An Affinity with Honor

it may sound absurd but don't be naive

even heroes have the right to bleed

The swordsman's routine, following his untimely memory loss, consisted of everything but the equivalent of fun, and it took every single uncollected fiber in his being to not recognize his boredom and just how typically mundane his everyday was, mulling over forgotten faces and facts long gone from the safe confines of his head, facets of his personality wiped clean like a porcelain dish. At first, Torian would dutifully attend to the need, given the emphasis that the origin spirit placed unto the responsibility. But the shine of unearthing his old secrets slowly began to dull over time, and the blonde was admittedly desperate to break the habit, considering how it brought about a consistent amount of depression the more he tried to pry. Memories were scarce as they came, and he had little to come by despite his efforts.

As much as Torian wanted to, there wasn't much to do about it - medically, doctors wrote about patience and how amnesia was a process and the days of its duration were numbered. Even with as much stress as the origin spirit would put to it, the swordsman saw no need to uphold the hunt so adamantly. Thrills became a necessity then when you were faced with things as vapid as moping around with an empty head.

Although, with his life lacking in any substantial source of excitement, that didn't seem to stop that entity known as surprise and its spontaneous visits. So early in the morning it was when an odd bird perched its tiny bird legs on the smooth oak of the window to his inn room, beady eyes watching his figure as the swordsman deftly tied a lazy knot for his cloak. It wasn't unnatural to have several feathered friends basking quietly in the sunlight that wafted through the window, but what was strange was that this bulk of feathers and tiny bird bones was intently focused on his person and it was...creepy, to say the least.

A fine crease began to fold over his brow as he approached the creature, though curiosity hardly drove his intentions as much as frustration did. The swordsman would only near the thing with his loyalty on the idea of shooing it off, perhaps hinder it from returning by closing the shutters and being on his merry way.

Tempting. But Torian had little time to manifest the idea as the bird stretched its wings and took flight, producing a small glass vial to sit as its replacement, the roll of paper in it visibly catching his attention as he rolled the fragile thing between his fingers. The lid was a cork that was far too easy to discard as the blonde fished the parchment from its container, a faint whiff of gunpowder clouding his senses, although briefly.

When unraveled, the small scroll would become a letter addressed to him, a brittle piece of paper existing atop the skin of his palm from a dubious sender - one that knew him by name, and also mentioned another. Who was the other? Perhaps he was the surrogate and this 'Terith' was the actual receiver. If that were the case, then the swordsman began to plant an incentive to pity this person, whomever he was, and whatever his circumstance could be.

As the blonde swordsman glossed over the information contained in the letter, his face appeared visibly elated. The first proposal of classing him as another rank eluded him, but the mention of a sword fight felt all too convenient for Torian, who was beginning to succumb to boredom and everything else that followed it. He'd roll the letter back over its folds, edging it back into the space before twisting the cap back on with a crisp popping sound.

"Heh...finally, time to make some new memories."

-'instead of clinging unto old ones.' he wanted to add, but feared that the origin spirit would bicker to him about it later on, as if he didn't have a nagging conscience beforehand. Torian deftly pockets the vial, patting the spot on his blazer before ushering himself outside, readily inching toward the map in his breast pocket, and a paper talisman in another, where the label printed in big bold characters taunted him like a vice.

"Well, here goes nothing."

it may sound absurd but don't be naive

even heroes have the right to bleed

The swordsman has a tendency to practice hesitance in the moments where summoning Hanayori was a necessity as much as it was a nuisance - since the Dango was anything but the brightest when team play was equated into the situation. If at all, the nekomata was about as useful as a slab of rock, which was only ever good for one thing.

And when the opportunity to subject the neko to transport presented itself, all dolled up in a stretch of miles and dust and concrete, Torian had nothing but a huff of contempt to accompany him in his act to manifest Hana in the physical realm. A puff of magic coated the paper talisman as the swordsman raised an arm, tossing the shikigami into the air before allowing it to descend in its more natural form, its claws digging into the concrete tiles before them. The nekomata stared back at Torian, its shit-eating grin wider than the one that haunts the dark eclipses of his nightmares.

"...Shut it." the blonde said, a crease at his brow that implied his beading frustration. "Not a peep from you, alright?"

His shikigami gargled a mewl, the hairs on its buoyantly round body standing up like the sharp end of a jagged saw. Without proper dictation from its master, the nekomata was presented with little incentive to voice its thoughts properly in its human voice, and hence, it would often settle for a slight hiss to its movements, showcasing its disapproval for Torian's sharp tongue ever so vigilantly brandished against it - but the swordsman was hardly in the blame, for Hanayori was admittedly coy in its own right, a behavior of cats that manifested far too well for a demonic entity that only looked feline on the surface.

"....Mreowwwww." it grumbled, gathering air into its cheeks as it huffed at its master, however complying to his charges still, stretching its nubby legs outward as a cloud of hazy white rushed to swallow its being whole, generating a popping sound that breezed through that corner of the street like a feather dropping unto concrete. From what little space it occupied prior, it easily tripled in this more flamboyant form, presenting grandeur for a nekomata's shifting skills.

Torian reveled in the size of the cat bus as its outline created a prominent shadow over him, his idle stare directing a passing interest towards Hanayori's ensemble of cat legs that wiggled over the pavement to a dissonant rhythm. When the barely tangible amount of attention Torian gave to its shikigami started to dissipate, the swordsman lumbered his figure forward, approaching the round opening carved into the nekomata's left, invitingly imitating an actual bus door.  

Having sat himself comfortable at the nearest, fluff coated surface, the organic vehicle began to hum with vibrations akin to the roar of a regular engine, though the blonde assumed it was the nekomata's purring that generated the noise. A small panel above its head sifted quickly through various locations, the whirl somehow stopping on a scribbling of letters that implied their destination: The Ancient Ruins.

A click and a hover was all the shikigami needed to send its lithe body rocketing through the skies, breathing wind into its small, nimble steps. It slithered above the clouds, pushing through the near intangible mass as if attempting to escape visibility from the prying eyes of onlookers. Hanayori was never the type to adapt to hiding, but it had been Torian's wishes that dominated its basic objectives, and the swordsman was far too prudent to travel so close to ground. This much was rounding the bend of simple compliance, and Hana was at least a little bit submissive to consider coursing the skies.

It did like to frolic among the tufts of white, so complaints were reserved for the less trivial things. In essence, the cat bus indefinitely began to flip and twist, rounding its body to create a spiral formation in a dull cloud formation.

Torian admitted that he hadn't minded Hana's regular exhibition of its playful nature, so he'd take to it with little grit between his jaw, almost considering dozing off atop the warm seat, but immediately decided against it, lest he doze off far too deeply and forget to remind the nekomata that they had an aim to achieve - and it was not creating icecream clouds and random dinosaurs in between.

He sighed, heaving his hood off the curve of his head, allowing a chilly sea breeze to billow past, jerking him awake for good measure.

'This is nice.' he thought, his body rocking to the swivels and turns of the cat bus.

it may sound absurd but don't be naive

even heroes have the right to bleed

The ruins, like any other weathered structure, is a bleak stretch of yellow that lay scattered in waste across a desolate portion of Fiore, occupying empty space with the stillness of its halls. What was intriguing was how the isolation hadn't hindered its discovery in the slightest, because, as of that day, it was an arena lit ablaze with the spirits of warriors and their swords.

With the descent of a strange, feline-bodied vehicle, a figure washed in white would stride listlessly from an opening, several gold trinkets jingling off his chest as he pursued the make-shift line that gathered at the mouth of the Ancient Ruins, a puff of smoke briefly lingering behind him as the vehicle reduced its form to a mere cut of paper. Evening circled on like clockwork over the battle site as he walked, the darkness lighting several torches with the allure of fresh fires and the smell of vigor - and it took very little to accomplish the total sense of a duel in the works with that set up; it was uncannily perfect, something that charmed many fighters, much like him, even from a notable distance.

Having approached with silence clouding this new guest's pace, the burly man who stood guard at the opening arch of the ruins acknowledged his arrival with a rise to his brow, crossing his arms in interest as the pale person neared the would-be arena.

"Hey, bud," he started, beckoning the stranger's attention with little struggle, "5 minutes later and you would've been voided from the comp. Is this your first time joinin'? Gotta give me your name then so you can get your ass beat legally."

The figure lifted his head to the guard, where the gold in his eyes proved to be piercingly distinct despite the heavy veil of shadow both the night and his hood coordinated to create. "Ren." he said, "Kohaku Ren."

- - - -

'Was taking another name necessary?'

The swordsman tightened a jaw, his pursed lips digging a frown into his face. Currently, he'd been coursing through the winding corridor that lead to, what was supposedly, the reception area of the whole shebang. Short as the journey was, Torian felt as if it were extended far longer than a few seconds due to the Origin spirit's persistent idle talk. The ancient soul's concern over him was subject to gratitude from the (once) blonde vagabond, but when it all coincidentally boiled down into questioning the little things he does, Torian would have very little leeway to consider it anything other than annoying.

'...You were the one who told me to unravel the Ake-shime for this.' he scoffed, impulsively biting the inside of his cheek as the light from the end of the corridor dilated his pupils, intensely so. 'Besides, what's the use of a disguise if I didn't have a matching decoy name?'

The Origin spirit's energy flickered, like it was hovering from thought to thought, 'True,' he managed to say, a definite masculine tone to the small syllables, 'But where in the seven hells and heavens did you manage to conjure 'Ren', much less 'Kohaku Ren'?'

'It just came to me.' he huffed.

'Full of incidentals today, are we?'

Ignoring the spirit's attempt at a bad joke, Torian stiffened as he found himself atop the stairs that dipped into a wide, Colosseum-like room, where the size was admirable as how much people managed to accommodate the benches that rounded the circular platform at the bottom. A chorus of both cheer and outcry filled the space, spreading faster than wildfire as the announcer raised his voice, dictating the winner as an arm was raised in triumph. The current center of attention was a far-too muscular a man with an impressive black braid atop his nearly shaven head. A malefic shine bounced off his biceps as he moved, though Torian could hardly care for the impressiveness of his built, especially not after noticing what little cloth he wore to cover himself - nothing but a white loin cloth with strange characters scribbled across it. Blood matted the sparse cloth with red spatters as his large black scimitar danced between his bulky fingers, where his enemies could be seen gathered at several stretchers, bleeding buckets as limbs were twisted over in unsightly directions, evidently ensuing hysteria for the medical team.

'Unsettling win. Isn't it?'

Torian sneered. If this had been a muscle competition, sure, but brute force was hardly the only mode of victory. 'His performance, at best, looks meh.'

The Origin spirit shared a chuckle for his vessel's sentiments, where his existence folded over, as if he was crossing his arms, 'Your eyes have adjusted then. No good technique would reduce your opponent into a meat pretzel.'

Meat pretzel, in Torian's head, was synonymous with grotesque methods and a technique unpolished, ungraceful, nothing but swings and a lack of strategy. From the look-see, this large man had little respect for the enemies he tramples, which deemed itself more than an insult to the good name of the sword art. Styles and techniques differ from person to person - though that wasn't an excuse for brutality.

The thought of suppressing other sword styles, however, largely appealed to his itch for a little thrill - and conforming to the need to deliver a coup de grâce to the barbarian's cocky expression was killing two birds with one, satisfying cut from his sword.

"And the winner of the elimination round is-!"

Torian opted to descend the last flight of stairs, his last step generating an audible crackle of dust and earth beneath his sole, directing the audience's curiosity at him, and inevitably disrupting the momentum of both the announcer and the man who just won.

"Hey." he said, casually, ensuing a lazy wave with his free hand, where a green card protruded from between two of his gloved-fingers, "Apologies for the untimely entrance, but I'd like to challenge this gentleman-" he'd brandish Kushinada, "To a follow-up duel."

The swordsman could register a stillness as barren as the moment a pin drops from an audience that could only respond with surprise for his proposal, faces skeptical as they watched his white-washed person with both pity and interest, but mostly the former.

'Weird. I could've sworn that was your cue to tell me how bad my decision is.' he beckoned to the ancient soul.

His Origin spirit made a sound, one that seemed like a snort, and proceeded to crinkle its existence backward, imitating a lax leaning motion that he'd have always seen humans do, 'For once, I think you got it right this time.'

He couldn't have said it any better.

Stats n' Stuff:

it may sound absurd but don't be naive

even heroes have the right to bleed

His opponent took the most likely reaction to Torian's challenge, which was a hollowed laugh whose echoes actively tried to belittle his stand among the crowd. It was the sort of noise that tempted you to grasp at your ears as last resort, lest it irks you more.

"HAHAHA! You're a particularly pretentious one, boy." the boulder of a man arched his sword arm forward, the scimitar's blade taunting him with ill intent, "Yet the rest of the lot seemed far too meager for my level of skill, perhaps you'd be good enough to deliver me a fitting end to the show."

'If anyone here was the one with the attitude problem, it'd be you.' he spat, the words drawling out in his mind, perhaps harsher than any venom he could manage with his voice. The swordsman mirrored his opponent's action to showcase his weapon, his body molding into a taut stance that even the morrow his bones felt trained to follow suit.

"I'll give you my word that this'll be spar you'll engrave into memory."

His enemy eyed the action with piqued interest, though the toothy grin he sported was anything but cordial. A dangerous flame was kindled inside him by this strange, white-clothed man, and it drove him far off the edge of thrill than anticipated. He flecked the remaining blood leaking from his weapon with a swipe to his finger, shoving it off his hands in a crude manner before closing the distance between him and Torian, his heavy footsteps causing small tremors to resonate through the lifted podium that housed the ensuing fight.

The audience, by then, was a mess of hushed whispers and spoken pities as the tension rapidly increased, where even the scrawny referee crinkled into a corner, unable to deem the verdict and cease the fight.

A shiny black blade throws a slash forward, slow, yet deftly intense after being driven from sheer power alone. Torian wittingly waits for the last second, just before the tip of the scimitar contacts the flesh at his shoulder, his body arching upward as a counter measure to the downward slide of his enemy's blow. As if his dodge was anticipated, the enemy drove his sword back, a muscular slice directed to the small space above them, where his body would've been suspended into. The swing was less than pristine with how rough and mangled his stance was, but Torian were to admit to admit that the large man had at least a little bit of brain inside his thick skull.

Tiny pin prickles of light sweep against the stretch of metal that made Kushinada, foreign eastern characters scribbling themselves unto the material before a gust of wind races through the area, bringing the white-washed figure along with its course, allowing to seamlessly flex his body into an air-borne tumble motion, narrowly escaping the action of severing his torso from his legs as his body indefinitely hovers above his enemy. He momentarily paid his homages to the blade's immediate response to activate the Gusty Glyph accordingly to his deviance, immediately before pulling his drawing his arms back, fingers looping over the handle of his weapon almost too tightly as Torian casts the words to a familiar spell ('Jihi' as the origin spirit liked to call it). The energy thrusts his body forth, tearing through the distance between him and his sinewy opponent.

The other man who stood at parallel to Kushinada's tip reacted with a jolt, his movements jarred as instinctively threw the scimitar at the adjacent swordsman, the handle slipping from his grip and flying at a messy upward angle. Torian, claiming the opportunity as it presented itself graciously, tipped his blade to a particular curve as if to parry the incoming sword. With an adroit push from his arms, Torian manages a shove that sends the flying scimitar off course, wedging it into a wall, ensuing several shrieks from the audience who seated themselves on that portion of the arena.

Busied with the process of catching up and retrieving his separated weapon, the muscle man missed the chance to perceive Torian's little act to disintegrate his person into a simpler composition, the blue trickles of light blurring into a haze as another spell escapes the Chronicle, landing his falling form several meters back down, atop the podium of the spar's origin.

The teleport spell was something he was familiar with, regardless of the lack of background to support whatever history it had hidden away in its name. His amnesia, strangely hadn't hindered his memory when it came to the works of his magic and the mystic powers that governed Kushinada and the Chronicles. But...what he found missing was how he obtained it, and how it worked prior to the loss. In his current state, it was only the Origin Spirit who had a voice to communicate with him. Torian was ever adamant to think that that was the end to the story, but with every calling to a spell within his known compendium of inspiration, the swordsman would feel an uncanny presence throbbing at the back of his skull, as if grasping at his conscience to hear their muddled thoughts, pulsing vividly - screaming to him in desperation to recognize their plights, only to disperse as a spell ended.

It's an odd feeling, though he couldn't be bothered to be affected by short-term side effects of the spells he casts. Breathing inwardly, Torian polishes the angle of his shoulders, a click to his fingers causes another piece of inspiration to ricochet over his form, a specific piece of darkness clouding him like a cloak. Invisible as he was then, it was only ever to his opponent who was within perfect range to be affected. From his vantage point, he could spot a number of confused faces as they watched the burly man toss his head back and forth, frantically searching for the remains of his 'prey' with a tightened expression. In his haste, the enemy chose to crazily swing his sword arm back, the scimitar that sat in his grip anew being flung in mad curves as if he was hacking at something, when in truth, he was barely hitting anything.

"GAAAAHHHHH! Face me like a man! COWARD!"

Torian chips at the distance between them with steps as quiet as he could control, carefully slithering his sword back into its sheathe. He'd edge his heel into the concrete below, his shoulders angled in a definite measure. On the surface, his posture was heavily reminiscent to a basic drawing pose that the swordsman executed on his first appearance. Only at that time, a flourish of bright blue masks the glint of the sword as it was being slowly brandished.

'Since when were you this crafty?' the origin spirit asked, mid-process.

'You should know that more than I do.'

'Heh.'

Torian breaks the seal that contained the ancient spirit's power as he separates Kushinada from its sheathe, the leakage of its raw spiritual energy causing a rapture that ultimately thrusts his enemy backward a tad, however it was just enough to allow his enemy to leave the platform, landing unto the tiled floor with a huff of dust and sweat and tangled muscle. The swordsman could register a gruff groan of pain as the large figure wiggles from his fallen position.

"Why...you...bastard!" he heard the man scream, however it was droned out by the escalating cheers from the crowd that circled the venue, a skeptic bunch of smiles that somewhat afforded to look the least bit rejoiced at his victory. Before the muscle man could perform his move to regain his pride, the announcer proclaimed Torian the definite winner of the elimination round with a bit of flair to his words.

"Contestant Kohaku Ren has knocked out Haquen Yuuro out of the ring. It looks Mr. White is moving unto the next round as per tournament rules!"

Ah. So his name was Yuuro? It never occurred to Torian to expect formalities, much less exchange them. With what little respect he had for the other swordsmen and women, Yuuro deserved nothing more. The referee took to the proclamation with hesitance, cowering as he lifted the swordsman's hand, sharing a grin that starkly contrasted to Torian's passive expression.

"Blasphemy! This is CHEATING!"

Visibly agitated, Haquen grinds his teeth as he fingered the handle of his weapon, just about ready to haul it over to where the white-clothed fighter stood, but was provided little leeway to exhaust his revenge when a group of oriental guards stood their ground against him, their katanas thrusting forward to his figure, motioning him to exit the arena with sparse gestures. Though more than hesitant, Yuuro turned his back with a scowl, his frenzied footsteps fading into the silence of the long corridor, no doubt the back-door of the Ancient Ruins that lead to the stretch of deserts that surrounded their isolated location.  

'I can tell he'll be coming for your head.' the origin spirit chuckled, to which Torian came to share, a rare mutual expression between vessel and parasitic guest.

'I'd like to see him try. I'd be setting the bar higher for his technique when that time rolls around.' he said, polishing the green card that he'd received as proof of his participation, now stamped with a red emblem that implied his success in the first round of the long string of fights that were just about to play out.

'As for the others...I think I'll expect a little more.'

Stats n' Stuff:

it may sound absurd but don't be naive

even heroes have the right to bleed

Above him loomed a wooden slate glued to the wall, and closer inspection granted him knowledge of how the next rounds were to be held out. A bracket system was in the works to filter out the remaining participants who proved their individual worth in the intervals of eliminations rounds, many of them occurring prior to his triumph with the challenge he'd have snared Haquen Yuuro in with a contemporary flare, though perhaps his spiteful exit was a little more than the finite end to their encounters.

The solitary soul who currently governed the domains of Chronicle spoke in a tone that appeared musing, though the bite in his words was a little potent, 'I like how your positivity seems to extend as far as considering a man after your head as anything but exciting.' he said, '...Or should I say, your apathy is so strong that you consider an exterior death wish boring in the long term?'

The swordsman popped open his luxury bottle of water that the medical team offered him as their duties dictated them to do so, the liquid cool against his throat as he drowned the growing spite that brewed in his gut, though the spirit wasn't in the wrong for passing such judgement. In fact, what irked him was how transparent he was in the face of this ancient soul who only recently started verbally assessing his character.

The spirit knew too much...the spirit cared too much.

The vagabond gave him his silence, open to interpretation, which was most likely to be taken as a notion of agreement of the old soul, who returned the silence with a flicker to energy fueling his existence. Having decided to leave the question without an answer provided, Torian wrung a blue face towel around the curve of his neck, the cloth dampened by the sweat rolling of his skin as he idly skimmed through the contents housing in the bracket board, as he referred to it. Beside the messy scrawl that made his name was a woman's, or, that's what he assumed it was. Deciding genders by name wasn't so hard, but when a person's name was Red, there was much to be desired about the possible conclusions he could draw from it.

"Hmm..."

In the background, the high-pitched trill of the tournament gong caught his attention in a snare, the sound beckoning him back unto the arena - a deathly pale white light leaking out of the left-hand entry way of the rest area, a small room where his isolated, white figure was the only moving thing among the litter of unconscious fighters. Where the other contestants were eluded him, but he'd get his answer anyway.

Torian grabbed hold of Kushinada by the hilt, protectively edging it back near his belt. When he felt satisfied of the position it sunk itself into, he'd take several endearing steps forward, ornaments of gold atop his chest swaying to a tune that mimicked the rapid zeal inside his rib cage.

In all that vehemence, Torian failed to notice the ever slight tip of a lip from the origin spirit, a grin that was both solemn as it was regretful.


True to his guessing games, 'Red' was strikingly female by face value alone. Sporting a somber air about her person as she weaved through the atmosphere with grace defined. When considering her physical appearance, the swordsman assumed her nickname was derived off her choice of attire. A red hood clung to her shoulders by ways of a large, scarlet ribbon at her neck, the material flowing with fine tailor-work. Her's was the visage of a noble, her clothes iron pressed and boots pristine. Torian was strangely skeptical to pursue a realistic spar with this one, to which felt belittling to a woman of her nature - but her fingers looked far too dainty to have curdled blood with a blade, so it was only natural to hesitate.

'That assertion is undoubtedly sexist.' the spirit said, his teasing relentless, 'Didn't know you had it in you.'

'I...I was being considerate!' he barked, a visible vein popping over his temple, 'She's a woman for good sake, do you expect me to beat her black and bl-?!'

"Excuse me, good sir."

The person of interest arched a brow in question, the silent scowl the white swordsman harbored with a persistence causing caution to spring into Red's steps, though the little fighter presented more than just a polite appearance, but was well-versed in manners too, a trait that was characteristic to most white-collar citizens.

"Casting aside your unsightly expression, I'd like to introduce myself properly." Red unravels a hand for Torian to meet in friendly gesture, implying nothing but good intents, "I simply go by Red, having hailed from a family in the far easts, my birth name means little in a tournament of skill. So, I'd like to uphold a dutiful sense of honor with you in fair duel."

Silence caked Torian's side of the court as he registered his opponent's words - or tone of words, actually. That voice...was evidently masculine, but a part of him refused to acknowledge it, and he'd been insistent that Red's gender was decidedly female even as facts dictated him to do so, since it felt absurdly wrong to look dainty and cute as a boy.

'It's a traaaaappppp.' came the elusive whisper in his brain, 'Mayday, mayday, all systems down!'

The swordsman fingered the bridge of his nose, mulling over how he'd comprehend everything without appearing improper until the boy in question spoke, rolling his sleeves upward out of old habit, "Is something the matter?"

"It's...it's nothing. I apologize." Torian spoke, the baritone of his sentences somewhat slurred through his grimace, "Good to be fighting with you, Red. Call me Kohaku Ren."

The boy in the red hood huffed, as if relieving a breath he'd been holding for quite a while, "You've my gratitude then, Kohaku-san."

The origin spirit stifled a complimentary laugh to the muddled mix that was Torian's train of thought, as he still seemed visibly shaken by the existence of something as biologically confusing as his enemy-to-be.

'Can I jest that you'll perhaps consider the same gender with romantic interest from now on?'

The statement seemed to poke at his ego a tad, triggering a bit of hostility from the vagabond with a grit to his jaw as he realized a battle stance. 'Don't. you. dare.'

'Fine, fine~'

it may sound absurd but don't be naive

even heroes have the right to bleed

Red appropriated a distance between him and the pale swordsman befitting of long range combat, which stirred curiosity and expectation among the crowds that gathered around them, much like a jury in trial of court whose eyes cornered even the smallest of movements. Torian would admit that his tolerance for scrutiny was impossibly low, but an audience to the fights somehow posed little bother - he was unnaturally calm in the face of an enduring crowd and it was a progression that he came to welcome in avidity.

Whimsies aside, from the far-side of the arena tolled the treble of the large, brass-iron gong that always depicted the end and beginning of any formal fight. Though the curtain call wasn't drawing any time soon - at least, not for the boy Red, whose impeccable speed took him by a breath's measure and swept him across the podium, a silver rapier tip urging to pierce a hole into Torian's chest.

The boy would've been largely successful in his attempt to bear him a new wound had it not been for the pale swordsman's instinct, a burn in his veins that automatically told him to parry, detecting the sudden acceleration of the red-hood with nothing short of a second delay. Metal clashed with vivid distinction as Kushinada struck against the needle-thin weapon, the force behind it surprisingly heavy as Torian's grip wavered in its parry position.

As his own brand of counter-measure, Red somehow manages to produce a second rapier, which was almost made of pure crystalline material, evidently a product of whatever magic the boy hid beneath the puff of his sleeves. The glistening blade would rise momentarily with neither dent nor fault in the boy's speed at doing so, where the tip managed to trail half a cut down the length of Torian's sword arm, encouraging the growth of a vein of crystal to slither and protrude, a sharp sting sinking into his blood vessel the longer the rapier tip remained close to his flesh.  

Torian took the liberty to not waste much breath enduring the pain by casting his teleport that caused his body to singe bright blue before disappearing. However, his direction was set into a motion that sent him forward instead of back, his body slipping behind the boy with stealth dictating his next move. The swordsman raised an arm, implying he was ready to deal a number on the little fighter, until Red managed to swivel back and withdraw, where a formation of crystal started crawling up the length of his boots, consuming half of his entire lower leg before spiking out on the ground, tracing the path he'd have used means of escape. Torian assumed that he'd have activated an ability of his that allowed him to tumble and dodge with the help of the crystalline, a facet of the boy's magic that was surprisingly shrewd...and handy.

"You're far more agile than my original perception of you, Kohaku-san." he heard Red say, performing an impressive set of twirls from his dominant sword arm, the shine of his rapier impressively fresh, as if it only recently met the fires of a furnace.

"I didn't expect you to be the cunning type, either." Torian said, humoring Red with his similar observations. The swordsman moved to sheathe his sword, earning him a creased brow from the younger male who stood a good meter from him.

"If that's the game you're playing, allow me to be coy with you too."


The clamor of a gong resonated with the small and fragile shatter of several crystal rapiers as they fell, breaking into shiny sharp bits that littered the platform floor when their master found himself exhausting most of his ethernano, rendering him magic-less for a short period. It was a cleverly devised opening that allowed Torian to release the seal on the origin spirit, allowing it to leak his power outward in a demanding yet steady push of energy that sent the red-hooded boy airborne, briefly, before landing on the floor below the podium.

Red visibly shook as he grasped to retrieve his silver blade that had been unceremoniously separated from him in the heat of the moment - a parry that Torian instigated that caused the weapon to tumble out of Red's hand, much like the swordsman's fight with Haquen Yuuro, though it was the boy's ignorance that dulled his ability to spare attention to the pale swordsman's plan to make him harshly dependent on his magic.

"Contestant Red has been knocked out of the ring - we therefor declare Kohaku Ren as the winner for this round!"

His figure, now a pure wash of white, stepped down from the podium by ways of the stairs, approaching the shaken child who hugged his knees as he crumpled near a wall. Red was neither sobbing nor was he seething, but Torian imagined that he had bent his head in shame for the loss.

The pale swordsman occupied the space next to him, his seating form lax against the towering stone wall as he breathed encouragement through his words, dedicating them to the crestfallen boy beside him - which oddly reminded him of...something, though Torian couldn't truly point out what it was.

"You're a fine sparring partner, you know." he started, keeping his eye on the clean-up crew who busied themselves with clearing the crystal shards, "At your age, that level of skill is commendable, you should be proud of yourself despite losing."

A shuffle came from where Red sat, suggesting that the boy stood from his huddled position. The swordsman tilted his head to one side, catching the fire that began to crackle behind the purple that made the Red's irises. His expression was the sort that you'd read as both being frustrated and inspired and determined all at the same time, where not a smile nor a frown sat atop his lips - but rather, a tight grit to his jaw that indicated the boy's resolve to fulfill an object.

"I'll swear you an oath, Kohaku-san, one day I'll challenge you again. And when I do, I'll make sure that your downfall is mine to take." he said, a voice that soon began to fade and cease down the corridor that lead to the exit, Red's figure entering it briefly before the flash of the scarlet-woven hood was gone.

'Well. That makes two death wishes in a row. It's a race to see who gets your head first, huh?' a chuckle came, then a pause, where the origin spirit noticed the empty expression on his vessel's face, 'Is something troubling you?'

'Earlier today, the boy suggested something along the lines of an honest fight.' Torian said, separating his person from the wall with a huff, 'But with his mode of approach, I doubt being sly with strategy is anything but honest.'

The soul, ancient as his wits could be, makes a low 'Hmm...', briefly pondering on it, before his presence flickered, almost as if he was imitating a shrug. 'Perhaps. But strategy is a broad topic, like the difference between the mindset of adult and child - you wouldn't want to delve into it, now would you?'

He'd snort at that, arms dusting the material of his pants that started to attract a fair amount of dust, 'I guess so.'

it may sound absurd but don't be naive

even heroes have the right to bleed

A string of merciless battles would come to plague the subsequent hours that Torian came to dutifully spend confined in the Ancient Ruins, being tossed and tousled repeatedly over a certain interval by different people whose swords showcased a myriad of techniques that came off as both fancy and lethal at the same time. The pale swordsman began to reserve a small portion of his respect for those who temporarily became his enemy atop the smooth, polished surface of their battle podium.


His third match was, ironically, a woman of whom bore a physical appearance that remained true to her vocal quality -  her name being Perriwinkle, something that suited the white flush that colored her hair. However, the fight quickly escalated into something he'd have never expected of a woman of her...build. She was at sensible size for her gender with ample sizes to compliment her form, but what she drew as her weapon was a gigantic greatsword that visibly towered over her. The weapon's length allowed her to bash him senseless, earning her a decent amount of blood to splatter across her blue sundress as if they were paint strokes. He wasn't to be artistic, nor was he the sort to not perceive the obvious weakness that large blades proposed when in wield - they failed to hit a moving target efficiently, and would rely on the weapon's area of effect to graze them. Having opted to a spontaneous burst of speed to fuel his skidding back and forth across the platform, Torian allowed himself to become an enemy that needed accuracy in order to even mildly hit - which was what the small woman lacked, truthfully, and that wasn't something he pulled out of belittling her skill. Torian was largely amused by her taste for weapons and her ability to handle it with as much flourish as she could, but perhaps more practice was in due because of her choice.

By the end of the third round when the gong quaked to the sound of his victory, Perriwinkle rushes to where he stood, still bleeding, and attempts to reduce the damage she caused by offering the grown man a hug, though her strength that strangled him in an iron-tight grip only seems to deepen the extent of his cuts. His wounds open more and he's decidedly a fountain that gushes out blood in streams, albeit with a weary grin as Torian is begrudgingly hoisted into a stretcher for a brief encounter with the medical team's top healer, who would later advise Perri to care for her enemy's well-being as she would her allies.

"I think I'll give up sword fighting to become a healer, Mister Ren!" she said before tottering off, the large sword trailing blood behind her.

Needless to say, a part of him was incredibly elated to hear her change of heart, although he began to worry for her patients, should she be the one who'd cause their injuries in the first place.


The fourth spar offered to do a number on him even before the toll to the gong began. Before Torian was an individual who moved in a sketchy manner, his visage sharp and mischievous as he sneered at the pale swordsman. His name was a slippery one too, Clive, as the man would say, his words rough and ragged that complimented his appearance composed of dirty clothes and a dark mask to boot. His movements suggested a distinct characteristic that was common among the slums of the city where the term 'rat' equated to both human and animal. The man grinned as he licked his lips, digging his nails into the metal grips of his daggers as he objectively eyed the gold trinkets that strung up across Torian's chest.

"I'd wager ya a bet for them pretty chains ya got there, boy. I win, and...and ya gi'e 'em to me." Clive said.

Torian huffed a bothered breath, the impression he's getting from the man, or rather, the thief appearing to regress his respect for whatever sort of sword skill he'd be performing then. Was Clive's purpose justified? Or did he simply join to pilfer his opponents of their treasures? The pale swordsman bit the gummy flesh inside his cheek in frustration - this fight, just before the final, appeared to be more mocking in nature.

"I'm game for that." he said, to which Clive only stretched his grin further, his cackle trumping even that of a crazed witch.

"I like the way yer mind werks, boy!"

And then the familiar chorus of cheer and metal gong rang, flooding his ears and driving his everything to fight. If in his previous fights, he mulled over the possibility of mercy, he had little patience granted to Clive - and that wasn't something he wanted to regret.



The water bottle in his hand was his fourth, and Torian wondered if the tournament was slowly going to drain him not only of his physical strength, but his motivation to get out of his inn bed later on. His origin spirit appeared to have stilled and said very little after his escapade with the thief. It wasn't until he decided to pop open his fifth bottle that he heard what the ancient soul had to say in his performance.

'What a wuss.' he heard the spirit say, earning a choked laugh from the swordsman, prompting him to squirt out the water he was about to chug.

'I--pfft--know, r-right?' he said, robbing off the water droplets that began to trace the outline of his jaw, 'I didn't expect he'd surrender when I'd relieve him of his weapons.'

In his head, a brief calling to the memory managed to ensue an even more vocal set of laughs from the vagabond. The image of the thief at his knees, his daggers in Torian's hands after abandoning his gold trinkets for Clive to run after as bait. Prior to his sacrifice, the swordsman would have parried both out of the street rat's hands, letting them clatter to the other side of the podium - he thought it'd be clever to test just how far he'd consider for the glitter over his own defense. Clive brought about as much disappointment to the dagger arts as much as he did to the more cunning of thieves, who were far more crafty than what Clive managed to display earlier.

'In any case, with that win, I assume you're in the running for the finals?'

The pale swordsman twists the bottle cap back on, his face lacking any reminiscent of the laughing fit he previously harbored.

'...Seems so. I admit my anxiety if that'll stop you from pestering me.' he said, skillfully expecting the spirit's next choice of words.

And, in turn, the soul returns a cordial chuckle, 'You know me so well. I'm touched.'

Torian figured it was best to leave it at that.

it may sound absurd but don't be naive

even heroes have the right to bleed

The evening was spilling well into the eves by the time his enemy, who fought on the other side of the bracket, was filtered out through the rounds that he too, toiled through with his sword being his only companion through the gruel and the sweat. It was in his best attempt to add kindle to the element of surprise as he refused every chance presented him to observe the contestant from an audience standpoint, and as his reap to what he sowed, Torian sat himself atop a vacant chair in the rest area, a small ruin room caked in dust that was strangely comforting with its stillness, now that most of the snoring unconscious left the space earlier to retire in their homes.

The fifth round only ever started to gain backbone after an extensive waiting period between this match and the next, now that he thinks about it, leaving Torian far more idle than he hoped to be in his plentiful moments of boredom. In those minutes, the vagabond had no luck in finding something to busy himself with, and was so very close to succumbing to his origin spirit’s less-than-helpful advices on the essence masculine ‘entertainment’ if it weren’t for the elusive call of the tournament gong, implying that the interval of rest consumed its allotted time and that everyone couldn't afford to wait any longer.

Torian paces back to the entrance, counting his steps as he hesitated shortly before his figure molds into the light of the arena in front of him. Sensing his distress, the origin spirit quips into his inner monologue - the only good thing a disembodied voice is capable of.

'It's your first time achieving something...am I right to assume you hesitate to realize if it's real or not?' he said, a strange softness between the dips and rises of his wording.

Torian begs himself to breathe, pulling back at the fibers in his chest that felt like suffocating as he realized just how much anxiety started to build up in his lungs. As an act to calm the onslaught of nervousness, the swordsman briefly fingered the webbing that threaded over Kushinada's handle, feeling a life-like pulse thump beneath his finger, however briefly, '...Maybe, I don't really think it's that simple, though.'

'What's complicating it then?'

The chains on his person jingle slightly as he moved forward, 'Me.'


The fifth round was a blur of lights and the ghost echoes of the audience as they name their winners, the crowd broken off into two separate sides clashing even before the formal fight could even ensue. Though neither contestant appeared to have noticed the feud that divided them. On the far side of the podium was a strange figure of whose garments were none the blacker as, an obscene mask sitting atop his face like a feral warning to the danger he could possibly pose. At his wrist was the hilt of his obsidian blade, barbing him with its ragged edge. His enemy stood like a post, glued to the concrete, with little movement shown apart from the lapses in his breathing.

Even on face value alone, the atmosphere about him was abnormal.

'Wew. Compared to this bastard, you qualify for the most normal one of the bout.' he heard his spirit say, but it wouldn't wholesomely sink into his realm of thinking until the large, amble man approached him wordlessly.

"You've put a good fight up until this point," he'd say, "But past the toll, I advise that you tread wiser."

His figure was nimble and lithe as the man bends over at an ever slight curve, his shoulder line sharp as he strode back into his previous position. Expression seemed sparse for his enemy, and his poker face game was a victory he hardly wanted to lose, among other things.

'You must be joking. You're fighting a man not just for the tournament-?' his origin spirit asked, incredulously.

Torian edged into a stalwart stance, his mind lapsing over a lot of his reasons, 'I've got more reasons to fight him than a simple tournament.'

After all, the objective that kindled everything was the thrill of a challenge. The soul in his head creased his brow, although a smile was at his lip as he realized a facet of the old Torian that began to manifest, which was the thrill of a challenge unbeknownst.

it may sound absurd but don't be naive

even heroes have the right to bleed

Somewhere down the fifth round was the blurring of his senses as his focus chose to isolate his enemy with emphasis over everything else. It was a circumstance of the fight's intensity that proved to be both vexing as it was stimulating. The audience is now a slur of foreign noise and the platform is a flat, smooth surface with a trivial sense of importance. The shade of black that his opponent wore was a dark cloud looming over his figure, only further extending the caution that wafted from the edge of the enemy blade. Torian eyes the metal with vehemence lining the dark circles that gathered beneath his eyes. Each breath he releases is languid and heavy, heavier still with his hold on Kushinada falling slack from the blood that generously coats his fingers - a shade of scarlet that was neither truly his or the other's, but a mangle of both.

"Tsk..." came the click of his opponent's tongue, who had a hand balled over a cut that ran across his left shoulder. "Just give-up already, dammit."

His words were subject to high levels of irony, it seems, since his body's aptness visibly started to fail, with what Torian assumed to be as strain from the near-depletion of his entire mana supply, a pleasant drawback from the vagabond's persistence that allowed the fight to tick on without falter, essentially causing the dark-clothed fighter to use the entirety of his spell compendium in frustration.

"You're one to talk." he said, ounces of blood at his lips generating a hoarse lisp to Torian's words.

The swordsman watched the man carry his body as if he'd been shouldering heavy weights, his stance (once resolute) was stuttering on the edges, though it was safe to assume that Torian wasn't in any better condition. His enemy's magic was the sort to manipulate the existence of shadow, dancing at his fingertips with an oil-like consistency. It solidified and sharpened, and behaved like extensions of the man's sword as they cut and sheered through his defenses, tearing most of his skin and drawing a dangerous amount of blood in its severity. His Eiko could only do so much against constant barrage.

Much like the exhausted state of the adversary before him, the pale swordsman, too, was losing something essential for his bodily mechanisms. Neither could afford to lose any more.

Time flew past without haste and the total length of it that the two wasted on meaningless fights was to carefully dawn upon them as both their bodies limp about in both gruel and sweat. Swords clashing not against each other, but scraping the floor below their shoes as blades were dragged and lunged listlessly.

Perhaps, if they were both ready to adhere to the other and forfeit, then it wouldn't have reached this sort of situation where both were sluggish and unable to cope up with whatever they lost - though it appeared that the blood loss became a main pivot for how the audience reacted. He would be damned if the tiny sounds of hurdling would get any louder.

"I don't plan..to retreat...just yet." Torian mumbled, arms curling backward, though the curve he'd create was a sloppy and messy one, especially when considering the small blood splatters that he'd scatter on the podium. "Rest comes when we settle this..."

He's responded with a dry laugh, hollow as his enemy re-adjusted his weapon's handle in his hand, knuckles turning white with a similar, frustrated quiver clipping the movement. "You have many good words....and because of it, I'll abide."

Torian wore out a grin for his enemy, something to seal in the cold, hard truth. "You've my respects."

Though jaded in their own ways, two blades would still opt to confront, recreating the sharp sound of metal clashing against metal.


The last noise from the tournament gong would have marked the absolute end to the event, dictating the clear victor of all the bouts that transpired among the spaces of the dilapidated ruins - however, it wasn't to be so, because by the time the guards rang the large brass instrument, there were two bodies that lay collapsed atop the podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a draw!" the announcer screamed into his mic, the crowd roaring regardless of the result, implying that they were just glad that an end existed for this fight.

Torian twists his neck one way, creasing a brow as he regarded his enemy whose body struggled to even move to the slightest breath. "Looks like no one won."

The man huffed, his mask now slightly askew, revealing a bone-tired expression on a fairly common face, "Heh. Nah, I think we both won this time."

Much to their chagrins, there was one last order from the referee, urging the two fighters to rise and face the trial of determining who'd loot the victory. "Um...guys, you're still required to battle out who actually wins..." he said, "Since you two aren't in any condition to actually fight a follow up round, the committee decided to uh...decide via a simple game."

Torian clawed at the platform with his free hand, begging his head to tilt to acknowledge the presence of the referee with a weak nod, "...And...what game might that be?"

"...Rock-paper-scissors, sir."

"...I'm sorry what?"

The boy, whose extremely thin build began to worry Torian, gave him an expression that seemed to confirm it with a prominent grimace, "Fraid so sir....."

Torian squinted, a groan weaving through his grit teeth, "Wow...just- wow..."

"Seems fine." the other man said, forcing his free arm to move, however feeble it was, "Winner gets to take home the bacon."

What was this, pre-school?

"Ugh..." the vagabond edged an arm halfway, his fist slightly trembling, "As much as I hate to say this, you're on."

The referee that stood between them appeared flustered for a good duration until he stiffened up and pulled his whistle to his lips, counting to three with his fingers.

"On the count of three then, gents, here we go!"


A small magic circle lingered over the abundance of cuts that scribbled pictures unto his back, the nurse who'd have casted the healing spell somewhat appalled by the amount of damage that Torian managed to sustain. Sitting wordlessly atop a chair, the swordsman fingered the gold medallion between the thinning skin of his fingers.

"Congratulations, by the way, Kohaku-san." the nurse said, generating a larger circle to fully encompass the length of his back, "You were able to decisively out-do your enemy."

Though he decided to not mention a word of it, his head was muddled deep in a chain of thought that concerned the validity of his triumph - his enemy who had little to no ethernano remaining could only do so much with his fingers, and it was enough to assume that 'Rock' was the only option he had regardless. Torian, however, seemed to be far more luck than anticipated for choosing 'Paper' on the initial round - admittedly something of similar strain, his fingers refusing to mold into anything else.

'That was...anti-climatic.' he sighed.

The fighting festivity somehow long dissolved into an evening's worth of silence, the audience taking their leave when the winner was promptly decided. He'd learn of the man's name - Elliot Swans - and how ordinary of a swordsman he was until he decided to play dress up, which was not the least bit expected.

His gold medal wasn't much of a prize, but Elliot seemed to regard Torian's victory with the sincerest of smiles before falling into deep slumber. The last of him were to be seen sprawled out unto a stretcher with an alarmed medical team at his side.

The vagabond would have considered a nice, liberating rest for himself too, if not for the meddle of the origin spirit who started bickering to him again in the worst way possible.

'For you to have won a swordfight via paper...I'd say that's pretty tear-able.'

'Goddammit!'