The King Shall Rise [Private/Closed]

INTOXICATION IS ABSOLUTE

Somewhere in the outerparts of The Gloaming he stood, an entity of unrivaled being, the man who had been lifted up by the hands of others. He was the prodigal son of the Gloaming, or so some said. He was a deliverer of alternate styles, the man who could shift the world with but a wave of his hand. To those who hated him, he was a man who denied their ignorance of the world. To those who abused their power for a false ideology that revolved around serving only one's personal ends, he was a nightmare. Raven hair glistened in the moonlight as a light breeze pulled the mane from his back. Like a dramatic veil, the scene of oceanic blues left his face shrouded for a moment, though pools of crimson shown from behind, determination reflected deeply in their being. Visions of war filled those eyes, suffering tagging along all for the ride of misery. They showed a world so few could have ever been enlightened to, a world of war, destruction and chaos. He loathed this world, of the chaos it brought and the petty "orders" to many tried to enact on others, all for the sake of a demonization of that which was different. This being stood as a titan and representative of the new age, one that would come by words or swords, the end means being decided by those who would play his game. With a light touch to the hilt of one of the two staff at his hip, the man made reference to the power of the pen over that of the sword, reminding himself well of his own plans and agenda. These blades were only to be used as necessary, the end in his means when all other aspects of potential execution would be worn out. What if though, he found himself in that very end state of physical confrontation?

He was a man who acknowledged his short-comings, or so he believed himself to be. This lone man with an identity yet to be revealed, standing silent in thought and recognition of what he had failed to accomplish thus far. In terms of power, there existed perhaps only one being in all of The Gloaming who could challenge him, a man he considered a friend. Elsewhere however, he found himself at odds, knowing others in a number beyond his own could possibly match him. Remembrance of the battle against a young demon reminded him of the powers the Court held, and though minimal they were when fighting against himself, he could only remind himself that stronger demons existed. Only a handful of times had he released one of the two staff at his hip, the wind blowing at his hair once more at his hair, parting view at his neck to see well the scaled plates that were his mask. This man was an demon, but one of their most elite, if not the most powerful, even if another possessed more raw power than himself. He had been known by the Court, and for that there existed a greater threat of being targeted in the future. For all of this, he knew well the final thing that prevented him from reaching the pinnacle of his strength, a true mastery of his absolute form. Grabbing hold of the hilt of his own, natural staff, the man drew the long blade from its sheath. Zooming out in view, one sees the man clothed in robes of rich white and blue silks, small partial plates of armor covering part of him both in decorum and defense. Like an ancient Japanese noble, he stood strong, staff held directly out before him, arm lax, though his aura began to grow.

This man's identity would be revealed, a steel blue aura melding with that of the deepest of purples, making well known his manifestation of power. Face revealed in the grand vortex of power, Justus Kagoshima made proper his entrance upon the scene. His purpose here, this sole day, was to achieve the ultimate level of power within his transcendence. For that, he would waste no time on theatrics, the man's voice whispering soundly the command for his hidden powers to release. "Grito, Regalius Isanio." The swell of power clashed against reality itself, the raw might of his very being acting to deny any claims that the man might be anything less than a god. His form changed in the vortex of blue and indigo aura, all to suddenly reveal his released form, large wings pushing aside the veil that left him hidden. Standing now, far taller than he had in his sealed state, Justus looked about the world with crimson eyes still, though his body was certainly reminiscent of his Demon form. This was to be the time where the very form he wore now would truly be brought to its ultimate perfect. Knowing only that he needed to unlock the vast amount of power that dwelled within this form, he could think only of an absolute end, the sort of power that would bring people to their knees. Yes, this would be a move to bring about a power unlike any before, one that could bring even the mightiest crashing down, and face first into the ground before him.

Knowing well of his innate powers, to craft a technique beyond the power of those before was a simple enough thought. To act by instinct was the nature best served, to draw from him the very aspect of destruction could only be the means by which he found his end. Extending an empty palm before him, the demon visualized only the raw, destructive might of his nature. Demonic aura formed naturally, the energies spinning on them as was natural form him. The form was a loose sort of power, but one that composed of all the properties of his abilities crafted before. The swell of raw power was unfathomable, one that struck a sense of fear even in his own hollow heart. Though its form was weak, chaotic, far from what could be considered something of an absolute discipline, something far from the desired shape and destructive power? As it was now, he held only a motley sort of power, carrying with it only the passive states of his being, of his affiliation with raw, unrestrained destructive power. Deciding it better to focus the power into a single shape, Justus thought about accomplishing just that. With a mental discipline unlike any other, the demon sought to restrain the power, to draw it within that of an orb of a compressed state. The initial attempt came about with devastating results, the powers collapsing in on themselves simply because they existed. The explosion was massive, throwing Justus back, the demon's feet skidding against the sands, creating a glassed floor beneath his feet as the friction turned their very fiber into another form altogether.

Standing, body smoking in the presence of the fading pressure from his failed attempt at taking hold of his powers, Justus's right arm was shown in a maimed state. Blood poured from various cuts and burns, a certainly major sort of injury. Much to the man's benefit however, his own natural regeneration did well in cleaning up his appearance, leaving the man to try again. Though, even "Gods" were far from infallible when they had yet to achieve their ultimate state of being, leaving Justus to fail several times over after the initial try. Where failure existed though, so too would there bud the eventual success. Locked away in memories that had once been seen as unimportant, Justus stood alone in the sands, chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. The thoughts of the world he crafted, the deeds he had done, they were all things that had swarmed his mind in a constant. Only one memory did managed to bring forth a reaction unlike before, visions of pink hair floating before him, of the softness of her hands. Yes, the woman who had bathed him, nurtured him, even made known her feelings for him. It was she that had been a guiding light for him as a man, as a demon, as a guardian for others, rather, as the Demon of Death. What room did he have for failure in the face of such a thing as these feelings and memories that were his? He had none, and for that he would always act. In his hands, these very hands that he now looked down upon, he held the delicate hands of a woman who had shown him kindness, the balance of another woman's mentality, and the lives of so many others. With these hands, he had accomplished everything that a man could be asked of and then some. With these hands, he would draw and grab hold of the very power of his essence.

Vigor and determination, both welled up within his very core, the man gathering at his palm every ounce of himself he could muster. A mind steeled by both memories and a pool of unhindered emotion brought about a change in the powers gathered before him, the orb instead seeping within his very forearm, all before returning to his hand in the shape of an iridescent indigo orb. The powers within were compressed beyond that of any power, or any other technique that the man could have sought to have created. They challenged his authority in every passing second, but a man made into a god was hardly an easy thing to corrupt when emotions did steel his mind. Slowly, the orb began to draw inward still, until it were all but the size of his fist. The high pitch whine of invisible and near instantaneous rotations filled the area, acting like nails on a chalkboard to any who may have been nearby. Justus, however, remained unaffected, instead staring at the orb with an unyielding gaze. This was his power, the one to be unleashed only in the greatest time of need. Drawing back his hand, Justus drove the orb into the sands below his feet, a grand explosion blinding his and the sight of any onlookers. His form was made impossible to see, standing at the epicenter of his own attack. The scream of rotations seceding beneath the sounds of instead rushing pressure that filled the area. Sand became glass beneath the friction, and as the display of power came to cease, there was revealed a crater of glass, one easily fifty meters wide. At the center he stood, the man's form cracking, bone-white armor falling to the sand and turning to dust, revealing Justus as he was before release, holding firm the cracked staff he called his own. With a limp right arm, Justus looked and observed, giving respect the powers he had summoned, recognizing too the one fact made known, he will have ascended higher than any other.