That feeling. Flesh on flesh. The impact, the smear of blood and sweat that prevents the blow from landing in full. It’s a unique feeling that only those who practice combative physical combat are capable of knowing. When a boxer is training at first they don’t think about it. To a newbie, the gloved hand landing on a face is the same as a bag - but a vet knows that the face can move, sweat, breath, tense up - a bag, cannot. Like a floodgate bursting into a dry valley, memories cascaded through Michino’s mind; the days and hours spent working out and becoming the greatest boxer known in Suna. That unique feeling of punching another human with a bare fist is what pulled him back into reality.
He stood, towering, over another male. They were in a bar. Aside from a face broken into a swollen mess via a single left thrown from the Toraono leader, it was clear he was a Nomad. What even happened to cause this, the warrior wondered as he looked down at his hands. One shook, freshly pinged with pain across the back of his fingers. The other remained rock steady, holding a bottle of fermented cactus juice and agave.
“Ah,” he muttered to himself.
It had been three weeks since his trouncing. A man built up on pride and strength of a prophet to his entire clan, he thought there could be no loss; shouldn’t be. Afterall, he still hadn’t even begun to step into the prophesied event he was alleged to start soon - the check of reality just now starting to set. He had been blessed, strongly, by the Toraono blood and their gods and yet it stood nothing in the face of a Sunaku. Through his defeat, the recent loss of many in their current generation to the hands of evil, and the scrambled affairs of the Toraono in his current absence, the clan had been laid low for the first time in centuries. All things must end, his melancholic ideals spoke up.
A strike to the back of his knee made him drop suddenly to lay on the floor next to the man whom’s face he just broke. In a drunken stupor he looked around at the person brave enough to hit him only to find a ruby-skinned imp staring him down.
“Who else, but my sister,” he muttered with a pathetic laugh, covering his face with a huge hand as if to hide his shame.
“Up, now,” she replied. She got nothing more than a mocking grunt instead. Taking a deep breath the demoness was clearly trying to reign in her anger. It did not help. Her eyes snapped open with the fury of a 1000 hells, grabbed Michino with both hands by the throat, and threw him through the local tavern’s wall some thirty feet away; a 3’11’’ Youkai, flinging a 7ft monster. She looked at the bartender with a smirk, and a thumbs up before skittering over to the counter, (a good foot and a half higher than she), and slid over a handful of 1000¥ coins; Owari bounded out the open door shortly after.
A few days later Michino woke back up, being dragged. His back was raw with blisters and sores from being dragged for three entire days and found himself with one of the worst hangovers he’d ever experienced. With a groan his head lifted up to see who was pulling him to death. The ruby skin and tiny form was all he needed to simultaneously know exactly who it was and where she had taken him. As if on cue, she dropped his leg into the blistering red sand that surrounded them.
“You’ve forgotten shit, bro. You used to be more passionate. About life, and living it to the fullest. Strategy means nothing if you don’t have that edge anymore, and with the way you just got trounced, well - from what I can see I’m just looking at a man past his prime, pretending to be strong. So what if you can hunt animals. They’re nothing compared to the insane shit you’ve already put up with; already fought! That was embarrassing, for me! You have any idea how much rep I lost!? No.” Owari chided herself, turning away as if speaking to another personality only she could see.
“No, we aren’t here to piss on yah. Could do that anytime I wanted. Big bro,” she hopped up, and landed on his right knee. Despite her size, a sudden weight crushed down far more than she appeared, snapping his knee cap in twain.
“You’ve gotta start back from step 1,” she hopped again, crushing his second knee, “back from the precipice of death, just like you used to. Evolve. Become stronger again. If you can’t, your dreams aren’t worth trash.”
Two legs broken, head throbbing from dehydration, and not a scream did the man breathe. He could only stare in awe and fear of what his sister was doing. A pact they had made long ago that he had completely forgotten in the last ten years of simple life. Her hand touched his chest. Tears welled into his eyes. His mouth moved to whimper ‘don’t’, but before he could Owari’s other hand was already over his lips. Her eyes were dead serious as she gripped down over empty space, and jerked back.
“…your heart?”
“Yeah. If I ever get back to that point of where I’m drowning my sorrows ever again, I want you to rip out my heart.”
“…t’fu- no! I’m not going to kill you for being depressed, Michino! What the hell!”
“I won’t die, if I’m out there,” his head bobbing to the North where the Demon Sands continued to remained uninhabited by mortal life, “Not, traditionally anyways.”
“Why. The. Hell, would you want me to rip out your heart?” Owari asked with a tone that was already against whatever he was going to respond with.
“Survival. If I’ve gotten so low to the point I’m trying to run away again, I need to be reminded what being alive really means. You really think there’s anyone in this village who could really give me a proper dressing down? Out in those sands, I can live for three days without food, water, or even a beating heart…but unless I get said heart back, or I stay in too long, I’ll transform into a demon, die, whatever. I’ll stop being me, in any context and that should be enough to…ya know. Put the fire back in my step.”
“Pfft, okay psycho. Whatever you say,” the imp said, looking away and out a window to the North. Not once did she ever actually believe that this day would come…and yet…
Owari stole his heart, and absconded into the red sands without a word. Not even a full minute after departing the natives to the land began to shift out of the sands and pull themelves out of the shadows. Demons. They saw a prime meal for any demonkin - a powerful Toraono - sure to grant any single beast the power to evolve their form and power. Maybe even enough to proclaim themselves…king. An unearthly roar of hundreds of demons rend the air, enough to make Michino’s headache powerful enough to kill at least three of his five senses. Taste, and Touch, were all he really had going there right now. The pain of his broken knees, torn out chest cavity, and the foul flavor of evil surrounding him.
It was enough to make any proud warrior furious at themselves.
At the end of the third day, Michino finally stepped out of the red desert. Two steps from back into the golden rays of a normal sun, he felt the demonic blood burning itself off of him in the presence of UVs. Fresh scars had healed themselves across a vastly smaller form. His muscles were all slim, tightened, and compacted into a smaller frame, though he retained most of his height only shrinking back down a few inches. His hair once again ran shaggy, wild, and untouched. Attached to it was a beard grown in the half year the Demon Sands took from his mortal coil. Despite his weaker appearance, there was a fire lit up behind those purple eyes again. He had spent three days in the harshest part of the desert killing, eating, and retraining his body; but was it enough to protect his home?
Michino raised his hand up and looked down at the lightened tone his flesh had taken from days without proper food and a sunlight that sapped his life. He clenched the hand into a fist, causing flame to explode from his flesh and engulf the tightened knuckles.
Perhaps.
He stood, towering, over another male. They were in a bar. Aside from a face broken into a swollen mess via a single left thrown from the Toraono leader, it was clear he was a Nomad. What even happened to cause this, the warrior wondered as he looked down at his hands. One shook, freshly pinged with pain across the back of his fingers. The other remained rock steady, holding a bottle of fermented cactus juice and agave.
“Ah,” he muttered to himself.
It had been three weeks since his trouncing. A man built up on pride and strength of a prophet to his entire clan, he thought there could be no loss; shouldn’t be. Afterall, he still hadn’t even begun to step into the prophesied event he was alleged to start soon - the check of reality just now starting to set. He had been blessed, strongly, by the Toraono blood and their gods and yet it stood nothing in the face of a Sunaku. Through his defeat, the recent loss of many in their current generation to the hands of evil, and the scrambled affairs of the Toraono in his current absence, the clan had been laid low for the first time in centuries. All things must end, his melancholic ideals spoke up.
A strike to the back of his knee made him drop suddenly to lay on the floor next to the man whom’s face he just broke. In a drunken stupor he looked around at the person brave enough to hit him only to find a ruby-skinned imp staring him down.
“Who else, but my sister,” he muttered with a pathetic laugh, covering his face with a huge hand as if to hide his shame.
“Up, now,” she replied. She got nothing more than a mocking grunt instead. Taking a deep breath the demoness was clearly trying to reign in her anger. It did not help. Her eyes snapped open with the fury of a 1000 hells, grabbed Michino with both hands by the throat, and threw him through the local tavern’s wall some thirty feet away; a 3’11’’ Youkai, flinging a 7ft monster. She looked at the bartender with a smirk, and a thumbs up before skittering over to the counter, (a good foot and a half higher than she), and slid over a handful of 1000¥ coins; Owari bounded out the open door shortly after.
A few days later Michino woke back up, being dragged. His back was raw with blisters and sores from being dragged for three entire days and found himself with one of the worst hangovers he’d ever experienced. With a groan his head lifted up to see who was pulling him to death. The ruby skin and tiny form was all he needed to simultaneously know exactly who it was and where she had taken him. As if on cue, she dropped his leg into the blistering red sand that surrounded them.
“You’ve forgotten shit, bro. You used to be more passionate. About life, and living it to the fullest. Strategy means nothing if you don’t have that edge anymore, and with the way you just got trounced, well - from what I can see I’m just looking at a man past his prime, pretending to be strong. So what if you can hunt animals. They’re nothing compared to the insane shit you’ve already put up with; already fought! That was embarrassing, for me! You have any idea how much rep I lost!? No.” Owari chided herself, turning away as if speaking to another personality only she could see.
“No, we aren’t here to piss on yah. Could do that anytime I wanted. Big bro,” she hopped up, and landed on his right knee. Despite her size, a sudden weight crushed down far more than she appeared, snapping his knee cap in twain.
“You’ve gotta start back from step 1,” she hopped again, crushing his second knee, “back from the precipice of death, just like you used to. Evolve. Become stronger again. If you can’t, your dreams aren’t worth trash.”
Two legs broken, head throbbing from dehydration, and not a scream did the man breathe. He could only stare in awe and fear of what his sister was doing. A pact they had made long ago that he had completely forgotten in the last ten years of simple life. Her hand touched his chest. Tears welled into his eyes. His mouth moved to whimper ‘don’t’, but before he could Owari’s other hand was already over his lips. Her eyes were dead serious as she gripped down over empty space, and jerked back.
“…your heart?”
“Yeah. If I ever get back to that point of where I’m drowning my sorrows ever again, I want you to rip out my heart.”
“…t’fu- no! I’m not going to kill you for being depressed, Michino! What the hell!”
“I won’t die, if I’m out there,” his head bobbing to the North where the Demon Sands continued to remained uninhabited by mortal life, “Not, traditionally anyways.”
“Why. The. Hell, would you want me to rip out your heart?” Owari asked with a tone that was already against whatever he was going to respond with.
“Survival. If I’ve gotten so low to the point I’m trying to run away again, I need to be reminded what being alive really means. You really think there’s anyone in this village who could really give me a proper dressing down? Out in those sands, I can live for three days without food, water, or even a beating heart…but unless I get said heart back, or I stay in too long, I’ll transform into a demon, die, whatever. I’ll stop being me, in any context and that should be enough to…ya know. Put the fire back in my step.”
“Pfft, okay psycho. Whatever you say,” the imp said, looking away and out a window to the North. Not once did she ever actually believe that this day would come…and yet…
Owari stole his heart, and absconded into the red sands without a word. Not even a full minute after departing the natives to the land began to shift out of the sands and pull themelves out of the shadows. Demons. They saw a prime meal for any demonkin - a powerful Toraono - sure to grant any single beast the power to evolve their form and power. Maybe even enough to proclaim themselves…king. An unearthly roar of hundreds of demons rend the air, enough to make Michino’s headache powerful enough to kill at least three of his five senses. Taste, and Touch, were all he really had going there right now. The pain of his broken knees, torn out chest cavity, and the foul flavor of evil surrounding him.
It was enough to make any proud warrior furious at themselves.
At the end of the third day, Michino finally stepped out of the red desert. Two steps from back into the golden rays of a normal sun, he felt the demonic blood burning itself off of him in the presence of UVs. Fresh scars had healed themselves across a vastly smaller form. His muscles were all slim, tightened, and compacted into a smaller frame, though he retained most of his height only shrinking back down a few inches. His hair once again ran shaggy, wild, and untouched. Attached to it was a beard grown in the half year the Demon Sands took from his mortal coil. Despite his weaker appearance, there was a fire lit up behind those purple eyes again. He had spent three days in the harshest part of the desert killing, eating, and retraining his body; but was it enough to protect his home?
Michino raised his hand up and looked down at the lightened tone his flesh had taken from days without proper food and a sunlight that sapped his life. He clenched the hand into a fist, causing flame to explode from his flesh and engulf the tightened knuckles.
Perhaps.