The Manslayer Unsheather Reborn.

[Mikalo]

Dusk and dawn battled, swirling through the range of the clouds that were horrified from the sun's departure and absence, and so they dissipated within that reason, and in the hypothesis that the sun would never come back. The darkness reaped, ever so slowly, coming to and fro to overwhelm goodness with gloomy phalanx grasping at naught.

Bloodshed was accompanied with the horrible sounds of the men grasping at air, reaching their hands up at the absent sun, pieces of skin partly torn asunder descend and go into the puddle of vermilion substance underneath. Ghastly wails didn't save them, and neither would their hardened willpower.

Dusk triumphed, and did not woe over the destruction underneath, that was caused by a single force that marveled at the beautified and new art of murder. Homicide. Such a single word for it. Wisps of dust rose through the vicinity of the cold air, that bit against his skin and caused bits of frostbite to cover the olive-skinned anubis, frost lay lazily upon the tattered sleeve of the right arm, which glissaded downward with his blade in the last, single slash.

The force Sinryuishin bit into the unhinged flesh was fearsome, and the force that was delivered throughout the molten-red body of it had, in the ultimatum, made him the true Hitokiri Battousai of these lands. Already, the flies swarmed about the meat struck with mud, and emanated from the soil, the grotesque smell rose.

But to this man, to this Slayer of Men, it was like he was bending down, and descending within a pool of prepossessing dulcitude of scattered flowers, so the tendrils of calmness could devour him within the home of complete sangfroid. And the sounds of the bellowing men was like a fluent hymn, waveless, like an unwavering millpond.

Not even a man of colossal power could prevent the inevitable -- Something he learned at a young age, where he was but a boy that was knocked over by even the slightest thought of blood. But in the presence of the present swirling blood ponds, he was calmed.

Many people wondered, did he do it for the yen, the money, the currency? In these lands? No, not that. But it was an all a leap of faith, a leap of faith to see if the seemingly endless bloodshed, and walking the path of the Hitokiri Battousai, would fill the gap that was open deep within the naught-filled depths of his soul, which was just as dark as attire.

The attempt to cease seemingly 'foolish' acts pained him, seeing that his benelovence towards people was naught but idiotic, he once more descended through the corridor of meaningless slaughter of ones who deemed themselves, 'human'. Judged by his past, continuously, even with the blade not to his side, he was still always seen as the Battousai. And he always would.

The path chose him. And not another.

The straw hat was lifted as the dark, carmine-red eyes lifted to stare up at the sky, which was filled with the ashen-gray face of Lucifer, who smiled down upon him.

"See you soon." Is all he could manage to say with the raspy voice, and he dragged his sword into his sheathe, and his head turned. Jawlines hardened. Eyes focused, but lazy in the naked eye's confines. He took one more look at the fallen army of samurai before him, and then turned, only to be engulfed into the shadows of the forest and dissapear once more.