Suddenly, an azure streak so brilliant it’s nearly white parts the heavens. It carves a path to the ground, and in its wake stands a man at 5’6”; approximately 160lbs. His athletic frame is well toned, the result of extreme discipline drilled into mind, body, and spirit over a few decades of committed training. High above the clouds and thick blankets of smoke, red sprites occupy the upper atmosphere over the point where his lightning had struck. The cold plasma thriving in the expanse pockets of nitrogen produced by the volcanic activity in the region.
It doesn’t take long before the smell of melting soles alerts him to the face that the area is too hot for him to stand in his shoes apparently. He sighs, shaking his head dismissively as his almond shaped charcoal eyes scan the terrain. His left-hand scratches at the back of his head, the right clutching the haft of his halberd about the middle of its length. The heavier blade hangs slightly angled towards the ground with the put positioned about elbow height where it extends behind him. To his left hip secured by belt is unmistakably a katana of some design, an eighteen-inch rod with tapered points secured on the opposite side.
Lifting one foot at a time he pries his ruined shoes off, and he tosses them haphazardly aside as they come off. As each foot grows bare, he returns it to the charred terrain of cooling lava unperturbed. It would take a lot more than extreme temperatures to compromise him.
He knows not who calls him out nor why, though the Slayer doesn’t take kindly to open threats. Willingly he meets whomever on their terms, forgoing his full regalia considering their designation in the name of vanquishing the likes of daemons; any comparable monsters as far as he’s concerned. Unlike his predecessor, he doesn’t discriminate against the monsters of mankind. If his opponent proved to be a good person, he’d spare them. Otherwise, he’d feel no remorse over their abrupt conclusion.
Regardless, he doesn’t anticipate the battle will last long once his opponent arrives and the formalities have come to pass. In his experience, win or lose, the best fights never lasted quite as long. Unless he had the pleasure of sparing his Master of course. As he awaits the reveal of his adversary,
The Merle Knight proceeds to stretch. He maneuvers his halberd, switching hands as necessary. Dressed in a black, skin tight tee and a pair of black harem pants, he hardly appears equipped for the terrain, let alone a bout threatening enough to weigh against his life.
From deep within his lower Tanden (Dantian), the Raiju bellows its thunderous roars throughout his psyche in anticipation; ever excited by the prospect of their expressions via actual combat as opposed to pettier training and spars. His free, open fist folds approximately over his naval, and he rubs his belly reassuringly. As if to be soothed.
”Soon,” he mutters seemingly to himself.
