Second Story (am considering it rated M)

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

The scent of fresh blood was heavy in the air as the midday sun passed high overhead, and the young swordsman lay dying upon the grass, two very dirty and very barbaric-looking bandits standing over him, one sitting on the grass eating some of the food from his pack, the other holding a blade recently wet with the young one’s blood. As for the young one’s blade, it lay in three pieces on the ground in front of him, broken.

The young swordsman was originally blond, small, with powerful muscles from training. He couldn’t have been over twenty-one, tops; however, it was quite clear he wouldn’t be alive for much longer, and a miracle he was still able to breathe, really. The entire left side of his face had been completely shorn away; even the eye had been stabbed out, and the other side of his face was cut up so bad that one even see bloody fragments of bone now and again. His throat slashed, his clothes in ragged tatters (what was left of them) and so many slashes and cuts had been made on him that with each breath he took, it managed to push some more of his sliced and bloody innards out toward the surface, occasionally spilling onto the ground beside him.

The taller of the two bandits, who looked like a cross between a human and a bear, gave a grunt of annoyance, although he was breathing very heavy. He had quite a few cuts and slashes all over him; the child had clearly put up a fight. “Feh. Such a foolish kid. Still, he was one scary intense bastard; can’t believe he’s still breathing after that. By all rights he should be dead a thousand times over.”

The other one, who looked a bit like a weasel, gave a cackle and said, “Yeh should be ashamed of yaself, Bear- yer a great effin’ demon, for christ sake. Kid just ein’t more’n a human child, or leastwise he ein’t got no magical powers.”

The one called Bear turned and gave the other one a dark and dangerous look. “f**k me if that’s a human; he’s hellish strong. He nearly got me about seventeen times, straight through the neck; I’ve never even met another demon who can fight with a sword as good as he. Not only that, but he’s still alive; he didn’t even seem to feel the pain for the slashes I gave him; he may not be too fast or strong, but hell, he’s definitely got skill!I don’t care what he is, that is one effing intense bastard!”

“So kill ‘im already.”

Bear took a step forward, then hesitated. “f**k. I can’t. Weasel, you do it.”

The smaller one, Weasel gave Bear an odd look. “What the nuts, man, you can’t kill a defenseless kid? Just chop off his damn head; he obviously can’t move now. Just take his effing head off.”

“I really don’t think that’s wise. I mean, seriously, you saw this kid fight; he’s f**king intense! If I move any closer to him, I’m scared to death he’s gonna pull out some trick or another and take my head off instead of his. That’s how good this f**ker is; even half dead, I don’t want anything else to do with him, man!”

“At least you’ve shown you have some sense, then, fool.”

Both Weasel and Bear turned their heads at the sound of a third voice. “Wha- who the f**k are you?”

From out of seemingly nowhere had appeared a man standing over the near-dead body of the blond-haired one; he looked a bit, one might say, unusual, under any circumstances. He appeared to be around thirty years of age; however, he had bright pink hair with silver spikes atop of it. His skin type was Caucasian, and he only wore tight black leather clothing; sleeveless tank top, shorts that went to the knees, and he was barefoot. He also had black snakeskin belts diagonal across his waist, one diagonal from the right and one diagonal from the left, with fingerless gloves on both hands and wore a small silver chain on the side of his shorts. His right arm, from the shoulder to the wrist, was completely tattooed with closely spaced thin black stripes, with three red stripes going through all of them in a continuous unbroken line down the arm. His left arm was completely tattooed over with a pattern of bird feathers, the same as a black raven might have, and colored black as well, so that the entire arm was black save for the white outlines of the feathers. His left leg was tattooed with a pattern of barbed wire criss-crossing and going around the entire leg going down the entire leg, and the right leg was a tattooed pattern of green and purple flames. He wore black lipstick and looked like he used eye liner; he was quite skinny, scrawny, small, looking like a single gust of wind could blow him away. He had metal studded bracelets on his wrist, and wore a black spiked dog collar; he also seemed to have half a million piercings on him.

There were about eighteen silver hoop earrings in his right ear, along with two metal studs, a small black skull-shaped icon, and what looked like a fish hook; in his left ear, there were seven black hoops, a pentagram ring dangling down, six metal studs, and another black skull. He had all four ends of his eyebrows pierced with small little hoops, all three nostrils, and what looked like vampire fangs bolted into his lips, both top and bottom. Embedded in his left cheek were about seventeen rings set along a reverse pentagram tattoo; in the right cheek there was an actual, large, pentagram-shaped item painted black what looked like physically bolted there. There were three small rings in his chin, and a metal bar on his tongue. It was doubtless that he has piercings in other places, too, judging by how many he had there. Even more interesting than his piercings, however, were his eyes: one was bright purple and the other yellow at the moment, but they were constantly changing color, and never stayed the same color for more than a few milliseconds. Not only that, but it appeared they were never the same color, either.

Weasel and Bear were staring at him as if he were some kind of massive freak. He didn’t seem to notice; his face was extremely expressionless and he completely motionless except for his stomach going in and out showing that he was breathing, and when he blinked, it just seemed wrong, as if he was a moving statue. “My name is Nesoma. If you value your lives, I suggest your make full reparations on the harm you have caused this child.”

Bear and Weasel looked at each other, and suddenly cracked up laughing. Nesoma didn’t even blink. “Very well, then. If that’s your answer, then die.” Suddenly, the fingers of his gloves turned into black, glossy hawk-like curved talons, and then he seemed to disappear for a moment; a second later, something kicked Bear up into the air and shot up right behind him, massive bat wings having come out of its shoulders. Nesoma’s newly taloned hands reached around and, in one swift movement, speared his body right through and tore it into two pieces, spilling his innards all over the ground. Landing softly himself as the two pieces of Bear’s body landed about five feet from each other, he gave Weasel a stone-cold glare. “Your turn.” Weasel would have blinked in disbelief right then if he had been given the time; however, in that moment, Nesoma had appeared right in front of him and speared his face completely through with all ten talon-fingers, leaving ten holes one could see all the way through out the back of Weasel’s skull in his head.

Finished with the bloody killing, Nesoma’s hands returned to normal and he walked over to stand above the body of the young swordsman. Pressing two fingers to the temple of his head, he said aloud, “This is shape shifter Nesoma Gasuka of the Forest Clan requesting assistance from the Wraiths. I have here a severely wounded child you might be interested in. I saw him fight; I like him. If you choose to accept him into your ranks, I can assure you he has great potential. His eyes show a burning ambition and thirst for power. It terrifies me.”

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

Wha… I’m alive?

The blackness of the night, judging from the level of the light shining in from wherever, was giving way to the day; the young one could feel himself just laying there, and he could only see out of one eye. That much he already knew; he could remember a little bit before he passed out, being in extreme pain but fighting to prove himself. By all rights, he shouldn’t be alive right now, not with the damage he had taken. At the moment, he couldn’t feel any pain, but he also couldn’t move; all he could do was stare up at a brown, rocky ceiling, likely the inside of a cave while laying on something that felt really soft, like furs or the like. Somebody had probably saved him from the thieves; he doubted, however, that they had caught them. He had been training his whole life with the blade, and whoever his foe was, they had been truly strong.

Suddenly, to his shock, an extremely decorated head with pink and silver hair appeared above his line of vision; two of the five pierced rings o his chin looked rather new. His eyes scared the young one; they looked rather like they would kill without hesitation if needed, and they were truly expressionless. The mouth opened, and the pink-haired man said, “Good. You’re awake. You’ve been out for seven days, six hours, and forty-three minutes.”

The young one stared up at this weird man with some confusion; he would have asked him who he as, but he couldn’t open his mouth.

“Do not try to move, demon slayer Azrael Drakun. Rest assured, the bandits have been taken care of, and you were at the brink of death. I believe we both know you should have been dead a few days back by now. My name is Nesoma, but within this place it is Transitional, and-” he pointed to the two new-looking piercings on his chin- “these are the lives of the two who did this to you. I killed them before attending to you.”

Azrael, the youngling, drew in a sharp breath; obviously, if this one had managed to take out both the bandits and save him, he was probably pretty strong. Either that, or he had strong allies. If Azrael managed to recover, he would have to beg this man to teach him how to be stronger.

At that moment Transitional turned his heard toward the source of the light. “Good evening, Lady Midnight. He has just awoken.”

A soothing, beautiful female voice answered in return, “This is good news for you, Transitional. Had you wasted our time with this offering, rest assured, you would have suffered quite heavily for your error.”

Transitional seemed to give a graceful bow to the speaker and said, “Indeed. That is why I have remained here. I do not believe that leaving while he was wounded was a wise decision. I do not desire to be the next target of an executioner.”

“You still very well might be, for he is still quite wounded. You should have gone out to help him out earlier; if he is unable to fully recover, we will take payment for having to care for him out of your flesh.” Suddenly, Azrael felt himself go limp and lift into the air, made to stand upright while floating in the air, and from there he was able to observe the whole room. The room, by the way, was a small cave, with a forest outside, hidden by a waterfall, and he had been lying, as he had thought, on a bed of furs. There was nothing else in the room save Transitional and the girl called Midnight.

Midnight, by the way, was a tan-skinned girl, as if she lived somewhere quite tropical and with a lot of sun; her form was graceful and slender, and very beautiful. It seemed she had captured the essence and beauty of the moon itself, and it radiated from her graceful body like moonlight. She wore a slim, tight black dress that seemed to be made of satin, with long, luxurious black hair with an occasional black butterfly clip spread throughout it hanging in braids halfway to her waist, wearing both black lipstick and black eye liner/shadow. Her feet were exposed; she walked barefoot, and both her finger and toenails were painted black. The dress was designed to show off her looks, apparently; it was open at the sides from the waist down, and there were no shoulders to it; also, the top and bottom halves of the dress were connected only in the front; the sides of her dress above her waist were also open. She seemed to walk n a rather seductive and enchanting way, full of grace and elegance; from her shoulders, large wings, like black dove’s wings, were present, and they seemed to wrap about her body from behind to frame her beautiful, slender frame. Her dress was sleeveless, and she had a tattoo of a thorn pattern running criss-cross down both her arms, with occasional blue flowers amidst the green vines of the thorny tattoo. These ended on her hands with a black flower on her left hand, a white on her right, and she wore a solid black ring with golden runes on her ring finger of her right hand. Around her neck was a silver chain, with a shiny black onyx cross with a diamond-shaped emerald set in the middle of it.

“Hmm… it seems his wounds have made little progress, even with our healers, Transitional. And if he is awake, I should like to talk to him. Is this permissible?”

“It is, Lady Midnight.” Transitional gave her a most elegant and graceful bow.

Pointing one finger at Azrael, a flash of unusual light appeared at the tip of her finger, and suddenly there was a red light around Azrael for a moment before it faded away again. Staring up at him, the Lady Midnight said, “Your name is Azrael Drakun, and you are a demon hunter. Am I correct in these details? If you desire to respond, focus your thoughts on projecting your words from your mind, and speech will be allowed to you.”

It took Azrael a couple minutes, but he managed to figure out how to speak using only his aura following her instructions, and with his newly restored voice, the first words out of his aura as he glared down at the lady in front of him were, I am. Who the f**k are you supposed to be? Mistress Lilith, queen of the gothic emo pregnant doges?

Lady Midnight did not take that comment well; while giving him a look that pretty much said that he would burn in hell for that comment, she herself vocalized, “Another comment like that, and I will teach you a new definition of pain, Azrael. I am an Elder of those who reside within this forest, and it is only by our good graces that you still live.” She gave a smirk now, showing off a pair of vampire fangs stained a rustic brown with years of usage within her mouth amongst some other perfectly white and flawless teeth. “And I do so like your blood, as well. You are of both the Creation and the Void, are you not? A worthless half-breed who has no natural abilities other than that he can take a beating and those of a human. I must admit I whole-heartedly approve; you will make a good addition to the legions of the Wraiths.”

Azrael narrowed his eye at her. And just what in bloody f**king hell is a Wraith?

Midnight fixed him with a rather bored gaze. “Hm. He has quite the foul mouth for one so young. It is a true pity his body will never recover from that last fight properly, however.” She gave a petit little smile. “But I can help you there. You, born without powers- you seek to eradicate that problem, right? You seek the rightful strength that was robbed from you at birth, do you not? The Wraiths can help you. We can restore your body, better than new; we can give you the ability to use magic, to be strong, to give you everything you might desire… and all you need to do is make a few small sacrifices, just to obtain it all. If not, you will be killed; it will be a far greater mercy than letting you live as crippled as you are. Forever unable to move, you would starve to death within a week, without being able to have a drink, to feel the moist taste of food on your tongue, or even do anything more than sleep, and stare at the ceiling. You can’t even speak without our help. Do you truly want to die, like that? Or will you seek our help, our power, and give yourself to us?” Midnight walked over to him and began stroking his cheek beneath his one good eye. He couldn’t even feel it. “We of the Wraiths can help you, Azrael. All you have to do is pledge yourself to us, and we will make you one of us. We will make you a demon, Azrael; just join us, and we can restore you to a life far better than any you have had before. Say yes, and I’ll heal your body.” She gave a smirk, and drew her face in close to his; she didn’t look any older than a teenager; seventeen, at best. “So. What do you say?”

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

MATURE- 18+ ONLY PLEASE.




The third part of the story; no, the story's not done yet after this, but I thought it was a good way to end it.
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The full moon was high overhead a small forest clearing, in the middle of a deep valley in the deepest part in the middle of a forest that stretched for miles upon miles, covering an entire country in shadows. In the area around the perfectly circular clearing, there were several torches casting an eerie light upon the proceedings that were about to begin that clear-skied starry night. All around the forest clearing, close to five hundred beings watched with bated breath, neither living nor dead, invisible to the naked eye, all of them Wraiths, all hanging out and about in the trees. In the center of the clearing stood Lady Midnight over a body covered in a white sheet; Transitional stood near one of the torches, in front of her. Lady Midnight stood up straight and tall, her eyes gazing skyward, directly at the moon, with her hands at her sides. In one of them was held a knife with a handle and blade both made of black onyx, with an ancient rune word set into the handle made out of rubies shining bright, the color of blood, reading Hatred.

Finally, after what seemed like several minutes, she looked down at Transitional, and, slowly walking around the body in three circles, seemed to look at each of the Wraiths hidden in the trees individually, and yet all at the same time, even the ones beyond her line of sight, or even behind her.

“My fellow Wraiths, I welcome you to yet another gathering- our six hundredth and sixty-sixth, in fact. It is on this night, under the light of our sacred Mother Moon, that we are here to commemorate the death of the demon slayer Azrael Drakun, and-“ she looked at Transitional quickly- “to welcome a new member to our growing family, the first in over one hundred and seventy-five years. I beg of you, those who are with us still, who have not died since the Wraiths first came upon this world, to not only pay homage to the passing of the life of this young soul, but to all our brothers and sisters who have died in the three thousand and seventy-two years of our existence. I, the oldest living and only remaining of the original Wraiths, welcome you here as is the duty of the Queen of the Ceremonies, accompanied tonight by an outsider, Nesoma Gasuka, known to us as Transitional. He has done a great many deeds for us before, and it is only because of him that we are able to join with us another member of our great and powerful family this night.”

Midnight raised one hand, and, pointing it each of the individual torches, they all suddenly flared and went out. Incidentally, there were only thirteen torches. “As is customary of our race, we do not allow light to expose to undesirables what we do in order to obtain our power. Tonight, there are precisely an even amount of people in the audience; for the first time, as well, an even amount of males and females. This means that, as I have the newest member of our family to deal with, each of us has a partner for the Dance of Sun and Moon, uniting our energies into one great cosmic force, exchanging our powerful spirit energies and welcoming into our order he who shall henceforth be known as Spirit.”

She walked over to the white sheet on the body and snapped her fingers; almost immediately it vanished. Azrael’s body beneath it, still as death, was flawless as ever; no wounds or scars anywhere, shaved hairless save for the blond hair atop his head. His body was not clothed in anything, and he lay there, still as death, as if just sleeping. Nesoma, from the trees, just watched with the eyes of an owl, so that he might have night vision, as Midnight removed her dress, and the sound of many others within the trees were doing the same. “My brothers and sisters, in order for us to proceed much further into our sacred ways, we must first complete the ritual of unity of Sun and Moon.” She raised her hand that had the dagger and, suddenly, she flung it down- right through the heart of the body of Azrael. The body did not even move an inch; there was no other sound other than the knife going in, not even of crickets chirping within the woods. “The spirit receptacle is ready for our dance to begin, brothers and sisters. I would like you to begin the Dance of Sun and Moon.”

From all around the clearing, the trees suddenly began to sound out, with their leaves rustling and bodies moving within. It was near an hour before any of them stopped, with Lady Midnight standing perfectly still in the center of the clearing, her feet planted apart on either side of Azrael’s body’s head, her arms flung out to her side, eyes closed, staring up at the moon. When the last of the leaves had finally stopped shaking, her eyes opened, glowing red, and suddenly she brought both fingers together over her head, then bent over, touching the tip of the blade of the knife with the very middle of them, the third finger going either way, counting the thumb.

There seemed to be a sudden jolt of energy; all around the clearing, the trees rustled with the sound of wind, although there was none, and Azrael’s body suddenly jerked, as if all the body’s muscles had suddenly gone tense. That included one male-specific part as well. Lady Midnight’s eyes, no longer glowing red, looked at it for a couple minutes before standing up and resuming the position she had been in during the Dance of Sun and Moon.

“My Brothers of Life; my Sisters of Death, I thank you. For your contributions, I can feel the energy slowing becoming that of us. Spirit shall soon become a Brother of Death, and in this we well henceforth be ever stronger. However, his ascension is not complete. We of the Wraiths are creatures of sin; our very existence is an affront to the gods of the humans, a rejection of the morals of all other races, and a defiance to the laws that dictate what we can and cannot be. We must further awaken our newest Brother of Death; I beg of you, be generous. Share with him more of our power; to deny the laws of the world is no easy task. We are now upon the second of three stages for our Dance of Sun and Moon. With this stage we will not only give him forth the breath of life, but also of our own strengths. Please, I beg of all our brothers and sisters, will you not give him of your very soul itself? I, too, shall join in this dance, as is custom; I, the vessel chosen for awakening by our Mother Moon will be the vessel with which to directly share spiritual energies with the purity of his soul. Please begin, and I shall join as we go.”

Once again, the rustling in the trees began; after a few minutes Azrael’s body began to glow red, and one could literally see energy flowing into his body. Midnight, watching his aura and the flow of energy, couched down and began to rub against him, and then leaned forward to begin the sharing of her spiritual energies with his body.

At that time, a suddenly loud and unpredicted shriek, not unlike that of a most horrid banshee, broke through the air, brining a sudden and deathlike halt to all the dances currently going on. All eyes gazed toward the center of the trees where Lady Midnight stood, her face, wide-eyed, just above the still-closed eyes of Azrael, frozen in both shock and silence. Nothing had ever interrupted the sacred Dance of Sun and Moon before. Unable to contain her surprise, with all eyes on her, she suddenly gave a cough and almost fell onto the body of Azrael, blood splattering the golden locks of the silent, still form. She tried to stand up, but felt a restriction within her chest, between her two large areas of the upper torso; shaking, she looked at them, and, to her absolute terror, saw blood running down an arm that not only went into her chest, but she could feel coming out the other side as well. Her eyes looked back the still-closed eyes of the seemingly lifeless form, starting to glaze over, just as they fluttered open, yellow, and gazing back into hers.

Spirit Drakun, newly born, not even knowing his own name, awoke for the first time that night, with no memory of who he was or how he got there. The only thing he new for certain was that there was a breeze, his hand hurt, and somehow, without any knowledge of the event, he had managed to kill a stark-naked lady on her hands and knees leaning over him, who was staring at him with no emotion other than astonishment. A truly beautiful lady, he had thought, an he had killed her.

He decided in that moment, in the first hour of his life, he could never live with himself for what he’d done.

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

Nesoma sighed as he walked through the lush, green forest, heavily surrounded by trees on all sides and walking down a very old and decrepit trail of stones set in the ground that was barely visible underneath al the voilage that had grown over them since the Wraiths had first appeared. Today was the first day in five years he was able to head back to the Wraith territory; up until then, his own clan had needed him. He had received the summons the morning after the failed ritual to return home; he had heard they redid Spirit’s ascension ceremony, but he wasn’t there for it. In the meantime, he had received no word of the fate of the child so far; they had called it an accident and let him go. Wraiths were like that: cold, heartless, didn’t care for even others of their own kind. They were only interested in obtaining power, and to them Spirit had been a curiosity. Lady Midnight had been the first-ever Wraith to have been killed by a physical method; supposedly, they were unable to be killed that way, their physical bodies truly immortal. One could only wonder what had really happened. Nesoma hadn’t seen Spirit since the day before his ritual; even if they met up, Spirit would not recognize him. Upon ascension, all Wraiths lost all memories of their previous identities. They might remember things later, but it was only the equivalent to them of reading about somebody’s life in a book. It wasn’t their life or their experiences- just an event to them.

“Nesoma Gasuka. I request that you cease immediately.” Nesoma froze; the voice had come from behind him; no Wraiths ever came out this far. Unless…. But no; they never came anywhere near the Wraith Grounds, not unless called, and thankfully Nesoma had never met them. They were, reputedly, the most powerful and deadly demons in all the world; Nesoma could think of nothing they might want with him. Patiently he waited for the speaker to continue. He didn’t have to wait for long. However, what the speaker said next nearly made him wet himself.

“I am Kekkai Dhampir of the Thirteen Executioners. You have been targeted for elimination by our most powerful and graceful Lord Darkness. Please do not resist; the more you do, the more painful it shall become. Now. Turn around and face me.”

Nesoma broke out in a sweat of internal terror; so it was them, after all. The Executioners never used their real names, followed the Religion of Ishiki- the same religion Nesoma followed- and were the most feared and dangerous of all the Wraiths. There were only ever thirteen, and whoever they chose to train; they were considered as equals to the Lords and the Elders of the Wraiths as well, and while they didn’t live with the Wraiths, they always traveled around the world, growing strong and powerful against everything they could, learning all they could. The only thing Nesoma knew about them was that they were all supposed to be either sadists or masochists- quite often both. They still had some emotions, but only dark ones: hatred, wrath, lust…. They were said to be the ultimate killing machines, but they never killed without a direct order from the Elders because of their religion. Instead, rather, they tortured their targets within an inch of their life, keeping them alive through magical methods, and then once they’ve had their fun they heal the bodies of their victims like new. Executioners were bad business; they were very bad people to get involved with. Aside from the obvious of killing, they also brought bad luck like a plague wherever they went.

Nesoma turned around shakily; the Executioner in fron tof him was wearing the typical all-black assassin’s uniform; only the hands, feet, and head were not covered. The pants and shirt were usually made of either silk or satin, with rock-hard body armor vests, a belt at their waists with a sword sheathed upon it, a couple pouches here and there for various materials, and a couple knives for throwing. They kept at least four hidden blades on them at all times as well. Sandals were part of their uniform; although they looked normal; however, by releasing a hidden seal beneath the soles of their feet, a spiky, jagged blade appeared surrounding the base of the foot, or at the bottom, so that they could scale cliffs of trees with ease or even deal purely devastating kicks. Nesoma had seen the hands of a foe who had been holding the sandal when the seal was released when Nesoma was on cleanup duty once for an assassination just outside the domain of the Wraiths; it was perhaps one of the most gruesome things that could have been done to somebody. At their back, all Executioners carried a small pole the length of their back; by focusing their energy, this pole could become a large variety of weapons, including an axe or a spear. Not only that, but it was actually hollow inside, with three spare lengths; by opening it, the pole could actually become four times its actual length. A headband was worn around the forehead just under the hair; hidden in it was a diamond-hard piece of armor that, should any weapon strike it, the weapon would disintegrate and any limb that held the weapon would become suddenly paralyzed for a minimum of fifteen minutes. The headband went all the way around the head, and was custom-made to fit the wearer’s head. On their hands they worm fingerless gloves; these hid tiny pieces of metal that, should the executioner activate them, would surround the fingers to make razor-sharp hooked claws for tearing and slicing. Once again, these were custom-made.

The hair of this particular executioner was pitch-black, flat on top, hanging loose and brushed to the sides of his face; it was shoulder-length and remarkably glossy. What looked like it was literally bolted onto his skin was a black, shiny, metal reverse pentagram, but that was the only bit of Penance Markings on this Executioner’s skin. That meant he had only killed one person before- he had only added one bit of body art or body restrictors. The skin was pale, almost enough to see the veins beneath the skin; this was typical of Wraiths. The eyes were a piercing yellow, extremely powerful, extremely intense- and then Nesoma recognized the Executioner. It was Spirit. Nesoma didn’t know whether to be terrified or relieved. If Spirit was already an executioner, that meant he could only be Position One, the weakest Executioner of the total Thirteen. However, the fact that he was already strong enough to be an Executioner was a very worrying fact.

Wraiths, typically, who had absolutely no magical power, ability, or resistance before they were Awakened were generally about the level of a D-class magical being when they were Awakened- the second weakest class. However, every year for eighteen years their power doubled at the start of every year. Usually, by year thirteen, they were already am above-S-class demon, the strongest class. By year fifteen they were usually as strong as demigods. By eighteen, they were nearly invincible in magical fights, and while they still had almost no magical resistance, save to their own magic, they were incredibly hard to kill. However, at eighteen, their ability to gain power either stopped completely, or, in the case of Executioners, slowed to such a crawl, it took a hundred years of training to get even the slightest bit stronger. Executioners, for that reason, were only chosen after their first fifty years; Spirit had to be the first-ever Wraith chosen to become an Executioner before then. Executioners, once chosen, did almost nothing but train once they were chosen; for this reason, while Wraiths were one of the most powerful things in the universe- nay, in any universe- Executioners were without equal. Not only that, but Wraiths were True Immortals- those who could not age or die, not without a hell of a lot of magical attacks. They could not die through physical methods, and only gods, demigods, or another Wraith were said to possess the power to kill them- although it was possible for others, it was just incredibly difficult.

Nesoma turned to face Spirit full-on. “So. You’re an executioner.”

Spirit nodded. “And you would be Nesoma Gasuka, correct? I am the Seventh-Position Executioner, Spirit Drakun, alias Kekkai Dhampir. Prepare to die.”

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

Nesoma stared at Spirit incredulously. Seventh position.... but…. That means he must have a truly insane amount of power... Nesoma wasn’t sure if he should try and run or not. Executioners were so hard to kill, they had only ever been thirteen- all of them second-generation Wraiths, from about fifty years after the original Wraiths had appeared. Only one had ever been killed, although they were never replaced, so there had been an open spot, but still… With Spirit in seventh position, and the fact that Wraiths could only gain power in the doubling at the start of the year- never between- and another fact that only the first thirteen Executioners had ever had the ability to gain power after the first eighteen years, this was quite worrisome. It meant that Spirit, of only five years, was already stronger than six fully matured centuries-old Wraiths who had been training for years- and he still had strength to gain, yet. It was for certain that eventually, Spirit would be Thirteenth Position, the most powerful, possibly even within a years’ time.

Nesoma cautiously asked, "Why am I targeted?"

Spirit responded without hesitation, and without emotion. "You have been declared an enemy of the Wraiths for being directly responsible for the death of Lady Midnight. As it was you who brought me to the Wraiths, and as you were the first outsider to ever witness the Awakening of a Wraith, thus meaning that you are also directly responsible for the interference of the aura of the Wraiths. You also did not take part in the Dance of Sun and Moon, which may have resulted in a cosmic misbalance. Thus, the Executioners ourselves have petitioned, and thus deemed, that in ways we do not fully understand, you yourself and you alone are directly responsible for Lady Midnight’s death. Punishment is scheduled to be torture followed by death. It is lucky you ran into me." Standing stark-still as a statue, he raised up one hand, fully exposed, and Nesoma’s eyes shot wide open. In the entire arsenal of techniques Wraith Executioners were taught to do by manipulating pure energy, only one of them required an open palm. And it was by far the most deadly.

Nesoma activated his power attempted to shoot backward at twice the speed of light, which, of course, was his fastest speed. He set in motion the exact millisecond Spirit said the fatal activation word:

"Pulse."

There was a tiny, bright flash of light right in front of Spirit’s palm, and then came the much larger flash of light in the shape of a sphere. Nesoma’s right arm wasn’t even caught in it, pulled out just as the attack hit. However, still, suddenly a large amount of slashes and cuts blasted out through his arm, spilling blood everywhere, as every single one of his veins burst open through the skin. He cried out in pain as the fiery, hellish torture hit him; he tore off his own shirt and wrapped it around the arm. He was incredibly lucky; he noted that as he looked up, and what he saw scared him more than the Executioners ever could.

The diameter of the sphere had been twenty feet. In the space where the sphere had been, there was absolutely nothing remaining. No trees, rocks, bugs, dirt, not even bacteria. That was the power of Pulse: it accelerated all types of energy, so fast and so much, that anything caught in it would be purely disintegrated by its own power, to the point there was nothing left. It was true hell; not even a soul could survive a Pulse. Worse, Spirit’s had been twenty feet; while most Wraiths, other than executioners could do it, they were lucky in the diameter ever got over two feet. Most Executioners, he had heard, couldn’t get over seven. Nesoma had been extremely lucky; this, he knew.

Spirit, on the other hand, looked winded, crouching down and using one hand to support himself. "Excellent. You survived. If you’re smart, you’ll run."

Nesoma gaped at him. "Wha-"

"Ishiki’s code of honor. You saved my life once, I’m saving yours. Go, or die."

Nesoma needed no more incentive to run like hell. He didn’t stop for two days, until he reached the ocean’s coast; there, he gave himself gills and continued, and when he reached land he just kept on running. When he finally stopped, he was dead tired, and slept for two days. He had run all the way to the other side of the planet in eight days.

Spirit, in the meantime, was found only three minutes later. Standing up, he was ready for more. Pulse took a lot out of somebody, but they recovered quickly. Another Executioner was there at that point. Spirit looked him right in the eye. "Requesting permission to join the search and annihilation team. The bastard managed to escape; next time, I kill him."

[Sparkfyre Lyras]

It a dark and narrow alley in the middle of a labyrinth city where rats and scum lurked. It was the dead of night, where only the worst of the worst appeared. It was the city of Rusalka, the den of evil, where gods feared to tread. And yet, it was the safest city in the world if you wanted to hide from pursuers. For that reason, and because he was not experienced enough, Spirit had been sent here, while three other Executioners had been sent out to either track down and kill Nesoma, or herd him into the city, where Spirit would kill him. In the meantime, Spirit was to gain experience here, fighting and torturing, as was per was the edict given to him by Lord Shadow, leader of the Executioners. Rusalka wasn’t too bad a city for somebody like Spirit; the city had only one rule- the strong take all, the weak be damned. There was what you can do and what you couldn’t do, and that was what you were to do. Spirit was a Wraith; there was virtually nothing he couldn’t do, by that logic. In a city with absolutely no rules, with sleeper houses, slave markets, black markets, and oh so much more, Spirit felt right at home.

Spirit was down the dark alleyway, being chased by about ten demons intent on killing them; he had purposely lead them here so that he could kill them. He was now backed against a corner, a scared look o his face, then in front of her grinning, throwing out random comments about what they were going to do to him and his family. As if they could. They wouldn’t have been so thingyy if Spirit had been in Executioner clothes; he wore casual dress, today, though. That consisted of a black sleeveless shirt, blue denim shorts, metal studded bracelets, and a spiked dog collar. And, of course, he wore his Executioner sandals. He always wore those. He also had more than six small hidden knives on him. Spirit was no fool; he never went anywhere unarmed. Suddenly, he grinned, and gave the ten demons in front of them a nervous shudder through their spines. A white, glowing light surrounded his hands, in the shape of talons; suddenly, he was on the other side of then men, five of them dead, their heads torn off, sliced right through by Spirit’s talons. He stood up and faced the five remaining men, trapped between him and the wall he had been at a minute or so before. “So. Who wants to be next?”

The five demons tried to back up, but they were, of course, up against a wall; Spirit grinned and suddenly a whip of energy appeared in his hand. Cracking it, he swung it once and decapitated all five heads at once. Chuckling to himself, he turned to go, and froze as soon as he turned around.

There had snuck up, or teleported, another warrior during the battle; this one had a purely murderous look on his face and, from the way he stood, looked like just might very well be an incredibly strong magical being. His hair was black and cut short, and he wore an ankle length and open black trench coat, with no shirt and black jeans. Like Spirit he wore all black and was about the same height. His skin looked the same tone, and he had deep black eyes, with the same intensity as Spirit. Around his neck, he wore two sets of dog tags.

Spirit paused for a moment, then grinned and cracked his knuckles. “Excellent. I’ve been looking for a challenge.”

The man in front of him was quiet for a moment. “Why did you kill my men?” His voice sounded rather like Spirit’s as well.

Spirit grinned. “Your men? Heh. To me they just looked like pawns.”

“Pawns or not, they were still my men, and this island is my kingdom. You are unwelcome here outside of Ymir, Wraith.”

Spirit cackled. “Interesting. I was under the impression this land couldn’t be controlled by anything, especially Rhamnusia. How are you able to do it?”

The man still hadn’t moved from his spot, and was still glowering at Spirit. “I am a half-breed of the brightest light of the Creation and the darkest pit of the Void, the two races whose war has consumed this planet in the flames of hatred. Those who seek sanctuary come here. I have managed to gain control over this land; I am allowing the Wraiths to keep their territory in exchange for allowing me to dwell here.”

Spirit’s grin instantly disappeared, and hatred entered his eyes. “Excuse me, but allowing? Who the f**k do you think you are, not a very nice person? As if you could beat us. We are the most superior race on the planet; I should kill you for that insult.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Should? Am I so far beneath you that you do not even consider me a threat?”

Spirit took the exact stance as the man in front of him, although unconsciously. Standing as they were, they almost looked like twins, but the man in the trench coat was clearly older, even if by only a couple of years. “Executioner training teaches us to never underestimate any foe. I am not. However, I am Seventh Position, meaning I am the seventh most powerful demon in all the world. Who are you to challenge me?”

Neither moving, the stranger said, quite clearly, in a rather challenging sort of voice, full of hatred, “My name is Azarael. I am not in favor of you wraiths, for-” he pulled off one of the dog tags, and held it up- “these belonged to my elder brother. He was killed in your territory. I found traces of his inner organs scattered all around the bodies of demons there. You people clearly have a pest problem; deal with it.”

Spirit narrowed his eyes. “My name is Spirit. I will kill any who challenge we of the Wraiths. I demand to know how you knew I was a Wraith, at the very least.”

Azrael, not taking his eyes off of Spirit, said, “Wraiths have no scent, no magical aura, not even a sense of being there, to other races. I can see and hear you, but my brain tells me you are not here. This is said to be a typical experience of those who meet Wraiths. Now. You will tell me why you have strayed from Ymir.”

Spirit shook his head. “Sorry. No answers for scumbags. And isn’t it common courtesy to give one’s last name as well as their first? I will look into the matter of your brother, and see to it that equal compensation is granted for his death.”

Azarael paused for a moment. “Hm. In previous dealings with Wraiths, none of them were as polite or as kind as you; I can forgive you for killing my men, so long as you do the penance. I know that some of you do not.” He paused for a moment, as if in thought. “I can already tell that you’re going to be very different from their kind. Very well, then. My family name is Drakun. Figure it out from there.”

Spirit suddenly took on a wide, awful grin. “I find two things interesting about what you just said. First, it is against the rules for Executioners to not do penance. I will be looking into that matter most especially; the dead, whether they be friend or foe, insignificant or not, are always to be honored. Those who do not do this are less than scum. And-” Spirit’s grin suddenly grew wide- “my surname, to, is also Drakun.”

Azarael Drakun stared at Spirit Drakun for a moment, and then put his brother‘s dog tag back on. “I see. That is indeed very interesting. Very well, then. Let me know when you find something out.” He turned with a swirl of his coat, and within seconds he was gone, leaving Spirit alone in the alleyway, watching after him, just as it suddenly started to rain. After waiting for about a minute, finally, Spirit, too, left, to go find someplace dry, deep in thought.