Distancing himself from her, making her learn the sword. Defeat countless times, his frustration with her. Awareness on his instability, that marriage of arrangement. Years down the line, discovering her torment. Pounding the ground in anger, tears in those times. A choice of wrongness, his own hatred of deities pushing her to her demise. Regret of greatness, living his years in a loss. That daughter rising once more, in the body of her child. Reflecting the resolve of her mother, one never changing. Holding onto the smallest of hope, believing in light in the deepest of darkness.
"I am glad you are steadily moving past your problems, but...it might be time for you to eternally rest..."
Gripping the blade at his waist, turning towards her. Standing on his side, that ancient weapon directing at her. His long white hair moving into place, his calm azure eyes meeting with her own. Those confronting the other after so long, a moment no less. Pleasantry of it, that maiden believing in the chance. Smallness of it, that will in making it into an actuality. Both residing in that void, their feet slightly turning against the ground. Vision of seriousness, hearts respecting the other. A difference this time, the wheel of fate steadily turning. Unknowing history in coming, this prideful trial.
"Mother's last gift to me was her life, I do not plan to let it go to waste. I understand now, the beauty she held for the Nine Worlds..." Cyra softly states.
Infinite in mysteries of the worlds, lives holding countless possibilities. One of the land meeting another of the heavens, adventures of greatness. Happiness for a bit, sorrow coming in their parting. Torment throughout the years, seeking answers. Wanting times of yore, cruelness of the realms. Life most unpredictable, grimness in one moment, bliss in the next. Her mother loving the possibilities, lives slowly progressing. Despair coming, but with it joyfulness for another. Selfishness of demons, wanting in maintaining it for themselves. Yet understandable it is, every existence desiring the same. Standing on her side, directing a revolver at Alastor. Those eyes of azure and crimson clashing, both a step closer. A Tyrant, one residing in the depths of blackness. Cyra, an abomination upon the Nine Worlds. No matter the morrow, no matter the sorrow, that young woman continuously trying to breakthrough to a brighter morrow.
"She loved the realms...that stabbed her in the back, proceeding with her reason. Though, you will learn that true power is superior to such ideals..." Alastor calmly declares, sheathing his sword.
"We will see about that."
"You may have begun awakening to your power. Though, so long as you continue to resist it, then all hope is lost. Embrace the state of pride." Unsheathing his blade, a massive shockwave rushing towards Cyra.
Stories in reflection to the other, both falling from greatness. Sinking into the depths of despair, one refusing in relenting. Her heart of softness, hatred of deepness. Unnerving of her power, embracing actuality as herself. Force of immensity racing towards her, that crushing energy. Extending her hand forward, that assault colliding. Resisting the impact, directing it upward. That shockwave flying above, dispersing into the void of endlessness. A decision in conclusion, one going through with it. A battle between two devils, an alternative not of an option. Her vision locking on, her arm motioning onward.
"Father, it is time to lay everything to rest. Here and now!" she fires a shot at Alastor.
Negativity bursting through, that force scarring the land. Those eyes of the Tyrant meeting the opportunity, his body dematerializing. Moving around the assault, approaching the young woman. Shedding her physical form, two mighty powers clashing throughout the air. Heaviness and precision with each one, shockwaves trailing the void. Hearts meeting on the battlefield, blackness over the years. Hatred at the depths, feelings flowing free. Selfishness guiding the way, reason in pushing forward. Irrationality of the path, those of similarity. Attacks stopping below, vision glaring at the other. A revolver at the head of the Tyrant, his blade at the neck of the halfbreed.
"Not bad Cyra, you have improved a lot." Alastor commending.
"There may be a lot of things I reject in my life, but never once have I rejected my blood." She calmly speaks.
Softness of the devil, despising weaponry. Rejection of numerous occurrences, her blood constantly carrying with her. A connection to her past, that opportunity in reaching her father. Two at the depths of blackness, tides of harshness. Influences of grandness, persistence of both. An entity of superiority steadily approaching, the Day of Ruin of her fault. That devil born underneath the light of the crimson moon, one signaling her presence. An object never fading, that maiden loathing it. Facing actuality as herself, dangling on the edge of oblivion. That Tyrant faintly smiling, memories returning to the demon, his child reminding him of Reynas. A goddess no longer there, her resolve existing in their child.
"Heh."
Blood of a divine and that of a devil, that maiden growing in a realm of lawlessness. Never knowing of her mother, years down the line, that information to her knowledge. Aligning herself as a demon, this of naturalness. Emotions of deepness, selfishness guiding the way. Lowering their weapons, stepping away from the other. A battle far from a conclusion, guard of highness. Both gazing upon the other, awaiting the first movement. Those eyes of the Tyrant trailing her action, Lævateinn extending. Bearing witness to the sight, malevolence enveloping the weapon. Hearing the crying of his old sword, watching the blade extending like a scythe. The back scaling in blackness, crimson shimmering from the steel. Proudness he is experiencing, that young woman developing much faster these days. Infinite in potential, one refusing in embracing it in her younger days. Necessity within it, shouting her soul. Born from a goddess and a devil, an abomination to countless.
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"Well done, discovering the restriction state of Lævateinn." He complements.
A weapon of oldness, weakness of the past. Softness over the years, his daughter affecting it. Her reluctance of battling, its power fading. Numerous years going by, remaining faithful. Trials at hand, malevolence strengthening it. Emerging once more, rising in meeting the challenge. Closeness of its companion, pleasantry over the passing time. Her vision on the demon sword, certain knowledge between her father and it. That weapon crying out, trying to reason with him. Painfulness of greatness, that scythe yearning for times of yore. Sky once so blue, wind of freedom. Everything falling apart, torturous experiences.
"Apologies old friend, but your job still stands—"
An order from times so long ago, unsettling feelings. Rage feverishly extending, fearfulness of his hands. Sorrowfulness of greatness, a trembling heart. Partners during his glory days, two tackling the harshest of challenges. Exhilaration in those times, his life of simpleness coming. Blissfulness for a bit, agony shortly entering. That demon sword losing its power, passiveness of Cyra. Frustrations at first, holding true to its instruction. Time going by, that maiden growing on it. That child maturing, reflecting both her mother and father, coordination of impressiveness. An entity capable of turning the smallest chance into an actuality, that resolve of the Tyrant. Confusion of the maiden, Lævateinn still reacting to her father after numerous years. Wishing for the Tyrant in returning, those experiences of pleasantness.
"Protect her from everyone, including me." Alastor states more seriously.
A Tyrant falling into the pits of despair, unleashing a weapon of terribleness. Struggling with his role as a father, a defense for his child. Those eyes of the halfbreed slightly widening, reason for the inheritance. Sensibleness of it, giving up one of nearness to protect her. Events connecting, some still eluding her. Light of smallness, this ray shining its path inside of the blackest of abyss. Two withstanding its cruelness, the shaking of the void. That beast awakening with each passing moment, unwillingness of devils in relenting. Extending his blade, locking onto his daughter. Noticing his action, bracing herself. His foot slightly turning, her eye catching it. Both rushing at the other, her scythe moving around the Tyrant. Hearts beating in sync, pressure of immensity crushing down. Howling of the void, determination of grandness. Witnessing her approaching weapon, instantly sweeping his blade in an uppercut.
Hitting away the weapon, a powerful impact crashing against her. Slightly pulling back, holding her ground. Her father in awareness on every strength and weakness of the demon sword, two working together at one point. That young woman dashing away, Alastor giving chase. Placing away her weapon, drawing both her revolvers, firing at the Tyrant. Negativity bursting through, approaching Alastor. His vision scanning the numerous assaults, motioning his blade. Striking at it, colliding into the force. An explosion of massiveness rushing into the void, that maiden stopping from a distance. Closely looking onward, a figure within the smoke. Stepping back, unease from her expression. Her father readying himself, that devil extending Lævateinn. Dashing towards him, Alastor meeting her in kind. Approaching the other, malevolence crushing down on her. Sweeping the scythe along the ground, rendering her surroundings asunder. Both mighty entities fiercely clashing once again, their unrelenting vision.
"You still use Lævateinn as if its a toy, you never change." Alastor speaks a bit harshly.
"Perhaps old habits die hard!" she strongly answers.
Breaking away from the other, circling one another. Clashing throughout the area, matching the other step for step. Illness of feelings towards her father for years, unable in reaching in times of yore. Distancing herself from him, meeting another of firmament. His sorrowfulness growing, intruding upon her happiness. Despair setting in, a test subjecting her to torturous experiences. Unforgiving of it, a promise to her mother. Understanding more, wanting in trying again. Collisions matching, shockwaves in each direction. His daughter showing promise, realms drawing closer to an ending, results not enough.
"If you won't get serious Cyra, then I will!"
Limitations of the past, gentleness to his own. Cruelness towards her, simpleness to countless. Unwillingness in relenting, loneliness in blackness. That daughter diving to the depths, resisting tides of harshness. Confronting her father at the base, two meeting on the battlefield once more. None able in interfering, a conflict between demons. Negativity grabbing hold of the Tyrant, her vision slightly widening. Dashing away, witnessing a storm of malevolence wildly raging. That influence extending above, feeling it crushing down at her. Emission of intensity, that power crashing against her.
"Ugh!"
Skidding back upon her feet, her vision of uneasiness. Gathering herself for a moment, gazing onward. Flames of blackness fading from her father, that devil standing there. Skin in relation to the night, blood red eyes. Six black feathery wings spreading from his back, that demon of seriousness. Once a Tyrant of greatness, bringing ruin to his enemies. Confronting a goddess of highness, suffering defeat. Unlocking his potential years later, challenging her once more. Defeat at her once again, those tears in her eyes. The strictness in her voice, his foolishness. Nearness of their bond, assuring her it is the last test between them. Taking her elsewhere, embracing in their new life.
"So this is...father's true power..." Tension rising within her.
A promise between two, years going by. Competitiveness leading to closeness, his own foolishness in pushing. Mistakes of the past, her forgiving heart. A demon seeking heights far above his standing, realizing he has everything. Those of the devils embracing the battlefield, others of highness despising it. A division between them, one opposing reason, another embracing it. Meeting on common ground, opening numerous possibilities. That maiden stepping away, uncertainness on the situation. Never facing this state, her father's true form. Pressure of immensity crushing her, her quivering heart.
Shaking away those doubtful feelings, dashing towards the Tyrant. Time slowing to her senses, uncertainty on the reason. Feeling her father in front of her, looking down. Her widening eyes, devastation from her. His blade within her chest, his speed of grandness. Looking ahead, Lævateinn falling to the ground. That weapon hitting against the floor below, crying out. Gazing at her father, seeing those familiar eyes of his. Coldness of disappointment, a child unable in performing. Everything instantly flipping, feelings of illness building inside of her. From deep within, negativity tearing away at her.
"Are you going to continue to seclude that power of yours?" he coldly questions.