determination before walking away. At the corner of the first house, he turned back one last time and waved his arm. You immediately responded in kind, feeling slightly embarrassed that he had noticed you watching him from afar. Even after he disappeared from sight, you remained there for a long time, gazing at the spot where he had vanished.

Deep down, you understood that this was the first of many farewells, after which you could never be certain if you would see him again.

Taisho secret: There is a rumor saying that during a mission, Shinobu and Giyuu found themselves in an intimate situation after consuming a considerable amount of alcohol. However, the following day, Giyuu seemed to brush off the incident as if it never occurred. This particular event might be one of the reasons why the head of the Butterfly Estate harbors resentment towards him.

"Author-san, please refrain from spreading baseless rumors," Shinobu sighs, her temple throbbing with frustration.

Next chapter: "The Calm before the Storm"!

[bradsmindbrain]

Red Hot Juice

Summary: Following the bowl-off, Phantasmaraneae has a small chat with his contracted Witch.

TW: None

Several rocky spires jutted out of Phalaris, Inferno’s sea of magma. Stretched across these spires was a large web made of magma, in an intricate pattern of molten rock. Dotted across the web were uneven pieces of solidified rock, previous victims of the web’s spinner, wrapped in threads of lava that had long since hardened. 

Sitting at the center of the web was a Phantasmaraneae, his offspring scuttling across the rest of the molten web. Just a short while ago, he had dragged a Beloved down here for his contractee, Cereza. He was quite happy with it, sure he would’ve preferred something larger, like a Valiance, but he supposed it would do. Besides, it allowed him to see his contractee, which was always nice. It had been a while since he had been able to talk to someone, not since his dumbass brother Phantom got himself impaled. As much as he liked being alone, someone to talk to and forge a bond with was also important.

Phantasmaraneae like him were a proud race of Demons despite their shyness, being treated as lesser by Witches that wished to form a contract with them was a sure way to be incinerated. Cereza though, she treated him with respect. When he had felt the ritual being performed, he decided to give whatever Witch who was trying to make a contract a shot, probably beating out several other demons when he did. The blood that had been spilt to initiate the ritual boiled into nothingness as he emerged from Inferno into that abandoned building Cereza and her mother were performing the ritual in.

Cereza, unlike quite a few Witches that had wished to contract his kind, treated him with a great amount of respect, making it abundantly clear that it would be an honor to gain a contract with him, and that she’d be incredibly grateful if he did agree. Of course, he did, using the standard stipulations used when a Demon Contracts a Witch, requiring her to kill Angels daily and that he’d acquire her soul after death.

That being said, he was probably more involved with her than most Demons were with the Witches they made contracts with, Phantasmaraneae like him tended to be like that. When it came to someone that had gained their respect, they were unwaveringly loyal, willing to go above and beyond the terms of their contracts for their Witch. For that reason, he checked up on her often, using her “phone” as a medium for communication.

Cereza wasn’t like most Umbra Witches he had heard about, compared to their more reserved and calm attitudes, she oozed confidence, playfulness, and charisma. Honestly he admired that about her, she lived her life on the edge, and she was someone who could be just as hot-headed as he could be. There was a mutual respect between the two of them, one that made him feel like they were an especially good duo.

He was deeply saddened when she had met her end a few days ago at the hands of that… thing, and since then had worked with a Variant of her to take down the one responsible. In the end, she was back. Sure she couldn’t recall what had happened up until she died, but at the very least his contractee, or dare he say his friend, was back.

“You up to anything?” Cereza’s voice echoed through his head. While she could see what he was saying through her phone, on his end, what she wrote was essentially beamed into his mind.

“Not much, what about you?” he thought, sending the message to her.

“Same old same old,” she replied, boredom evident.

He thought for a minute, trying to think of something to talk about, “How was your little competition with Jeanne?” He knew Jeanne quite well, even though he’d never seen her, Cereza’s ramblings about her told him pretty much everything he needed to know. He was almost certain that there were unrealized feelings between the two of them, but he figured he’d cross that bridge when he was absolutely sure.

“We tied another bloody time. I swear to the Trinity that she’s contracted to some Demon that controls luck and not Scolopendra,” Cereza responded, frustration evident.

He chuckled at that, “More than a few fellows down here who can do that sort of thing.”

“That reminds me,” Cereza responded, excitement evident, “I tried summoning a new Demon today. I’ve been trying to practice doing that, and I actually managed it!”

This piqued Phantasmaraneae’s interest, Umbra Witches could summon Demons that weren’t their contractors. Sure the summoned Demon wasn’t obligated to help the Witch like their contractor was, but they were more than capable of using their hair to ensure the Demon was under their control. Honestly, he was quite curious as to what she had managed to summon. “Oh? What was it?”

“A Sodom,” Cereza replied. That wasn’t actually a bad pick for her first summon that wasn’t him, those huge gorilla demons that inhabited Johnson Forest were one of the few Demons that could rival the Gomorrah living there in terms of raw strength. Not to mention, they were significantly more docile towards Umbra Witches than Gomorrah were, on top of being quite a bit more intelligent.

Phantasmaraneae gave a low grumble, “A Sodom huh? That’s not a bad choice, mistress, they are quite strong.”

He could practically hear Cereza laugh, “I’m well-aware of that, Phanty. Mother and Father were with me when I tried it, just in case things went awry. But it went smoothly, and Mother in particular seems decently proud of me.”

Ah, Rosa, Cereza’s mother. She and Variants of her were well-known throughout Inferno, regarded as one of the strongest Umbra Witches to ever live regardless of what universe of Purgatorio she came from. This particular version was contracted to Madama Khepri, one of the most powerful Demons in Inferno. She also appeared to have high standards and was fairly strict with Cereza, obviously wanting her to be the strongest Witch she could be. This was in sharp contrast to her father, Balder, who Cereza had told him was more laid-back, and more willing to offer her praise for her efforts.

“Well, good job mistress, that’s a pretty important thing to learn. Besides, you can’t rely on me all the time,” he gently teased.

“Have you considered that I wanted to give you a break from time to time?” Cereza snarked back.

Phantasmaraneae chuckled, “How thoughtful.”

“You’re welcome,” Cereza replied, “Anyway, I’m back at home. I need some time to unwind after that bowl-off, so I’ll talk to you again in a little bit.”

“Alright then, see you,” Phantasmaraneae replied, Cereza’s voice fading from his head. The arachnid Demon gave a small sigh as he felt his offspring crawl onto his abdomen, obviously wanting to rest. He slid the visor-like section of his exoskeleton over his face, ready to rest for a while as well. He thought about what Cereza would do if she saw him like this, probably call him a big softie or something like that. Not that he minded, he knew more than a few other Demons would kill to make a contract with a Witch like her.

[sinful-morningstar]

Spartober day 18 Spard (Sparda x Vergil)

Author's note: No joke this took me 5 hours to write...its been a long day i was working on the last prompt and this prompt while recovering from a hangover but i did it..i did it ..im now caught back up <3 anyways, enjoy today's prompt lots of inner turmoil rather than actual dialogue

Prompts by Whatsanapocalae1 (I use a Combination of SparTober and Devil MayTober Prompts) 18: Sparda (Sparda x Vergil) The sound of clashing blades echoed through the ancient training grounds, a testament to the fierce duel taking place between two warriors, father and son. The crimson glow of Sparda's Rebellion clashed with the ethereal blue of Vergil's Yamato, a duel of not just strength but also will.

Vergil had always admired his father, Sparda, with a deep respect and longing for the power and wisdom he possessed. But as their blades clashed and their eyes met in that heated moment of combat, something more profound was ignited within him. It was a different kind of yearning, one that he couldn't quite comprehend.

Sparda, the legendary demon knight, was a formidable figure. His imposing presence and graceful swordsmanship were awe-inspiring. As he moved with fluidity and precision, he offered guidance to his son in the art of combat, teaching him the ways of the Yamato. His voice was calm, yet filled with wisdom, a voice that resonated deeply with Vergil.

With every passing moment of their duel, Vergil couldn't help but be captivated by the man who was both his father and his mentor. The way Sparda moved, the way he spoke, and the way he gazed into Vergil's eyes with a mix of pride and understanding stirred emotions within him that he had never felt before. A powerful connection was growing between them, one that transcended the boundaries of family and mentorship.

As Sparda's blade clashed against Vergil's, a torrent of thoughts and emotions swirled in the young warrior's mind. He was torn between his admiration for his father's strength and his newfound affection. He couldn't deny the attraction he felt for this extraordinary figure who had shaped his life, both as a father and as a teacher.

The conflict within Vergil intensified with each passing moment. On one hand, he had a fierce desire to surpass his father, to become as powerful as the legendary Sparda himself. On the other hand, he couldn't help but acknowledge the feelings of admiration that had morphed into something deeper.

Their duel continued, and as Sparda's voice guided Vergil's movements with the Yamato, the young warrior found himself drawn to the man who was not just a master swordsman but also a father he had always longed to understand and be close to. He yearned for Sparda's approval, for his presence, and for the connection they were forging.

In that moment, as their blades clashed for what seemed like an eternity, Vergil was a maelstrom of emotions. Conflicted, torn, and yet, undeniably, falling in love with the enigmatic and powerful figure that was his father. It was a love that transcended the boundaries of conventional relationships and created a bond that would forever define the destiny of the Sparda bloodline. Over the weeks that followed, as they trained together, a subtle change began to take root within Vergil. It started with stolen glances, fleeting moments where his gaze lingered on Sparda, admiring the way the fading light played upon his features. He found himself drawn to the strength and wisdom that emanated from the older warrior, and the moments of guidance and shared knowledge became precious to him.

One evening, as they stood on the precipice of a cliff, the wind tousling their hair, Sparda turned to his son. "Vergil, the Yamato is not just a weapon; it is an extension of your will. You must learn to feel its rhythm, to let it become a part of you."

Vergil nodded, his gaze fixed on the ancient blade. "I understand, Father. I will master it."

Sparda's eyes, the colour of molten gold in the dying light, met Vergil's. "You have the potential to surpass even me, my son. But remember, true strength is not just about power, but also about the heart that wields it."

Those words echoed in Vergil's mind, stirring something deep within him. As the weeks turned into months, their training sessions became more than just physical exercise; they became moments of profound connection. There were evenings by the fire, where Sparda shared tales of battles won and lost, of a world beyond their own. And there were quiet moments of contemplation, where the air seemed to hum with a shared understanding.

One day, as they stood in the heart of the training grounds, Sparda's voice broke through the silence. "Vergil, you have grown strong. Your skill with the Yamato has surpassed my expectations."

A swell of pride mixed with a pang of longing washed over Vergil. He met his father's gaze, his voice steady. "It is thanks to your guidance, Father."

Sparda's hand came to rest on Vergil's shoulder, a touch that sent a shiver down his spine. "You have a fire within you, Vergil. Do not let it consume you, but let it forge you into the warrior you are meant to be."

As the days passed, Vergil found himself grappling with emotions he had never anticipated. It was a slow realisation, a dawning awareness that what he felt for Sparda went beyond admiration—it was a love that defied explanation, a love that left him both elated and conflicted.

In the quiet moments of the night, beneath the watchful gaze of the moon, Vergil would grapple with his feelings. He knew that this love was a complex and uncharted territory, but it was also undeniable. And as he stood alongside his father, their blades raised in the fading light, he understood that this love was woven into the very fabric of his being, an inseparable part of his journey toward becoming the warrior he was destined to be.

The training ground was suffused with an unspoken tension, a palpable shift in the air. Vergil's strikes were precise, fueled by a newfound determination that seemed to emanate from a deeper place within him. Sparda, ever perceptive, couldn't help but notice the change in his son.

Their blades clashed, the sound echoing through the silent expanse. Sparda's eyes, still sharp despite the years, caught Vergil's in a moment of vulnerability. There was a flicker of something in his son's gaze, a tumult of emotions dancing beneath the surface.

"Your strikes are powerful, Vergil," Sparda commented, his voice carrying a note of subtle observation. "But there is a fire within you that burns brighter than before. What fuels it?"

Vergil hesitated for a fraction of a second, his grip on the Yamato tightening imperceptibly. "I seek to surpass all limitations, to become the strongest warrior possible," he replied, his voice steady, though there was a subtle tremor beneath the surface.

Sparda's gaze lingered, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Strength is a worthy pursuit, but it is important to discern the source of that fire. It can both illuminate and consume."

As the days passed, the conflict within Vergil deepened. His love for Sparda, both as a father and now as something more, was a tangled web of emotions. He watched as his father moved with the grace of a master, his heart pounding with a mixture of familial pride and a yearning that he dared not voice.

One evening, under the watchful gaze of the full moon, they sat in quiet contemplation by the fire. The crackling of the flames seemed to mirror the turmoil within Vergil's heart. Sparda turned to him, his eyes gentle but searching.

"Vergil, there is something that weighs on your spirit," Sparda began, his voice a soothing balm against the backdrop of the night. "You are my son, and I know you better than you may think. Speak your heart, for it is a burden best shared."

Vergil's gaze met his father's, a tempest of emotions swirling within him. The truth lay heavy on his tongue, but he couldn't find the words. Instead, he turned away, unable to meet Sparda's gaze.

"It is nothing, Father. Just the musings of an overactive mind," he replied, his voice carefully controlled.

Sparda's hand found his, a touch that sent a jolt of electricity through Vergil. "Vergil, you are not alone in this journey. Whatever you carry, know that you can share it with me."

At that moment, the conflict within Vergil reached its zenith. The love he felt for Sparda, both as a father and as a man who stirred emotions he couldn't fully understand, threatened to consume him. He longed to pour his heart out, to confess the depth of his feelings, but fear and uncertainty held him back.

The elder demon knight continued to watch his son, his golden eyes filled with a mixture of understanding and concern. He knew that something profound had shifted within Vergil, something beyond the boundaries of their father-son relationship. Sparda had lived for centuries, seen countless battles, and understood the complexities of emotions, including those that could transcend the ordinary.

"Vergil," Sparda began, his voice soft and laden with gentle encouragement, "Sometimes, the things that weigh heaviest on our hearts are those we dare not speak. But remember, I am here for you, as a father and as your mentor."

Vergil's throat tightened, and he finally met his father's gaze, a torrent of conflicting emotions playing across his face. "Father, I—"

Sparda, as if sensing the difficulty his son faced, offered a warm and reassuring smile.

"No need to say more, my son. Time will reveal what must be revealed," Sparda said, his words holding a promise of understanding and patience.

With a sigh of relief and a tinge of sadness, Vergil nodded, acknowledging his father's wisdom. He understood that the path he was on was fraught with uncertainty, but he also knew that his love for Sparda, however complex, was an undeniable part of his journey.

As they sat in the stillness of the night, the conflict within Vergil remained, yet he found solace in the knowledge that he could continue to train, grow, and learn from his father. With each passing day, the lines between familial and romantic love blurred, leaving Vergil to grapple with a love that transcended the boundaries of both worlds. The path forward was unclear, but one thing was certain: Vergil's destiny was irrevocably entwined with the enigmatic figure who had become not only his father but the embodiment of his deepest desires.

[scribeinshadows]

Whispers from the Abyss

Across the dark, churning river of Nyxithral, the Abyss beckoned—a vast, yawning wound in reality itself. From his vantage on Mount Draemir, the Waking Peak, Castalien felt its whispers tear at his very soul, each anguished murmur reverberating through his bones like the tremors of a distant cataclysm. His obsidian-hued eyes, faintly glowing with the tortured souls of ten thousand forgotten lives, brimmed with a single tear of pitch-black ichor, sliding down his cheek like the last breath of a dying god. He gritted his teeth against the wave of shadowed memories assaulting him, the leather of his gloves creaking as his trembling hand tightened on the cursed scabbard of Valak’Thar, the Nightbringer.

This was no ordinary blade. Forged in the molten heart of Nyxithral itself, quenched in the blood of fallen gods, and bound with curses woven from the dying screams of lost souls, Valak’Thar pulsed beneath his touch, its ancient thirst eager to drink from the veins of any who dared to look upon it. Castalien could almost hear it humming softly, a dark lullaby that pulled him toward the Abyss, the chthonic rip in the earth where light went to die.

He forced himself to look away from the Abyss, knowing that to stare too long would be to surrender his very essence to the shadowed depths. He knew the fate of those known as the Starers—souls who had gazed upon the Abyss and returned only as husks, their eyes milk-white and frozen in a stare of silent, eternal horror. They stood even now upon the distant ridge, their jaws slack in a silent scream, mouths wired shut by shadow, draped in tattered rags that whispered as they moved, an endless chorus of despair drifting upon the wind.

Castalien leapt down from the promontory, landing with feline grace as his dark cloak billowed behind him, a shroud of night clinging to his form. He could feel the weight of destiny pressing upon him, a burden only the bravest would bear. His path was clear: he must descend to the steps of Nethra, the Umbral Church from which the Shadowed Way began—a winding, spectral road that passed through the ruins of Othrymn and led to the ancient maw of the Abyss itself.

Othrymn. The name tasted like ash in his mouth. He had fled the city over a decade ago, before the Ashfall had silenced its streets, coating every stone and soul in endless gray, until only the dead remained to keep silent vigil. Castalien’s heart ached with a searing, ancient pain at the memory, a wound that even the Abyss could not hope to heal.

Hesitation gripped him, tightening like a vice around his insides. Surely it would be simpler to descend by the way he had come, to retreat to the inn at Ruanthis at the foot of Mount Draemir, to let the warmth of firelight soothe his bones. He could be at the coast by dawn, standing on familiar shores with the salt breeze in his face.

But the demon’s laughter echoed in his skull, rough and brutal, mocking him for even daring to consider escape. The demon fed on his hesitation, each lingering second a temptation to abandon his fate, to let himself fall back into the comforts of ordinary life. To do so would be to let the demon win—and to bring all he knew to ruin.

No. Castalien knew he must go on. He set his jaw, wiping the black ichor from his cheek, and took the first step toward the Shadowed Way, toward the ruins of Othrymn, toward the Abyss that awaited to claim his soul. He was bound to the path, a solitary figure wreathed in sorrow, walking toward a future as dark as the memory that haunted him.

[skeleton-in-a-hoodie]

With regards to DDMG, I've been thinking how the Turtles would fight a ghost. Like I don't think conventional weapons would be able to do it, because the ghost's core would immediately negate that kind of damage.

For a weapon to hurt a ghost, I think it needs to be special in some way. At the moment, I'm thinking that either means certain sigils being carved into it, or being made of special material.

An idea I have right now is when the Turtles get their weapons, Splinter makes them personally whilst getting help from the boys in crafting each weapon. The wooden parts come from wood sourced from the forest next to the Old House, so it's wood that technically comes from the spirit world.

The metal parts I've got two ideas for:

Splinter using some of his own ectoplasm and mixing it in the molten, but I'm not sure how I feel about the idea of Splinter effectively self-harming to make his sons' weapons. Throughout this au, I think something Splinter has to learn is how to take care of himself, because that's not something he's being doing at all and it ties into how he perceives himself, and using his own ecto to make their weapons feels like it contradicts that. That being said, this method would still work effectively at creating ghost killing weapons.

Second is the forest deer leading Splinter through the forest to some iron ore deposits or rusted metal, and Splinter using those. Kinda leaning towards this one, cause I like the idea of Splinter and the deer gradually learning how to get along with each other.

The fact Splinter would be using his fire powers would be another factor in making the weapons special.

Throughout this process, the Turtles would be involved. Like they choose the wood and iron that's used, work with Splinter to design the weapons, and then when he's forging the metal they help him with theirs. Wen it comes to carving the wood, Splinter shows them how to do it, but then they make it themselves. Same with marterial wrapped around the handles.

Because of that, and the materials the weapons are made from, I think there's a chance the weapons will bond to them specifically. I'm not sure how that'll work yet, it's just something I think would be fun.

The end result is the DDMG boys all having weapons that can actually harm ghosts and demons.

Miwa has the tessen in this au, so if April ends up using a tessen like in cannon, it'll have to be one made in a similar way to the Turtles' weapons. Same for Casey, which I'm sure will do wonders for Socorro's blood pressure.

[carminequill]

Dirge in Vermillion

My husk forged molten Chiselled from Hephaestus’ hammer Glittered rubies, riding the tides of my brain matter Red mercury, red vermillion, scatter Like threads frayed and bloodied, reaching my dilated pupils Like the crimson cobwebs of unease My eyes mummified, now closed Like Tutankhamen’s sarcophagus I’m dead but undead My veins sing hymns of sirens, lullabies of scorn Each pulsation a shattered shard of yestermorn My spine, an obelisk where demons convene My skin, the parchment of battles unseen. My skull, a cracked chalice, ichor seeps and stains Where whispered truths mingle with venomous rains Prometheus' fire stolen, now eternally alight Each flicker a lost memory, a stolen starry night. In this temple of whispers, my fractured soul does hide An echo forever tethered to the ebbing tide A phantom mourner on forgotten shores I roam Neither kingdom nor exile dares to call me home. - Carmine Quill

[electricelunite]

Forging

The forge was hidden away in a vale of shadows, shrouded from the world thanks to a strange set of wards put in place by the Illidari whose role was to guard the secretive location. Tucked into the rocky and broken crevices of the Broken Shore, it was a small respite amongst the horrors, as much as an outpost in a wasteland riddled by the remnants of demons could be. The pathway to such Osonia had committed to memory after purchasing the information from Oxana Demonslay, an Illidari with a penchant for secrets the month prior. The only difference was that now, she was a guide for Natarius. 

Hand over foot, she traversed the terrain. Sometimes up, sometimes down the rocky cliff sides. The Broken Shore was an unforgiving, harsh place and the way wasn’t always an easy one.  

Makes sense that the way to this place is a fucking nightmare too, her thoughts whispered. 

Clasped to her back, the blades waiting to be reforged whispered in her periphery. Whispers of malice, dread and fear. Things she had been told were simply part of the nature of such horrific blades. Oh yes, Atala had warned her about their nature. They were memories, attuned to the metals, whatever metal it happened to be. The memories of Hellistine, simply waiting to be purged into the forges fire. Snug against her calves, were her pouches containing the metals, some eighty pounds of additional metal, ready to be molten down and reforged into something new. 

A breath exhaled raspily out of her mask as she stood for a heartbeat to survey the hellish landscape dispassionately. Her thoughts whispered to her, the voice amplified by the blades she carried. This might be all that waits on the other side of it all. Another fight. It might simply be.. This. Endlessness. Is this really what you would hope for? Knowing that the Mother does not care enough to shepherd her children? Knowing that she left you all to wallow in the darkness, to suffer alone and without the gentlest of brushes. This.. hellscape. The days of forests and moonlit nights are drawing to a close. The stars will begin to fade, twinkling out of existence, one by one. And what will you do then? 

Good question – one she had no answer to, for the answer that she stared in the face scared the shit out of her. To submit unto the darkness. To forever lose the sight of her mate’s face and features, the joy she found in the quirk in his lips when he was being devilish (which was endearingly often) and in studying the mystery within the language of his body. To lose the comfort in what sight the stars brought to her. To lose the ability to tinker would hurt, for the song that she had discovered in the technology of gnomes was one that had endeared itself to her when she had been at her most desperate.

“Panicking for naught,” she murmured aloud, well aware that Natarius could and would hear. A brief shake of her head followed, dispelling the voices for a time. The aura was proving a challenge to thoughts she had floating about her head space, but not an impossibility. It was akin to listening to the thoughts in stereo – there was an echo, a constant repetition. She followed her murmurings up before the question could be asked. “...Semi-solid.” 

Semi-solid? Her thoughts laughed softly. Weak. 

Perhaps. But.. Not altogether broken. Not yet.

It was a lesson that had been pressing itself over and over the last few weeks. A changing of thoughts, coupled with a serious look at mortality and what remained of a traditional life. An altering of.. Perspectives. A word so simple, that had made itself heard with such a profound ripple effect. As she walked her thoughts contemplated it. All of it, listening to each voice that whispered through her mind, the words they had said to change her perspective – guiding her on this strange path. 

As they approached the camp, some made themselves known– those Illidari who were deployed to it permanently, bastions against that which still wandered the Broken Shore, and guards to those demons who had been directed to work for the Illidari in various ways.

She called, to no one in particular, voice quiet and low. “I return to forge a glaive for the Illidari known as Anaethra, and to reforge a blade for the Illidari known as Areva, both currently deployed to the city of Stormwind.” 

 Their gaze was a weighted one, following each step as she entered the camp. They knew who she was– Oxana had seen to it that she could pass somewhat freely as long as no other non-Illidari came with her. She had learned that this type of smithing was not an easy one for many to adjust to; there were not many who still knew the secrets of felsmithing, nor many who cared to try. Walking through the camp was done in silence. The Illidari spoke not to her, nor she to them, for they had nothing in common.  

“Kar aman, anakh kyree,” a rasping voice grated as she approached the forge. It was followed by a body leaving the shadows, stepping into the dim light. Deeply mottled teal skin became visible in the moonlight as the stunted demon became visible. One hand, fully encased in inky empyrium, rumbled the ground as he walked, knuckles dragging over rocks and stones. Its face was concealed behind a metal plate, one that judged outwards into a blade that ran the length of its nose. It was a face she had never seen, nor a face she would ever see. “That one is back again?” 

“Yes,” she answered in a quiet emotionless tone. Give nothing away. You are anxious, afraid. Stressed. If it knows, it will use it and whisper more fiercely than the blades or your mind do. “A traditionally styled glaive as well as a reforging of some.. Man’ari weaponry. Unfortunately acquired, but on their way to a new owner. The circle of existence, it seems.” 

“Yes.. Yess..” The demon hissed silkily. “Light the forges, we must. Did you bring it metals? Precious metals for the forges. Precious metals for Thogmak.” 

Nodding slowly, her voice whispered out from her mask. “Yes, empyrium for the blades, and a little more for payment.” 

“Thogmak will determine payment…but.. That one brought another with it.”

Another nod was her answer. “Yes,” she answered coldly. Do not give the demon anything, her thoughts whispered softly. Her breath rasped out from the mask cylinders as she regarded the gan’arg. “Busy yourself with the forges, then. I do not have time to answer further. It is time to work.” 

“Thogmak will light the forges, yes.. Yes.. anakh kyree will set out its offerings.” 

Soon, she was left to her devices. The Man’ari blades she set out first, putting some space between herself and the whispers. Unwrapping them carefully from their netherbandages, her gaze rested heavily on them for a moment. The twin sickles were plain in appearance, with little adornment or etching to mark them. 

Her outer jacket followed soon after, tucked into her work bag. Chills rippled up her arms, sinking into her core. It was a chill that would not last, once the forge was lit. On a nearby rock, she laid out each item she would need in order; blade molds, empyrium bars, blacksteel bars, prongs, hammers, files and whetstones, and the oils needed to finish the process. A thick, leathery apron she slipped over her head, taking extreme care not to dislodge the mask from her face. 

A hiss in demonic in her periphery was followed by a snick, a rasped huff, and then the heavy, blooming scent of sulphur.The cinder had caught beneath the charcoal. Heat followed as the bellows began to punch and roar, billowing up furiously as oxygen was thrust into the angry flames.  The shadows in the small encampment began to fall away, but she paid them no mind, for her mind and thoughts were elsewhere, listening to other voices. 

They were memories... So simply make new ones. She heard Azsisha’s voice in her mind, the cool and confident Darnassian rife with empathy and understanding. Her hands wrapped around the sickles, ears twitching as the whispers amplified, the aura settled back in. Tucking the Man’ari blades into a heavy crucible, she sealed it carefully, ensuring there were no exposures for contaminants to infect the metal further.  

New memories. Such an easy phrase to consider, her thoughts whispered. Did you ever think you would have friends? Family, even? Truth be told, her family had been gone so long, she did not recall their faces much anymore. You simply walked without knowing where your feet wandered. Ashenvale. The Sentinels. North to South and back again, simply to see how far it had been. Forest path after forest path, until you found Darnassus. 

While the empyrium melted down, she watched the inky metal swirl with a quiet set about her shoulders, arms crossed over her chest. In the dancing green flames, such metal would only last a handful of minutes before losing itself to the fire – all things did eventually. Fire was destructive in that respect. Consuming. 

But what comes from fire? Wasn’t that the question of the century. What indeed, she thought, tugging her gloves on to begin working with the molten metal. A burned homeland. Melted flesh. Ashes. Her voice rasped out of her mask, murmuring one simple evocation to activate the warding in her palm. There was a slight greenish-glow about her hands as the rune activated. It would keep the worst of the heat out of her palms while she worked the metal over. Strength comes from fire, you idiot. Look at what you’re doing right this moment. Taking metal, making it stronger. Making something that empowers another. 

When it came time to pour the molten empyrium into the glaive molds, she moved methodically, carefully. Too fast, and she risked spilling it on herself. Too slow, and she risked the metal cooling too fast for the pour. Sub-optimal either way. Fiery heat pressed against her exposed arms, the sensation almost painful. But it was simply part of the task. 

Natarius’ voice whispered through her thoughts when she removed the blade from a nearby continually chilled container of water some time later, washing over her like a balm. Trust your instincts.  His advice, when she had turned to him in question. She reached for a hammer, and when the blade settled into a vice, began to shape the metal with firm and powerful beats of the hammer. Her sleeveless tunic soon dampened with sweat; unlike other metals, empyrium was a willful metal. It took an endless amount of patience and a stubborn will to tame it into shape. 

What does one without honed instincts do when you need to rely on them? Came the question from the back of her mind. Arm and back muscles tensed and flexed with each hammerstrike against the empyrium. A spark flit off the metal every so often, catching on her apron or on her arm– a sensation she did not seem particularly bothered by.

 Idiot. Since when have you not had instincts? 

The hammer slammed against metal, sending a reverberation down her arm. 

Unlike others, you survived the Third and Fourth Wars. Where he fell, you live on. 

Another slam of metal upon metal, sending sparks falling over her forearm. 

Where the tree burned, and some of the others chose to end their lives in fear of a future, you continued on. You heard them. Saw them. And have continued to walk, despite the ache. 

The slamming of the hammer against metal rang in the shadows rhythmically. Strike, pause, strike, in quick succession. The song of metal and fire sang in her blood. Something she knew instinctively she was born to do. Whether it be under the touch of Moonlight, or in the shrouds of shadow, guiding and shaping, taming metal was what her hands had been created to do. 

Your instincts kept his children alive as long as they were fated to be alive, at personal cost to yourself. It was your rations that fed them, when he chose to stay. It was your body that burned to try and pull them out. Where was their father? 

There was a stutter to the blows, a break in the pattern without warning. Where.. Had Kyrian been? There had been a spell where I was unconscious, and we were never certain how long it was from the minute the forge was struck to the moment of waking upon the Terrace. How.. did we get there first? The answer to that came just as quietly, the realisation akin to a lightning strike. Because, Osonia. Kyrian was never there to see to his children. He was never there to witness their death. He, in life, was just as guilt-ridden as you. Like the others, he chose to embrace death but unlike the others, was not granted respite from the loss. 

The truth was, he was the weaker of them both. He had always been; his death in Darkshore had been a suicide. It was as simple as that. Unlike her, he had given into it all.  He was the weak one. When the hammering ceased, she laid the glaive into the flame, allowing it to set properly. Her eyes followed the dancing green flames, the glow reflected off of the protective eyepieces of her mask. A bead of sweat ran down the back of her neck, trailing into her shirt as the heat wafted up from the flickering flames.

Those who work the metal to their will are often some of the strongest among us. Atala’s voice, the last of the whispers floated to her as she pulled the blade back out to begin etching runes. The metal, hot under her fingertips, sung as she began to chisel in bold, confident lines. Each tap of the hammer punched rune into blade, metal shavings falling to the ground in inky curls. 

There is metal, and then there is life. You cannot beat your life into the shape that you wish it to be, Osonia, her thoughts whispered quietly. But your life can beat you into a stronger shape than before. Therein is the choice. You can choose to be beaten down or be beaten into something stronger. Which will it be? 

[sciencestyled]

Beowulf and the Magnetic Mystery: A Heroic Tale of Earth's Invisible Shield

Gather round, digital denizens of Tumblr, for I, Beowulf, the legendary Geatish hero, have returned from the annals of epic lore to recount a tale most curious and astounding – the saga of Earth’s magnetic field, our planet’s unseen protector.

In my day, we battled dragons and demons, but today, I stand before you as a self-proclaimed sage of science, armed not with sword and shield, but with knowledge and wit, to unravel the secrets of this invisible force.

Our tale begins in the realm of magnetism, a force as stealthy and potent as any specter or ghoul I've encountered in my daring escapades. Think of it as a silent warrior, guiding compass needles just as the North Star guided us through dark, treacherous seas and unknown lands. This force, unseen by mortal eyes, is as real as the steel of my sword, and as formidable as the fiery breath of a dragon.

Now, imagine a world where unseen forces pull and push with the ferocity of clashing warriors in battle. Such is the domain of magnetism, with the magnetic field at its core – a ghostly sentinel battling day and night to shield our Earth. Much like I once stood guard against night marauders, this field defends our world from solar onslaughts.

But what, you might ask, fuels this mighty force? It is the movement of electric charges, akin to the rushing of mighty rivers or the thunderous charge of horses in war. These charges craft a magnetic field, an arena where forces are exerted, not unlike my overwhelming presence on the battlefield turning the tides of war.

Deep within the Earth lies a fiery core of molten iron, churning ceaselessly, generating a colossal magnetic field that cloaks our world in an unseen armor. This field, my friends, deflects the solar winds – those fierce torrents from the Sun, akin to the relentless blows of an enemy, which my shield once valiantly deflected.

Let us not forget the lodestone, a natural warrior among stones, wielding its own magnetic might. These steadfast magnets, akin to unyielding warriors, hold their magnetic properties over time, unwavering in their resolve.

But hold! The tale grows more complex. Magnetism is not a solitary force. It is intertwined with electricity, forming electromagnetism – a duo as intricate and elegant as any battle strategy. Electric currents summon magnetic fields, and vice versa, powering our world from the modest compass to the thundering engines of industry.

So, as you embark on your own quests of learning and discovery, remember the story of magnetism. It is a force hidden yet ever-present, as enigmatic as the ocean's depths and as powerful as the mightiest heroes.

Now, let me take you on a heroic dive into Earth’s magnetic field, a shield as formidable as the armor I donned in bygone days. This magnetic guardian stands against celestial threats much like I stood against the nightmarish Grendel.

Picture the Earth’s molten core, a churning cauldron of fiery iron, forging a magnetic field that circles our globe like an invisible, mighty cloak. This field is no trivial trinket; it extends beyond Earth, forming the magnetosphere, a grand bubble protecting us from solar winds – those relentless streams of charged particles, like arrows in a siege.

These winds, fierce and unforgiving, would ravage our atmosphere, stripping away our very breath, much as Grendel sought to destroy the joy of Heorot. But, just as I stood unyielding against Grendel, our magnetic field repels these invaders, preserving our world.

The tale of Earth's magnetic shield also brings us the auroras – those ethereal lights, vibrant and mesmerizing, born from the clash of solar winds and our magnetic field. When these winds meet our shield, some particles are ensnared and spiral along the field lines, colliding with air molecules and creating a spectacle of light as glorious as any king's treasure.

But let us not grow complacent, for this shield is ever-changing, shifting like fate’s tides. Its strength ebbs and flows, its poles wander, drifting across the globe in an unstoppable march. Such is the nature of this inscrutable guardian; ever vigilant, yet ever transforming. Just as I, Beowulf, was a protector of my people, so too is this magnetic field a guardian of all life on Earth.

So, brave scholars and warriors of the academic realm, let this story of Earth’s magnetic field inspire you in your quests. For in understanding this invisible might, you grasp a force as mysterious and powerful as the legends of yore.

[laughingman06]

In the darkness

I found her in the darkness

skin so dark and luscious she was as if forged out of the sky under a full moon

I swore I saw galaxies in her eyes

we needed no words for introductions,

Only promises and threats uttered in glances

Those whispered praises to allah as she put it to her lips

Only those beautiful breathless moans

As I slowly, inch by inch give her what she’s been craving,

Dancing through her gardens, I filled my mouth with the most perfectly plump and luscious of exotic dark fruits, letting their sweetness drip gleefully from my chin,

I am home at last.

I feel the ground tremble and swell up with every stroke as she offers me her gift,

At last the Dam breaks, washing over me in rivulets,

holy waters that would wash away if not sins, at least scars.

I will TAKE it.

Again, and again, I summon her storms as we do our water dance,

faster now the drum beat pounds, soaking the sheets in frantic, shamanistic furor

I watch the trance wash over her as she rolls on top her alter,

The lines of reality blur and shift as I feel it take over me,

“You wanna be,

high,

for This”

She sings hypnotically as the rhythm takes her,

Arms and legs contort in impossible ways as she dances

her lips twist in occult encantations as I feel the water rise once again,

And something else as well

Something darker more sinister rises in turn

“Here, I’ll take it “ she moans, coaxing the demon forth

I can feel it surging in rhythm with our breathes as one, with all it’s barely contained rage seething up, And bursting forth a molten white hot avatar of destruction.

In a flash the beast is upon her,

pinning her down by her neck and ravaging her mercilessly.

And yet faced with such unrelenting force,

Through curled quivering lips

“All of it” she beckons

Fine.

Then take it ALL.

Every torment, every torture, every seething twisted agony, fucking take them all.

I’ll shove every betrayal down your throat,

All of my shame up your ass

And every last drop of my pain will fill that tight little pussy to bursting.

The mountain quakes and shatters with one final violent volcanic eruption and finally the storms cease

And The beast fades

Until there’s just her

The only trace that mixture of extacy and shock across her face,

of someone who’s stared directly into the eyes of the beast.

- the cunning linguist

[ask-the-almighty-google]

Bogans

Bogans are Deep Space Ethereal Beings created of and irrevocably aligned with the Dark Side of the Force. They live solitary lives in Deep Space, most often seen in Wild Space and the Outer Rim. They have not entered farther into the Galaxy since the time of the Old Republic. They originated on a Moon orbiting the planet Tython called Bogan, a Dark-Side aligned Moon against Tython’s Bendu (Force Balance) and the second Moon Ashla’s Light-Side alignment.

Mandalorians call Bogans Kyr’galaar, “Death-Hawks,” and named their signature starfighters after them. Bogans are also Deified, but more in the sense of Demons and Tricksters. Whereas an Ashla is upheld as the pinnacle of the Nomadic Warrior with strong Clan Ties and a code of Honor, a Bogan has none. They are known for winning battles through deceit, cunning, and trickery. To say that someone is snake-tongued is to say their words are “Gilded with the Whispers of a Bogan.” Politicians are often compared unfavorably to Bogans in Mandalorian Culture, and it is said that many a Civil War was started on the lies spoken by Bogans.

For Sith, who are devoted to the Dark Side and an eternal quest for power, Bogans are seen as an impossible standard to live up to. There is a rumor that Darth Tenebrae/Vitiate/Valkorian was a Bogan in disguise, and that Darth Nihilus became a Bogan after ascending past the confines of his original body. These are legends with little to back them up, though they persist.

None dare hunt a Bogan for fear of their people, their planets even, being destroyed in a quest for revenge. For, while Bogans are solitary creatures, they love jealously and fiercely and prize their possessions. Only the very stupid or particularly daring (or both) attempt to kill one. This does not apply to Ashla, their opposites and equals, with whom they are in an eternal war.

Bogans have somewhat rough-textured skin with small open sores that smolder, though the tough hide is nearly impenetrable and only grows somewhat bristly hair in the tops of their heads and rarely on their faces. Their skin cracks with their inner Molten Fire. They have leathery Dragon’s wings that extend down to the upper calf.

Bogans have solid, heavy bones stronger than Beskar. They are generally taller and broader of shoulder than humans, and more visibly muscular. They have six fangs with potent venom that burns the victim from the inside out, leaving a petrified husk behind; this is called Dragon’s Fire for its glowing gold-red color and its effects. The fangs are longer on the top canines with another two fangs behind them, and a shorter set of fangs on the bottom canines.

Bogans roar. They can mimic anything to lure in and attract prey, which is why they are considered silver-tongued. They are also telepathic and empathic to better sense someone’s thoughts and feelings, usually to manipulate them more easily. They have a growling, rumbling language that they rarely use as it is tedious and of little benefit for speaking with Prey. Their Roars establish them as the dominant Apex Predators of the immediate Region.

Bogans have an inner Molten Fire that burns in their cores. It is what gives their venom its potency, and can be used to create great swathes of destruction. They prefer to lash this fire outwards rather than wreathe themselves in it.

A Bogan’s Cruor can be used to heat the furnaces that forge synthetic (Red) Lightsaber Crystals, and is often used in some of the Darker and more Depraved Sith Arts. It is said that drinking a Bogan’s Cruor (if it doesn’t kill you) can grant you a twisted and defiled eternal life.

Bogans can shapeshift into practically anything they so desire so as to more easily lure in and ensure their targeted prey. Their True Forms are massive Dragons - like Kaiju - that inhabit deep space and attack space vessels. They rarely bother themselves with becoming more humanoid unless it benefits them in influencing the Dark Side.

Concept Art For My Ashla!Obi AU

DISCLAIMER: All Concept Art and Species Facts are Headcanon ONLY.

Ashla

Ashla are Ethereal Beings created of and perpetually, incorruptibly aligned with the Light Side of the Force that live in Deep Space in Nomadic Flocks. They are mostly seen out in the depths of Wild Space or the Outer Rim, though they have been known to travel as far inwards as the fringes of the Mid Rim. They originated on a moon orbiting the planet Tython, called Ashla, a Light-Side Aligned Moon to Tython’s Bendu (Force Balance) and the second Dark-Side Aligned Moon Bogan.

On Mandalore, they are the Jai’galaar - or the Shriek-Hawks - from which they adorn their helmets with the Jaig Eyes as a reward for great acts of bravery, one of the greatest symbols of honor their people could bestow. Jai’galaar are often Deified as the greatest, most perfect examples of what Nomadic Warriors should be, as Ashla are famously pitted against the Bogans in myth and legend. To kill one is to incur a death penalty, and to befriend one is to be blessed by the Manda and Ka’ra. It was said that entire Civil Wars were ended when an Ashla chose a ruler.

For the Jedi, whose Religious Order was born on Tython, the Ashla are the highest form of devotion to the Light that can be displayed. The blessing and friendship of an Ashla is considered a sign from the Force that their Order has not strayed from its calling. They devote significant energy towards trying to keep the Ashla from being hunted into extinction.

Ashla are prized for their Wings, which are quite beautiful, and their Ichor (blood). A single drop of blood can extend the human lifespan by a hundred years, and their wings are trophy items for the discerning collector who has friends on the Black Market and no moral scruples. Very few Hunter Cultures allow the killing of an Ashla, as it is seen as the killing of something so pure - Guardians protecting the Galaxy from the Dark and Evil - that it is tantamount to a death penalty. When the Hutts rose to power, they found Ashla Wings to be status of power and wealth, and employed their Bounty Hunters to poach them.

Ashla are humanoid beings that have smooth, extremely durable hairless skin save for the very silky soft hair on top of their heads with a very slight sheen to it. This skin is covered in bioluminescent freckles that glow white-gold in the dark and in space. Their wings are feathered on the top portion of the wing joints and the “meat” of the wing, which extends to the mid-back, and are colored in metallic palettes that match their hair colors. After this “meat” portion, much like the Shyyyo Birds of Kashyyyk, an Ashla’s wings are composed of translucent Dragonfly Wing-like feathers that are very strong, light, durable, and easy compressed. These feathers fall to the upper calves but don’t take up much room, and don’t require any preening unlike the much smaller feathers at the top of the wings.

Ashla have smaller, more willowy body types with hollow bones stronger than Beskar. They are generally much stronger than humans, and have six fangs. Two are smaller on their lower canines, two a bit longer on their upper canines, and a second set of fangs right behind the upper canines. These canines are supplied with venom glands, the venom being so potent a toddler could kill a Greater Krayt Dragon with a single bite. Their eyes glow entirely white-gold in the dark.

Mandalorians call Ashla “Shriek-Hawks” because they have a legendary shrieking roar that can be let off when asserting dominance over other species as the most dangerous Apex Predators in the nearby vicinity. Ashla can also understand the songs of Convors, and have their own language composed of chirps, trills, screeches, and warbles. It is more like Morse, and they can easily mimic the sounds of other animals to draw in prey or warn off potential predators. This also applies to mimicking other people’s voices, and enables them to be capable of learning any language they so choose without any vocal cord limitations. Ashla are telepathic and empathic, enabling them to learn languages quickly and to more easily understand a person’s thoughts and feelings. It is difficult to lie or conceal things from Ashla.

Ashla have an inner Starfire burning in their Cores, white-gold, and this keeps them warm in the vacuum of space as they wreathe themselves in it as they fly. This fire also heals injury, cures infection, and burns poison. It is deadly to Dark-Side users and can burn them to ash, but is harmless to those that follow the Light. This Starfire is pure Light Force Energy; as Ashla are Light Side Creatures, they are very strong in the Force with Midichlorian Counts well into the 20,000s.

An Ashla’s Ichor, when burned in Starfire, can calcify into Solari Crystals which can be used to power Lightsabers - but only Lightsabers for those who follow the Light.

Ashla have limited shapeshifting abilities, making it easy for them to hide from persecution or to conceal their true natures. This ability has limitations however, as they are only able to really transform into humans or human hybrids, though they can also become Convors. Their baseline forms are more toned down after millennium of interaction with other species in the Galaxy, and it is said their True Forms can drive a person mad.

[hikaruakahoshi-demonforge]

The Molten Hero: Demon Forge

Quirk: Magma craft

This quirk gives the user intensely warm biology. Their body temperature is higher than average, which grants them resistance to fire and heat. To contain this heat, their skin- while appearing and feeling normal - acts as the outer crust to the magma within. Therefore the user seems to crack when injured rather than gash, tear or bruise, but they still bleed from those injuries if it wasn't an area currently in use for the quirk. From this biology, the user can create weapons from their magma essence after their skin cracks to reveal this essence. But the user has to know the make of their weapon well. To explain; when Hikaru first shows signs of her quirk, she could only make magma sticks because that was the only 'weapon' she knew of. Such weapons only last for a short while before just losing their form in her hands and dissipating before it can hit the ground.

Artist Notes: So after (what feels like) a long time of having Hikaru as an OC, I have now finally drawn her entire hero outfit. She's based on a Ronan as well as Japanese demons. The point of her hero persona is to strike fear into the hearts of villains she fights. This is why she is definitely on the list of 'Heroes that look like a villain' like Gang Orca. You do not want to escape into a dark room, only be surprised to find her hannya mask grinning at you, and a lava dagger forming her hand.

[the-broken-truth]

Sesshomaru vs. Half-Demon Sibling Reader

Summary: Your weapons and armor are done and you were about to leave when your eldest brother arrived, intending to take you with him. Can your new gear and skills withstand Sesshomaru's Power?

The steam seeped through the molten cracks of the ground around Totosai's Forge as you stood there with a glare on your face and the sword in your hand clenched tightly as you got into a crouch-like stance, your other hand slowly reaching for the handle of your new sword. Before you stood your eldest brother - The Demon Lord, Sesshomaru - and from what he told you, he was not going to let you get away from him again. His hand hovered over Tokijin's Handle just as you hovered over your own blade; you could feel the power of the Demon Generals you killed radiating off the blade, and your brother felt it too. He looked at the sword with golden eyes before looking into your eyes with a small smirk on his face. "I can feel the power in that sword - the power of the demon generals you killed, Little [Brother/Sister]. But even with that power, you can't hope to stand against me. Just come quietly and join me on my journey." Sesshomaru said as he placed his hand on the handle of his trusted sword. You scoffed at his order. "You might be my elder brother but I told you and Inuyasha that I grew up with you two and I can survive without you. I don't want to travel with you or him, so leave me the hell alone, 'Brother'." You spat out the title. "Well then..." He pulled out Tokijin and held it ready with the tip pointing at you, "I shall make you yield." He vanished. Your eyes widened as your instincts made your body move to the right, just in the nick of time as Sesshomaru reappeared with the sword stabbing in the spot where your shoulder would have been, he looked at you with displeasure in his eyes as you jumped into the air and floated there as you pulled your sword from the sheath, sliding the sheath into the sash around your waist. You held your sword ready with both hands as Sesshomaru flew up to your level. "Last warning, Sibling. Join me or I shall not hold back." He warned you again as his body began glowing a dangerous crimson aura; he wasn't playing around but neither were you. "I'm not going to join you. Not now. Not ever." You snarled as your ears darted back. "I'll make you swallow those words of yours." He charged at you as he swung his sword at you, which you countered with your own. The demonic power of the blades clashed and fought against each other, making lightning spew from the area where they touched. You pushed Sesshomaru back before you raised your sword again with both hands and roared out. "Raging Vortex!" You swung the sword downward as a vortex of powerful wind shot from the sword's blade and hit Sesshomaru, sending him crashing to the ground but he landed on his feet and just looked at you through the raging winds before he swung Tokijin - breaking the winds apart. 'Shit!' You cursed in your mind. "Channeling your power to amplify it through the sword. Interesting. Show me more, Little Sibling." He said as he charged at you again but at rapid speeds, you barely had time to brace yourself before Tokijin slammed into your sword, the power knocked you across the sky before you managed to slow yourself to a stop. "Alright." Your blade began glowing blue with the force of lightning, "Taste this." You raised the blade again and called on the power of the Lightning Hound before it appeared behind you with blood-red eyes. "Lightning Hound!!!" You slashed your sword downward and the Lightning Hound roared and darted at Sesshomaru, whose sword began glowing as well as he called out... "Dragon Strike!" A Dragon made of Lightning came from the sword and charged at your lightning hound - the two of them crashed and exploded, and the winds of the backlash sent you and Sesshomaru away from each other. You grunted in pain as a stray bolt of lightning hit your shoulder as they faded away. You panted as you looked at Sesshomaru, who just looked up at you with what you could guest was interest on his face. "Powerful enough to cancel out my Dragon Strike... That's interesting, but I know that you aren't showing me all of your power." Sesshomaru said in a questioning voice.

"Well, I don't want to be responsible if something happens to Totosai's Home." You said with a light pant in your voice.

"This isn't what I want." He sheathed Tokijin and began walking away, "I want you at your strongest. When I feel like you have reached that point, we shall fight again and I shall take you with me once you lose."

Jaken began running after him as you watched your brother walk away from the fight site.

'What is his angle?' You thought.