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Angel Hunt Throughout the Years...
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It is everywhere.
He is saturated in it.
With every new stroke he takes, it seeps onto his skin, splashing up from wounds he creates and spilling from holes he tears –unstaunched in its flow. It is sickening and he hates being defiled by it, though his hatred of them is greater.
The Demon tears through them so easily. His elongated blade cutting through their bodies as if they are made of nothing, their broken forms falling one by one. Their screams echo throughout the temple, their pitiful cries for mercy falling on deaf ears.
Another dies by his hand, the terror in those clear crimson eyes reflected in his crazed own. He laughs wildly as a head slides from its neck before he turns to the rest scrambling so desperately to get away.
This is what they wished for, was it not?
They wanted form. They wanted this solidity.
This is form. This pain is solidity.
He will make them see what he sees. He will make sure they feel what he feels. He will show them the true meaning of form and its true sacrifice. He will extract his pound of flesh and then he will take even more.
They run from him in terror, his own people fleeing from his harsh lessons and begging for a stay when he plans none. Their flight is futile. He has sealed the temple. The city is closed by his own new hands. There is no escape from what he desires to teach them and he will show them no mercy because they have shown him none in return.
He kills them one by one with the very sword they have forced upon him, that they bonded to his new flesh and tied to his soul. This sword that was meant to subdue and enslave has now become the tool of their destruction and he wields it expertly. He is judge, jury, and executioner, their sentence carried out with the swiftest of hands.
He will see them suffer. They deserve to suffer. For their crimes against him, not one of them deserves life.
They have forced him into this shell despite his protests, taken from him the freedom he has always known and caged him like an animal in a vessel of flesh. Every movement is painful, every step, every touch excruciating, maddening with its confines. He will show them the pain they have caused him. He will force it upon them in the same way they have forced it upon him. He will kill every last one of them for what they have done. They have taken his freedom so he will take theirs in retribution, then he will kill all the others who call themselves his own.
This sword he is bonded to, this vessel he now resides in is both their gift and his curse and he will ensure that with their last, dying breaths, they carry the unimaginable depths of his agony imprinted on their very souls.