"Not even a man of colossal power can prevent the inevitable."
And so he lived by it. Golden locks of hair risen through the winds as the carmine-red armor and cloak drapes upon the mountains that he stood on like a river. In his hand he held the tall Nodachi sword. It was seven feet tall, matching the metal he was cloaked in. The moon's rays came down upon him with greatness, draping his olive skin with more beauty. His golden eyes watching over.
"Get back here!"
"Gah!"
The screams of distress and anger had ridded him of his concentration. The mountain seemed to shake as he ascended within a leap. The hands upon the hilt turned the Nodachi as he landed. Crossing his left hand over the right flat side of the blade as he sighed. Bowing his head onto the ground to stare at the ground.
"Let him go." The raspy voice echoed through the forests, trees about him wailing because they were torn asunder by the slave traders wielding swords in front of him. Of course they did not listen, tugging the slave woman's neck so she could topple.
The blade arose into the air, and within a quick slice? She was beheaded. As soon as the blood hit the air, his bloodlust was wanting to be quenched.
The blade came quickly and the air around them shattered along with the ground. His feet flew out as the sword slashed out into the air. A whipping sound hitting the vicinity as the air vacuums helped tear the bodily structures apart. The blade pointing downward as the crimson liquid sprayed upon his face.
This Hitokiri wandered out towards the lands after finishing his last meal of blood. Dropping onto his knees as he let the black hair drop down. Slowly the Nodachi was expelled from his grasp as he breathed his last, covered in blood. Even though he had killed for his life -- He followed the code of Bushido.
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When he was born, he was already marked like Tubal-Cain and Cain himself. He was to be a murderer.. the slayer of man. The Hitokiri of The Earth. From a boy to a man he was thrown into the depths of training with his unbendable will that allowed him to slash with quickness through the air, slashing and breaking the winds and the wood in front of him.
Agility, inhumane. Speed, inhumane, Strength, godly!
But he still lacked one thing. Honor. He was all that his mother despised of his deceased father who lived a life of murder. A mercenary. For new supplies and currency, he had risen into the depths of war, becoming almost unmatched with utmost ease. He sighed as the sword was slowly sheathed. Bowing his head down as his eyes trailed the ground. Was this how he really wanted to live his life? Striking down men who deserved to live as a Hitokiri..
Still he had a mother to support -- The garden, especially. The food running out from the draught that struck the small village of Kushumiro. His mother had grown sick because of him, dying due to lack of feeding. He still believed this was his fault, and he knew it was. But still his mother treated him with his care and smiled when he walked in. But always the same question at the end of the day, at the end of their conversations. "When will you put down that horrible blade, Mikalo?"
.. These words seem to echo within his head. Lingering around within his soul and searching his depths of guilt risen from a pit of nothingness and naught, tendrils of its newfound formation wrapping around his essence. It all had come from the darkness into his heart and soul when his father died. It was not his fault, he knew this. But it was his fault of his mother. And also his fault that he was too weak to fight off against the army forces of the nearby Empire that came weekly, ravaging the lands, raping the woman of Kushumiro and taking what they needed and did not, and then leaving with blood on their hands.
The warrior turned his head, looking back towards the small shit-of-a-home his mother had. He huffed as his digits coiled around the hilt of his sword. His straw hat was bent downward, covering his face, overshadowing his unusual Carmine-red optics. He traveled onward through the lands, leaving behind his footprints within the dust underneath. The lands around him shifted, the snow upon the mountains outward were being picked up in the winds and traveling out harshly against him.
This was the first time in years he could get coldness from the outside. Even the water was hot. He bent over, struggling to keep against the ground. His height moving down as his sandles slid back and front.
Several rufles had come within the forests. With a sigh, his hand had come onto his blade. The ground seemed to shake, and the trees about snapped. Risen within his Battojutsu stance, his sword quickly halfy unsheathed. He turned his head along with the straw hat. "Hmph."
The toes smashed the ground and he had come to ascend within the caelum above as the quick slashing blade cut where he was in the past. The winds around him bend and he had moved so fast in god-speed that the sword was shattering the sound force, sending the ear drums torn asunder. The blade had seemed to just slice air, and the outside force of the katana-blade hit the ground. The blade being six feet tall, hilt obsidian black with cast-finish artwork of red zig-zag lines upon the inside like flames.
Flesh rippled and bone had come left and right, departing. Cells dissipates within moments and ease as the chuckling one had ceased his smiling, the curving of the muscles upon the torn facial features. The two body parts slowly peeled apart like a newfound fruit, falling left and right. And so victory was thought to be won -- Pride overwhelming the darkness of his mind until the ground broke again. Tendrils wave out, blades slice. From the dead body departed an explosion of flames. Destructive waves fly.
The blade was turned before his body which which came soon after, along with his legs in the same point of time. The blade slid upon the ground, and the flames consumed his already ragged kimono. The torso part was torn asunder, and he had been thrown left and right, batted, crushing trees with the force of the flames and the explosion. He had flown back like the river of time, knocking the bac of his dome upon the rock. Blood gushed as the spit choked him, and he had slumped to the side.
