บท 35: My Kind
Boredom… simply boredom. Days have passed since the first group, they've consistently gotten bigger… and stronger. No longer were C ranks sprinkled within the parties. High B ranks only, A ranks were the most common, ironic given they're A ranks. Yet, the arena stands as the witness. A layer of dried crimson, giving color to the otherwise gray and mundane etched walls of the cylinder room.
The party members were left where they fell. Scattered like stars– but they can only be scattered so much before they start overlapping. The room is large, but not infinite. Decorated like a splatterhouse, gore is an understatement. Armored men skewed from mouth to ass as their glorified armor swam in their dripping blood. Scattered robes are a testament to his patience. Blades cracked or down right broken. Snapped like twigs. Men and women pinned on the walls; like pincushions, the arrows randomly pierced them, making them stay upright.
Disgusting, vomit inducing, more than a crime scene. But unlike a crime scene, the culprit is sitting calmly underneath a carving of a woman.
Duraeus sat with one of his legs bent– left arm resting on his left knee while his right leg sprawled out. His free arm rested on his right thigh as his golden visor looked ahead. His abyssal black armor made him look like a statue; him sitting still and eyeing the large double stone doors further enhanced his stillness. Yet he wasn't all dark, splats of red drenched his gauntlets and boots. Dashes of blood here and there on the rest of his black armor, but not as extensive compared to the deluge that is his hands and feet.
A contrast to him and the rest of the room, a small proximity and the wall he's leaning back on remained stainless. Clean as if he didn't want it to get dirty. Above him etched his mother, her details veiled in mystery yet to him she remains clear. As a matter of fact, if one were to be given a second before the start of a one sided beat down, a very faint sunlight dawns the Primarch as he sits– laying in waiting for the next batch. A very grim sight to see, a dispersed massacre only for one small area to be void of gore. Yet that void is held by a large giant with murderous intent.
"One more day…" he whispers to himself.
Including his arrival, it's been six days– now still in the domain of the sixth day. As for why he's still alone, insufficient funds and undecided. Undecided on what to focus on– himself or his Legion. So, being a smart Primarch– he'll leave the dictation of such an important decision to his future self– in short: procrastinating.
Yet, he's amassed quite a fortune since the first day. He has the Hunters to thank for that. Abusing the wording of his ability, he'd make sure to keep them alive… Hunters don't need legs or arms to respond. Making them quiver in their boots whilst capitulating to his mercy, he shortly granted them the bliss of a quick death– prior to the trauma he induced into them. Using this method, he has amassed quite a sum of orbs.
Seeing his available funds, he used it to test his other skill: Manifestus Realis. Cheap designs, either slow in duration or weak in design, he saved quite a large amount of orbs and completed a test of his own. Manifestus Realis, Manifest Reality– a name unfair within itself. But it has its complications. The name doesn't lie, manifesting the reality from his thoughts is just as the ability advertises. But like Orbis Designare, Manifestus Realis has its limits. The limits are… convoluted. It relies heavily on perception of others.
Take the fear spell Duraeus activated for only a second. Certain conditions were met to activate said spell. The atmosphere: entering a dungeon delivers a certain uncertainty– and uncertainty is a recipe of fear. Vocal activation: Duraeus's latin pronunciation initiated the effect. But most importantly, the party had no idea what they were going up against. The fog wall was a nice added touch of misery.
Manifestus Realis… a delicate ability that coincides with Orbis Designare. Other tests such as his simple thoughts didn't receive any reaction. If one must know, he thought of a big tittied goth chick to suddenly appear before one of the previous parties he's encountered and help them… realign the men's sexual taste…
Forgot to mention he thought of a strapon and a dildo rocket launcher as her weapons…
Aside from… Duraeus's strange taste, no reaction to anything else of the mind. It seems to only correlate to Orbis Designare– no complaints from him, both abilities in tandem already have limitless possibilities; he just has to simply gaslight his way into greatness.
"Hmm…" Duraeus hums in tired repetitive knowledge.
A knowledge of Hunter's entering his Dungeon. Oddly enough, only one entered. Behind his golden visors, he assessed the intruder disturbing his silent servitude to his mother. A child, white hair and red eyes. A young male, looks to be no more than seven years in age. Hands in the pockets of his white shorts. He wore white and black tennis shoes, a white T-shirt a quarter way visible as he wore a white hoodie with a blue stripe– zipped up, only showing the chest area of his shirt.
A smug air; smirk never leaving his face. Strutting like he's not endangered. No precaution of traps, his eyes as if he's looking at a prize– one locked behind tall stone doors. The boy's red eyes gleaming a ruby color, one not so befitting of a child his age.
As the child makes his way unimpeded, Duraeus stares at the doors– hardly blinking. His attention on the boy– that air of smugness accompanied by an aura of power. Behind his helm, his eyes in thought–
'A child, confident– outside the typical actions of children his age. Smug… cocky… too much of such a trait. Open to attacks, a choice made in confidence. Looking down on his would be opponents.
Most importantly, he doesn't seem to be part of the main caste… not even a side character or mob. Hmm… I wonder…'
Duraeus had a couple of ideas, but none would think he's even using his intelligence if one were to see his face behind his helmet. His Sapphire eyes hungered for the boy– hungered for his orbs.
'S rank…'
A power out weighing everyones' that has entered this dungeon. Unknown S rank… amusing…
Standing before the doors, the boy scuffs in disrespect. Breathing in slightly, he lightly blew out air.
… nothing– then–
—Crack!
From the point of air he blew, the doors began to crack. Long jagged lines from the lower levels of the door made their way to the edges of the stone slabs. As they did, the stone doors shattered like glass. There, the two met eye to eye. Shards of stone and rubble fell like rain, time seemed to slow as the two sized each other up.
Now getting a closer look, the boy had a mixture of western and asian in him. A perfect row of teeth as his smile widened as he finally saw his goal for this dungeon.
"So… big guy… you're the source of this overwhelming presence," the boy comments.
He tilts his head in amusement, "one hell of a presentation…"
The boy eyed the dirty walls, the cracked floors, the blood, the guts, the horror, and finally the clean small little area Duraeus sat in– leaning just below the carvings of his mother.
"You look strong, let's start small–"
Not a moment less, his eyes flashed, "Subjugation!"
His eyes stayed glowing as he stared at the black knight– or at least what he thought was a black knight– yet the abyss stared right back at him. The boy waited a second more yet the intended reaction hadn't occurred.
The boy closes his eyes– a tainted smile never leaving his face, "I see, too strong for me yet."
He cracks a knuckle, neck cracking as he stretches them, "I guess I'll have to beat you down before I capture you."
No response from Duraeus as he never even twitched. Such smack talk is beneath him… or at least that's how one would think looking at his outer appearance.
An unexpected sound came from the armor. A clearly audible sound the boy heard. A sound disrespectful in the context of now. The boy, tainted smugness and all, lost all that bravado within moments upon hearing it.
"WHY YOU—"
—Zzz
The boy was interrupted by another loud snore; vox speaker purposely left open as if Duraeus knew he was going to fall into slumber and wanted the boy to know it. Wanted the boy to know how unthreatening he is to the point he feels safe enough to catch some Zs.
Fueled by anger, the boy discarded all sense of bravado and opted for a more direct route: lunging with a pulled back fist– breaking the sound barrier as his feet left the ground. Just managing to crack the ground beneath him speaks for his strength– breaking the sound barrier, a mainstay in powerful characters. Speed and power, his arrogance is becoming clearer– yet no matter what he has faced, he has yet to fight a Primarch.
His fist inched closer, the giant stoned as a statue. The only thing keeping anyone from thinking otherwise would be the noise of ignorance: snoring. Anger slowly turned into a smile from the boy's face. Victory assured– thinking as if he has an iron right.
But like a house of cards, his ego fell into a cloud of smoke. The room shook, unknown as to what had happened. On one second, the boy was about to deliver a clear right; the next–
"KAGCK!"
The wall had another crack as the boy bounced off it like a pinball. Launched from within the smoke, the fumes quickly covered his exit– molding as if living clay and mud. If one were to question him, he wouldn't know either. His vision closed like those of old school TVs– a sudden flash of bright light before being swallowed by darkness.
Now on the floor– stomach down– his consciousness quickly revitalized him. Bending his arms, he pushed himself up. As he stands, whatever happened clearly still affected him. His clothes ripped from that encounter alone; his body itself is looking far worse for wear. Bleeding from his facial orifices, he couldn't wipe them as he'd like to due to a shocked body. As for how he's standing, much less able to even bend his arms initially, remember: everyone is the protagonist of their stories.
A voice from within the smoke and dust. From what would be labeled as a combative hit, emerged all the shroud. Rubble and dust, where the giant was– fully enshrouded in whatever fines or debris created by whatever impact sent the boy across the other room and so badly damaged. The voice, neither aggressive nor lively. Gone was the gung ho zealot screaming filth here and there. Yet… a hint of sass to this maturing Primarch.
"Parentless behavior."
Emerged from the smoke was Duraeus in black power armor– aesthetics mixed with the grimdark and fantasy knights. Fully awake, Duraeus stares down the child not even reaching his thighs in height.
Everyone may be a protag in their own stories, but most of them lack a camera to capture them–
"Who– are you…?" In between coughs of blood, the boy questions Duraeus's existence. No arrogance, no bravado, just simple curiosity. On second thought, the longer he stares into those golden visors, the curiosity slowly turns into uncertainty. His strength and what he knows no longer holds true as he questions them.
Behind his helm, Duraeus gives him a dead face, "Whomever you believe in… that guides those to the afterlife."
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