Description: The Mad Dog, keen for a good battle, hunts down the top rated challenger of the World Warrior tournament to declare war.
Many of the most dangerous cartels in the world keep their bases out of sight, buried away in deep mountain caverns or hidden in plain sight as modern office buildings. The 'R' Organization has never conducted business that way. From the time it was built decades ago, the arms trader at the heart of the criminal empire has openly demonstrated his lack of fear by dwelling on a massive aircraft carrier that is none too hard to find thanks to the modern marvel of satellite imagery.
Yet, in spite the bold statement such an egregiously obvious sea worthy fortress represents, the tyrant of 'R' has been left almost entirely alone all these years. Too well armed to be taken on by anything less than a First World military, the Black Noah is largely immune to feeble coast guard efforts, able to defend itself from the air with its own sortie of well equipped, modern fighters, and from the sea with its imposing array of naval canons lining every side. Cutting edge torpedo defense weapons have been built into the hull, capable of detecting and defusing the waterborne missiles with ease. And there are hardly any depth charges in existence strong enough to penetrate the thick, armored underbelly of the great steel beast.
And of course, there is the other matter - arranged near the command and control structure, with several more hidden beneath the surface of its incredible length under automated access panels that can be deployed with but a command... missile silos, each bearing powerful intercontinental ballistic missiles. Even if sufficient military force was brought to bear on Rugal Bernstein's personal floating citadel, the collateral damage that would be inflicted on opposing nations would be catastrophic.
Thus the largest armed vessel ever created sails the seas without risk of assault, even as it drifts into more populated waters... like it is today, miles off the northern cost of Germany, situated between the island nation of Britain and the large peninsula that is Denmark. Military vessels and coast guard craft have been deployed to keep a watch on the Black Noah's activities, as has been done countless times before, but just like most other sightings of the imposing vessel, there is an uneasy understanding that as long as no one gets trigger happy, there will be no shots fired from either side of the long distance stalemate.
To look up on the expansive flight deck of the Black Noah, lined with aircraft of all sizes, types, and armaments, is to get an inkling of the kind of wealth that flows through the 'R' Organization. Almost every Third World nation has dealings with the Lord of War or his minions, and even some First World nations have, in secret, utilized his vast resources to arm interests in territories that were officially 'hands off'.
A little while ago, a single helicopter took off, flying over to the mainland itself. Those tracking such things would identify that its destination was Castle Strolheim. Its return trip is timely, suggesting the visit was not a terribly long one, the nimble aircraft touching back down on on the helicopter landing pad near the command and control tower not long after.
The business concerning World Warrior resolved, perhaps it is time for the Black Noah to begin the laborious process of moving out to more open waters. Even in this vast ocean expanse, things can feel a bit claustrophobic for the floating stronghold...
One of the last people to get a watch was Azrael. A rather tense confrontation followed, before he was given fairly simple instructions. If he wants to taste the true strength of Krauser, without limit, without restraint, earn it with this little game. Ultimately, he's not in a rush to complicate matters by starting a fight that the Strolheim heir won't commit to. And there's plenty of others to sample in the list, first and foremost. All he did was figure out the person highest on the list, and then turn the clock in to find them.
For a few days, he's simply followed it, across great forests, along mountain ranges, day and night. His pace moderate, hardly rushing things even though his arrival to the grand castle did not satiate him in the slightest. And now, as light begins to dim within the broad sky overhead, he finally reaches the edge of the German shore, coming to a stop as the frothing waves splash over his boots.
Lifting up the watch, he peers at the arrow, then towards the distant aircraft carrier. He can feel it, even from here.
A worthy meal.
But, distance is ever the annoying factor. His neck rolls to the left and right, blue hair cascading about as he ponders lazily the best option. Before he turns, taking in a large number of craggy boulders, some twice the size of Azrael himself. Shoulders slowly rotate as he approaches one of them, sizing it up carefully.
"Enchant Dragunov... RELEASE!!"
The air seems to blacken abruptly, as his tattoos all shine blindingly bright crimson. Arms spread open, the ground shaking beneath him and kicking up a gradually expanding crash of waves that conflict with the natural flow of the ocean. Clouds overhead dissipate and then an invisible burst of force warbles out, blowing them to the horizon in the wake of his unshackled power. After a long number of seconds the last of the tattoos fully vanishes, and a purple aura roars around him, burning like a cloak of fire. Eyes burning bright crimson, grin spreading wide. Rugal himself would keenly feel this without difficulty, to say the least.
And then his stance spreads, one hand thrusting into his pocket. The other reaches out, splayed fingers planted on the boulder. Clenching in as stone cracks... before effortlessly he hefts it up, revealing a good two meters of the angular rock had been heavily lodged into the sloughed sand, rapidly filling up with water.
He then twists, taking in the sight of the distant ship.
...Ten seconds later, there's a gargantuan splash bursting up about twenty meters from the Black Noah. All alert systems say nothing of missiles or shells; only wild alerts of motion proximity, indicating that large projectiles are hurtling in from the shore. Not long after, another whirls across the bow, wind blowing heavily in it's wake before it shatters on the ocean far beyond.
The third one, however, is another matter entirely. The wildly spiraling rock, trailed by a few lumps of stone, would slam into the frontal hull. Unless otherwise dealt with, it would shatter into a thousand pieces, shaking the entire ship and denting even that reinforced hull slightly. And definitely proving...
Yes. Someone is throwing rocks at the Black Noah.
From miles away.
...And managing enough aim to hit it.
Though much of the Black Noah's internal structure is below decks, the massive command and control tower near the center of the carrier houses many of the finer accommodations to be found throughout the vessel. This evening, as the sun draws near to setting beyond the horizon, the Lord of War, Rugal Bernstein, sits in an exquisitely decorated parlor situated along one of the sides of the command superstructure. Crimson rugs with golden embroidery offset the polished dark wood walls lined with priceless works of art. Framed paintings are spaced along the long wall, while glass and wood display cases house other artifacts acquired from around the world.
The other wall is a series of large, bay windows that open out over the ocean, giving the lone diner an almost unobscured view of the northern coast of Europe. At the head of the table, Rugal sits comfortably in a tall chair, a meal only the world's wealthiest can hope to afford arrayed out before him. The steak, served bloody, has been aged for decades, stored in a specially prepared chamber for such purposes down below deck before being prepared by a master chef. Its equivalent if purchased in a restaurant would cost thousands of dollars per serving. The red wine half-filling the glass goblet next currently held in the warlord's hand runs over ten thousand dollars a bottle, selected from the extensive wine cellar located elsewhere on the ship.
Opera music plays through hidden speakers, drowning out the endless thrum of the massive nuclear powered engines deep in the belly of the steal monstrosity that is the Black Noah. Just like most other nights, the man dines alone. Now and then, his daughter, Rose, apple of his eye, will join him. But Adelheid... the boy had other ambitions. He would come when called, and go where he was told. But he also prized his distance... he was stubborn, like his father, even if he lacked the man's legendary temper. He needed his independence.
Dressed in bold red dress slacks, a black cummerbund at his waist, and a finely pressed, form fitting white button up dress shirt over his torso, the man samples a sip of wine before placing it on the long wooden table in front of him. Dinner time for the leader of 'R' was a sacred hour where he was not to be disturbed. Each evening, his personal chef would have to rise up to the challenge of presenting a meal befit a king, and each time, the monarch of the sea would sit in solitude, contemplating the music, his world spanning criminal empire, and the next direction to go in order to move one step toward his ultimate goal.
World Warrior was a distraction, to be sure, but one he allowed himself. It was not often worthy warriors would so readily gather. The previous tournament had been a bemusing spectacle, won by an unheard of karate user with a cheap shot, if dangerous blow against the tournament host and expected champion, Sagat. This World Warrior... this promised to be something else all together. It promised to be interesting.
A fork is taken to the steak. With his strength and the tenderness of the meat, no knife is even necessary to cut into the delectable cut of meat. But in the process of severing off a portion for consumption, the man no nation will claim pauses, his head turning to the left to gaze out across the ocean toward the shore.
The first boulder comes in, falling shy, landing with a massive splash of disturbed ocean water. Immediately, a man in black military garb, armed with an assault rifle slung over his back, body armor, and an arsenal of other weapons rushes into the room, standing at attention the instant he crosses the threshold.
Rugal makes no reply, his mind perhaps racing at the implications of what just happened. How many men alive could possibly accomplish such a feat? Below his finely trimmed mustache, his mouth curls into a faint frown. The second boulder flies wide, visible as it passes over the flight deck into the ocean beyond.
"Let us answer our guest... use the thirty centimeter."
The man steps into the hall, barking orders into his radio. On the side of the ship, one level below the flight deck, a massive turret turns, long, three smooth bore guns aiming back toward the shore. The third boulder sends a shudder throughout the ship. If the projectile had been a true warhead of that size, it would have easily punctured clean into the internal structure of the ship. As-is, it leaves an unsightly dent in the hull.
A thunderous noise is heard throughout the Black Noah as one of the guns fires its three hundred millimeter shell right back to shore, targeting the originating point of the hurled boulders. Firing such a shot toward sovereign territory is tantamount to declaring war, but all monitoring parties know that the single shot bombardment is going to fall short of landing anywhere of remotely strategic importance. Captains and commanders in the surrounding nations all hold their breath, waiting to see if an order to strike the unassailable Black Noah is going to come down from the higher ups from this unexpected chain of events!
The air roars with the thunder of the returned shot. Crimson eyes watch the arc as the shot whirls towards his general vicinity. It lands with a great explosion some meters to his left, sending huge plumes of sand, water, and broken rock spiraling up high into the air. Heat and flame whirl across the figure, leaving his white clothing shredded and blackened slightly, but with no apparent damage despite the potholed sand all around him. Nobody normal could have survived that proximity, and the binoculars probably confirm that readily enough.
"Heh... so we're playing like that, are we?"
And then he moves. Blurring forward a few dozen meters, his foot steps down on the water. Then again. In a bizarre mirage, he begins hurtling forward at an incredible speed. Each footstep sends water exploding up behind him in great mists, long white coat whirling behind his shoulders, grin manic and crimson eyes narrowed.
He reaches the side of the Black Noah, kicking up and then reaching out. Fingers grip into the armored hull, deforming it measurably before using it as a handhold to haul himself straight upwards. A meteor of tanned flesh and alabaster cloth, whirling past the deck.
For a moment he seems to hang in the air, before purple energy seethes around both of his fists. He then descends towards the gun that first fired on him, whirling himself down in a massive hammerblow.
A great explosion of dark, twisted energy would rocket out around him from the strike, liable to crack the glass of Rugal's interrupted meal room.
From the whirls of smoke kicked up, booted feet stride forward upon the surface of the Black Noah, the Mad Dog opening his arms wide and invitingly. "Come on... all of you at once. It's nothing special for me to take down one battleship...!!"
Standing at his window, Rugal is able to witness the entire affair. In his right hand is the glass goblet of wine, the blood red fluid swishing about the cup as he swirls it in his hand idly. The technological wonder that is his right eye allows him to perceive the shore, now that he is paying attention, zooming in far greater than hand held binoculars could ever hope to...
The events play out as ordered. The flash of fire and smoke of the long gun. The explosion on the shore several seconds later. And the movement of one who should have been obliterated as he surges across the ocean at inhuman speed toward the off-shore vessel.
The test passed, tyrant's curiosity is piqued. He could check his watch, go through the effort to determine if the reckless soul that rushes toward his ship is one of the World Warrior contenders.
But frankly, he simply doesn't care. Another sip of wine as the blurring image of a powerfully built man closes in too fast for most to have any hope of perceiving by sight alone. The intruder leaps up, deforming thick steel with muscle power alone. Finally, the leaping, destructive punch into the turret that had been used to fire at him only moments before, utterly ruining the thickly armored compartment, cannons bent in various directions, and the turret itself all but flattened.
The shockwave blasts through the thick glass lining the room and a moment later, Rugal finds himself enjoying the fresh scent of the ocean as it rushes in through the now vacant openings. The wine glass that had been in his hand is no more, his fingers clutching only the remaining stem while sanguine fluid drips down over the back of his hand.
A servant that had been waiting in the back corner rushes forward, "My lord," he murmurs, a white cloth produced immediately as he begins running it over Rugal's hand, cleaning the wine from it.
"My coat." Rugal replies, his voice a deep rumble.
Moments later, the servant returns with the long suit coat and a portable stool which he places at Rugal's back, stepping up onto it to allow the large man to slide his arms into it. A thin, black scarf is hung around his neck beneath the collar of the coat as Bernstein turns at last, the shouts of the new arrival audible through the open window.
Striding toward the doorway leading further into the structure, a pair of leather, fingerless gloves are pulled from his coat pockets and drawn over his hands, left first, then right, tugged snuggly into place.
Meanwhile, on the deck, soldiers, well trained and armed, are rushing Azrael. Some are clearly intending to be a front line to hold the monster of a man at bay, while others stand behind, leveling assault rifles and firing off controlled bursts, hell bent on gunning down Azrael until they hear otherwise.
At six and a half feet tall, and powerfully built, Rugal Bernstein is an imposing man around most. But it isn't just his stature that commands respect, but the aura of confidence, the fearlessness with which he moves. He is on deck a moment later, his long coat tails and thin black scarf swaying in the ocean wind.
"Welcome to the Black Noah." the man remarks, indifferent to the plight of any of the mercenaries that have tried to take Azrael on in the meantime.
"You have my attention."
The rest of the forces out on the ocean remain where they're at. The single shot fired could have sparked off a much larger conflict and already news outlets throughout Europe are getting the word out. But for now, the other nations' forces have decided to wait it out and see what happens. After all, the Black Noah was just boarded by a man who survived a close proximity explosion of a 30 centimeter naval shell... maybe things will simply sort themselves on the ship without further involvement or collateral damage!
With a raise of his hand, Rugal calls off any further attempts to commit suicide-by-Azrael, the soldiers standing down and backing off.
There's a wild laugh from Azrael as he does his gruesome work. Currently, he is operating at his maximum; body shimmering with an intense purple aura, sufficient to deflect those bullets before they even get close enough to test his flesh. Brutal impacts slam into mercenaries and guards, yet not sufficient to kill them. Leaving them half-alive and desperate, presenting to them a great force of nature. Unstoppable. Irrevocable.
A strange aura seeps out. The instinct of a true apex predator; one that would seethe like needles into the deepest of instincts, to instill fear. Make one feel like little more than pray. For it's only when someone is fighting for their lives is his appetite truly whetted. He does not even respond to Rugal's presence, hefting up one of the mercenaries by the throat as the rest billow back at that word.
Wild eyes shift to Rugal, before the held man pulls out a .45 from his holster and hefts it up, discharging a single round. The Mad Dog whirls downwards, dodging it despite his eyes not looking towards the source of attack. A moment later he slams the figure down, slightly bowing the dense floor. There's no hope for even a trained man of his equipment to survive. Yet it wasn't done in sadism; he simply doesn't know his own strength.
"Your men made a good appetizer..." Azrael nearly purrs, standing upright once more. Many bullet holes tear through his outfit, although his body remains unmarked. Glowing purple, shimmering as if he was emanating some great heat. The air beyond seems unnaturally black, the pressure of this unshackled monster incredible to say the least.
"But I didn't come here for their ship. Or their lives. Just you..." He glances at his hand, only now realizing the blood that spattered upon it. Bringing it up, his tongue laps the crimson off, before fingers flex into a fist.
Perhaps Rugal expected some further conversation. An explanation of why he just boarded the vessel. Who he is. Instead, there's a burst of air as he abruptly manifests before the God of the Underworld, leaving a dense footprint where he left the broken man. Without hesitation, he rears back his foot, both hands shifting back into his coat pockets. His heel erupts out, kicking towards Rugal's chest with monstrous force. There is no technique here. Not the slightest hint of finesse. Only raw speed, pure reflexes, and an ungodly strength that puts the avatar of destruction likely near Rugal's own, despite the man's legendary ability and Orochi-laced veins.
COMBATSYS: Azrael has started a fight here.
COMBATSYS: Rugal has joined the fight here.
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Rugal 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 Azrael
COMBATSYS: Azrael successfully hits Rugal with Quick Smash.
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Rugal 0/-------/----===|==-----\-------\0 Azrael
Even before the Tyrant of 'R' reaches conversational range with the mobile natural disaster, data streams into his awareness, filling him in on this unexpected 'guest.' Within minutes of having returned to the carrier, his own team of hackers had cracked into the World Warrior tracking watch and hooked up a stream for to route a duplicate copy of all data coming in out of Krauser's toy. Though he has yet to manipulate the device hidden beneath the cuff-link closed white sleeve of his shirt, his men have been busy, flipping through different tracking options, trying to narrow down which other World Warrior GUID can be found within proximity. All discoveries are then transfered to the tiny piece of NESTS technology embedded into his skull - a replacement for Goentiz's toll inflicted decades in the past.
Mad Dog Azrael. The Cannibal. A terrorist without a cause. All traces of his activity end a few years prior. It had been a shame when his unstoppable tour of destruction had come to an end, Rugal Bernstein had thought. In him existed the promise of a legitimate, compelling challenge. And now he is on the move again. Whatever would have stalled him for so long must make for an interesting story, but it isn't one the Lord of War cares about in the slightest.
As he draws nearer, the wind from the sea pales in comparison to the gale force pressures radiating out from the devil in scorched white, Rugal's coat and scarf blown backward from the aura washing over him. Many had come to challenge him over the years. His reputed perfection in fighting technique drew in several who had hoped to make a name for themselves. Most had disappointed. And the rest?
Deep within the ship is the Reliquary of Legends, the vault of bronze statues where those who impressed will remain honored for as long as this massive fortress at sea continues to exist.
"Mn," Rugal observes as Azrael speaks of his appetizer, a little something to get him warmed up for the meal he has come all this way for. Bernstein had wondered if any other than Krauser himself would prove interesting within the warriors that gathered at Strolheim. Standing in the murderous aura broiling over the deck of his ship now, he knows there is no doubt.
"Indeed." he answers when Azrael says he came for him, a faint smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.
By now, all of the 'R' soldiers - those capable of moving, at least, have retreated, backing away, not in a strategic withdrawal, but rather a mad scramble to put distance between them and the two monsters contending for the title of World Warrior. Loyalty, job security, and umbrage at the audacity of this freak of nature that just teleport dashed across the ocean to get here obviously strongly biases who they hope comes out ahead in this conflict, but it is already beyond obvious that nothing they do could possibly influence the outcome in the slightest.
Rugal is certainly standing facing Azrael when the other man bursts into his personal space, so it would be fair to say that it wasn't an ambush from behind that delivered the opening strike. Sure, his arms may not have been raised to the ready, though with the library of fighting styles known to him, it's difficult to say what, precisely, a ready stance would look like from him anyway.
No, Azrael attacks openly, appearing within range to slam his leg out in a basic kick, delivered with cruise missile speed and bone pulverizing force. Bernstein is struck clean in the chest, his six and a half foot tall form sent sliding back along the deck until he slams into the thick, armored exterior of the command and control tower hard enough to send a loud echo throughout the section of the ship, as if it had just been struck by artillery fire.
A normal fighter would already be dying or dead. Bodies simply weren't built to survive an impact like that. Well, most of them at least.
Instead, as Rugal leans away from the wall, still quite clearly on his own to feet, the man laughs. Now THIS was a challenge! Calmly, he strides back toward Azrael, seeming to intend to approach in an entirely different manner than the crushing blow that had forced him back.
"Well, well, well," he muses. "What do we have here..."
A rhetorical question, one posed as his left foot comes down for his next step, before he simply... vanishes. Unless prevented, he would dash clean by Azrael at speeds impossible for most to track, executing in passing a series of chi laced hand strikes and sweeping, instantaneous kicks.
The manifestations of energy, though too quick for most to see, are crimson hued, and razor sharp - a form of bladed chi unique to the Bernstein family line.
He would reappear just beyond Azrael an instant later, spinning to reach out with his right hand, a powerful arm seeking to slam the Mad Dog from behind, grabbing him at the neck, and driving him face down into the deck of the Black Noah!
COMBATSYS: Azrael fails to interrupt Vanishing Rush from Rugal with Seismic Impact.
- Power fail! -
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Rugal 0/-------/-======|==-----\-------\0 Azrael
A sane man would drive forward. Capitalize on the advantage that is the unthinkable; managing an opening gambit against Rugal Bernstein himself. Those who wish him dead would likely prefer to drop a nuke upon him, as opposed to any foolish notions such as honor that involve the nearly suicidal mindset of trying to beat the R' head straight on. But Azrael's stance merely spread, billowing out his own coat as both arms stretch out, fingers curled and expression inviting. "Not bad... I can play with you and not hold back, after all!!"
He's waiting. Allowing Rugal to strike back. This isn't a man who's after winning, in any traditional sense... whatever the Mad Dog desires is something deeper, more visceral, more basic.
Yet that shooting forward... crimson eyes snap, seeing Rugal clearly. Ducking down, his fingers sink into the wood and steel deck of the ship. His arm tenses, veins bulging out, as he lets out a manic laugh. But... the armor is much tougher than he expected. This improvisation was not based on thoughts, or planning. A split moment after Rugal slithers past, a massive hunk of twisted girders and polished wood is flicked up where he was just approaching, the veritable wall of debris bounding madly towards a group of soldiers. Then, crimson flashes rush over his torso, staggering him backwards into the grip of Rugal's hand.
Down he goes, slammed into the unrelenting deck. Now he should be stunned. Staggered. Rugal should--
With absolutely no hesitation, Azrael rises. Massive back bursting straight up, laugh echoing like thunder around the pair as the black aura seems to grow denser. Visible flashes and cracks of purple energy boil within, whirling around to face Rugal head on. His clothing is much more damaged, but there's no scar, no mark, of the assault just levied against him.
His aura has shifted, his stamina has gone down, but... Nothing that Rugal has seen would ring as 'human'. The way it feels hitting him. Trying to hurt him. Some force of nature, might be the closest approximation.
"GOOD... Just like that...!! If you can't do at least that much, this wouldn't be WORTH MY TIME!!"
The speed with which Rugal had moved in advancing on Azrael leaves a vacuum of air closing in behind him. The force is such that when the Black Noah's commander turns to slam the Mad Dog against the deck by the neck, his coat and scarf flair out behind him, driven by the rush of air filling the void. At six and a half feet tall, the Lord of War stands slightly shorter than his opponent, but the difference in inches is irrelevant when he smashes the man's head into the armored deck of his fortress at sea.
Standing back up from his one armed body slam, he takes a step forward, clearly intending to take advantage of a downed foe. There is no question of honor here, only winners and losers, hunters and prey. But as his left hand snaps out intent on snatching up the beast of a man into an iron grip, Azrael acts first, rising to his feet as if nothing had happened to him at all.
The sight of the Mad Dog with nary a scratch after suffering an assault that could cripple the vast majority of so-called fighters in the world is enough to give the veteran of numerous battles pause.
Elsewhere, 'R' soldiers scatter, a few slowest to react finding themselves crashed into by flying debris so casually torn free from a deck designed to withstand the large caliber naval shells ever engineered. Some of the girders crash into parked jets, fueled and ready as they always are while on the flight deck, and one of the damaged aircraft explodes into a high ball of flame giving the black-uniformed soldiers even more cause to give wide clearance to the bout between the two demons.
Azrael's aura alone would suffocate most, paralyzing lungs, stopping their heart, as their central nervous system shut down under the otherworldly pressure. But it is the state of the man's undamaged flesh that has captured Bernstein's focus, his mind already racing at the ramification of such.
Rugal is used to battling men. Occasionally he has found monsters powerful enough to be worth his full focus. He has even fought the self-proclaimed mad thunder god. And throughout all those battles, one supposition always rang true: Even Gods bleed...
Did this creature say something about not having to hold back?
"There seems to be a misunderstanding here," Rugal's voice is just shy of being a growl. Azrael's apparent lack of visible damage is momentarily more interesting to him than the reckless disregard of someone who would board his ship without any idea who he was challenging!
"You're here to entertain ME!"
The moment he shouts, his fists ignite on fire, twin bursts of orange-red flame. And then he launches into Azrael.
Though the exact physique of the Orochi corrupted genius of combat is not easy to make out beneath his suit, he seems possessed of a perfect balance of broad shouldered upper body strength and powerful legs, clearly having not neglected any aspect of whatever physical training regimes the forty year old veteran master must maintain ritually.
And that perfected balance in strength and form comes into play as he swings in with a crushing right body blow, executed with the perfect form and finesse of a champion boxer. A left hook would follow, closer pounding into Azrael's broad, muscular chest.
But both opening, bone pulverizing strikes would pale compared to the third - a fierce, straight punch for Azrael's face, the flame on the man's fist detonating on impact. Every muscle in his body is driven into a punch that would kill an ox, legs, torso, shoulder, and arms moving in perfect unison. If he caves in this challenger's face and ends the fight now, he will be disappointed, without a doubt. But there will certainly be no remorse.
COMBATSYS: Rugal successfully hits Azrael with Fierce Punch.
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Rugal 0/-------/-======|====---\-------\0 Azrael
Fire blooms in a terrible halo behind Azrael, seeming to light him up like some kind of demon. He's not invincible; that would be a much more difficult problem. His stamina and energy stores are certainly reducing, but it doesn't seem to have any outward signs of being shown. Some might not even be able to detect it... this fighter could very well give the impression that he cannot be destroyed, although his strange resistance to damage cannot be understated. Automatic fire, Rugal's fierce attack, even a shell from the ship, all failed to do anything but singe and smolder his clothing.
"Hahahaha!! Good!! I like your eyes...! But you're not tenderized enough for me YET!!"
A single step is taken to close the gap. The fierce rush of the godslayer's fist strikes into Azrael's chest, fire singing his clothing to ash for a foot around. A great burst of power thrums out of his back, whirling across the deck as his tattered coat billows wildly.
Rugal's right arm rears back, slamming into his ribs. There's no attempt to guard -- a normal person's chest would shatter, sending splinters of bone into the heart and lungs. Another explosion of energy washes over him, for a brief second blinding him from sight...
And then Azrael's fist surges through, parting the momentary smokecloud as purple fire roars around it. Like some kind of missile, he aims to simply slug Rugal in the chest a second time, although the simplicity of the action belies the force behind it. A split second after, the air cracks loudly like thunder, as the sound barrier is shattered. A mild dent forms between the pair, sending nearby bodies flying away to be lost in the sea.
The Mad Dog stands tall, golden chi imprints upon his chest where Rugal's blows hit true, before slowly fading away to show unmarred flesh. His aura seems to pulse, that blackness deepening even further, the encroaching force of The Terror, the overwhelming intimidation of his bared soul, seeping even farther out.
He seems to be weakening... but also to be feeding? As if his damage, and the attacks he does himself, are being converted into something -- else. "Ahhh...!! I felt that one...! Glorious! Where have you been hiding from me all these years, Bernstein?!"
COMBATSYS: Rugal blocks Azrael's Leopard Launcher.
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Rugal 1/-------/=======|======-\-------\0 Azrael
The blows Bernstein smashes into Azrael's undefended body are utterly perfect in their execution. Precise, moving with a flawless delivery that maximizes a powerful physique, forward stepping momentum, timing, and reinforced with a fiercely intense assault of fiery chi, each strike could be a career ender for lesser fighters. And even among the elites of the world, they could hardly be shrugged off.
Yet after the third blow, Azrael's fist slams right back at Rugal with no apparent loss in speed or lack of that phenomenal striking power. The coat-clad tyrant responds immediately, his body pivoting to the right, his left hand smashing in with another straight on blow that collides with the Mad Dog's own attack head on.
The collision of punches is explosive, the exchange of forces burning away the left sleeve of Rugal's coat and shirt, revealing the powerful musculature of the man's arm. From between the two, a shock wave washes over the deck, the armored surface denting beneath their feet, bodies of the fallen sent flying, and a military assault chopper shoved careening over the edge of the flight deck into the ocean several decks below. Many of the men still standing too close to the battle of demons are shoved back or toppled over, some finding blood seeping from their ears or nostrils.
Rugal draws back his arm, muscle and bone throbbing even as the blood of an angry god begins knitting the damage back together beneath the surface. The skin along his forearm is torn and bloody, flesh pushed past the breaking point in absorbing the simple looking strike of the challenger. Already, the blood of an angry god begins to knit the damage, closing the smaller lacerations quickly enough to be perceived.
And yet, after all that, Azrael's body remains undamaged, his body unbroken, the flames of Rugal's strikes burning out and vanishing, leaving behind no evidence they had ever existed to burn into the body of The Cannibal.
And with that exchange, it becomes abundantly clear the Lord of War faces an opponent unlike anything he had ever seen before. Even architecting training equipment durable enough to survive Bernstein's exercise routines was not an easy task. Yet here was this body, presumably living, showing no signs of damage after all that? After his first attack, he believed the display to be some kind of artifice, a trick, or some form of defense executed so swiftly that in the frenzy of his assault, he had somehow not perceived it.
With his second, more controlled but no less brutal assault, he knows it is nothing of the sort. There appears to be no trick, as implausible as the idea clearly is. His cybernetic eye continues to stream a detailed report of the ever changing fight parameters. The information would be overwhelming and useless, if not also coupled with a mind capable of comprehending the significance of each detail. The physical nature of Azrael's body does appear to be entirely unharmed, but the energies empowering it are something else entirely. Unfathomable potential swirls about Azrael, not just in the in the form of a body possessing even more muscle mass than Bernstein, but in the energy fueling its every action.
"What are you?" the man demands. "How did you get this way?!"
Before him stands the closest thing he has seen to immortality - a physical form seemingly immune to damage. Not even the fabled Scrolls of Immortality were know to be able to deliver such divine invulnerability. A legend in their own right, the lost scrolls were said to reverse fate at the moment of inevitable death, but only one time each. Is this thing the byproduct of an artifact he had yet to uncover? Even the Thunder God, capable of drowning the world beneath his wrath, had not demonstrated such invulnerability. He too could bleed!
"Enough of this!"
If he could discover the secret of this monster's power, it could be the breakthrough he needed... is the heart of this thing's power the key to resurrection? Could he at last...
But to know, he needed to first break him. If there was a limit, he would find it. He would wrest the secrets from his shattered form.
Rugal steps in on Azrael, as if unmindful of the seething aura of dread pouring off him. His right leg scythes out as the crime lord launches off with his left. A massive, crescent swath of bladed chi the length of Rugal's leg moves with the savage impact as he rises off the deck.
His left leg smashes up next, bringing with it a second razor edged wake of chi crossing over the first to form an X of impossibly thin energy blades carving out from the assault. The signature technique of the Bernstein house, a demonstration of perfect execution blended with savage brutality.
Yes, he would carve into this creature pretending to walk as a man. He would see what was hidden within.
COMBATSYS: Azrael barely endures Rugal's Genocide Cutter EX+.
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Rugal 1/------=/=======|=======\=------\1 Azrael
"There's something in you... like a seasoning. Gives your flesh a little sizzle. Feeling it etch into my frame... it's the best!! You're strong enough, for damn sure. But... I can't get full if I'm just the one taking all the hits!!"
Everything about Azrael seems strange. The fact his net energy levels are the same might be most concerning, as if something beyond expected death could take place when the standard measures of stamina finally reach down to zero. Rugal's senses can determine he's winning, at least from his ability to rationally measure things. But the irreverence and lack of concern from the opponent is another matter entirely. Even the strongest people on the planet would acknowledge Rugal's threat, the situation they put themselves in from attacking his aircraft carrier so brazenly, but consequence appears entirely missing from the vision of this warrior.
"Oh...? Does it matter? Are we here to fight, or are we here to talk?" Azrael dismisses, flaring out his fingers and suddenly building up a small pinpoint of purple energy. For the first time, there's a ghost of skill. This is a move he's done many times in the past, as the Bernstein scion flows upwards in the most lethal and unique move in his repertoire. "Let's see if you BLEED... Black Hawk..." Whirling around, he exploses his broad back towards Rugal, completely undefended. To a standard opponent, the implication here is straightforward. But this conflict has gone on long enough for the likely conern of Rugal about what's forthcoming. The flare of purple power seems to mesh with the blackness as he prepares his own retaliation.
The first blade of energy rakes from hip to neck, bisecting the coat in half. Deep purple energy seems to cling like glue to that massive frame, as the blow cuts deeply into the deck past him. The second flashes out even more intensely, blowing into him with a great wave of force, the majority of his outfit billowing away in the aftermath. A literal sizzle hisses in his flesh, but it seems now that Rugal is striking him with such ferocity that unleashing those attacks is like impacting some great sponge or black hole, drawing it into himself in a way that seems...
Just as the black market king begins to descend, Azrael twists. He stamps forward, executing that unique teleport-like dash to close the minute gap. Rugal just blocked one of his punches, and may have thought that was as hard as the man could swing. This is something else; his whole form is whirling overhead with it, glowing fist aiming to collide directly with Rugal's face. That sudden rush of air and delayed CRACK roars out once more, intent on spiking Rugal like some meteor towards the far end of the aircraft carrier's expansive deck.
And, if it makes contact, a strange residue would linger behind. As if fear and menace made form infected Rugal's very soul, burning visibly upon his skin.
Visible plumes of that Orochi-laced power stream up from behind him, breath coming in deep pants as he no longer rises back up to his full stand. But the noise is pleasure, not pain, as once more the energy marks begin to fade away, if much slower. Is he reaching his limit, after eating a series of attacks that would plant most fighters already within their grave...?
COMBATSYS: Azrael successfully hits Rugal with Black Hawk Stinger.
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Rugal 1/-======/=======|-------\-------\0 Azrael
While the beast of a man Bernstein initially considered idle amusement has demonstrated an apparent imperviousness to damage and ruin, in matters of martial prowess, Rugal is clearly worlds ahead of the violent brute. Even from the hammering blows he has either withstood or defended against, he is aware that the Mad Dog's ability to deliver raw, furious force in a single blow exceeds even his own. Such intuition is reinforced by the data his cybernetic eye feeds him regarding Azrael's movements, how he strikes, and how little he tries to defend himself.
It immediately begs the question even gods would tremble to wonder - what if this sentient force of natural destruction actually honed his fighting skill? What if he came to understand how much more effective each blow would be if he perfected his striking techniques? The thought is enough to give even Rugal cause to pause.
Is this monster some kind of servant of Goenitz? The crazed preacher, still present in the world today, is the most powerful entity Bernstein has ever stood in the presence of. But his but a mouthpiece for an entity even stronger - the sealed god, who's drop of blood was enough to unlock new thresholds of might for the younger, ambitious tyrant of 'R'.
As the Lord of War delivers his brutal, merciless technique, landing body shattering kicks and carving into the space occupied by the incomprehensibly durable brute, he can already see that once again, the scything chi he wields masterfully fails to severe limb or bisect bone like it would against most of the opponents the world could possibly throw at him.
Bernstein descends from the air as Azrael twists back in on him, stepping across the space in an instant, pouring his apocalyptic strength into a chi infused spinning hammerblow. In spite his direct, barbaric simplistic nature of fighting, the speed Azrael unleashes into the attack more than compensates, turning what could have been a thoroughly transparent attack into a muscular mace of inevitability.
Rugal grunts, his face vanishing within the explosion of energy at the point of impact before he goes flying, never having had the chance to even land. The flutter of his bold red suit coat and trailing black scarf are the next seen of the crushingly impacted man. His trajectory back may have gone on for twice the distance if he didn't lean forward, his right hand clawing into the armored deck, causing a shrieking sound as he tears a groove into the surface, bringing himself to a halt several meters later.
He pauses for a moment before finally standing up. The color of his white shirt has been reduced to ash along with the thin black necktie he had worn. His right cheek is torn and bleeding just beneath his cybernetic eye and blood seeps from the man's mouth. A lingering essence clung to him, a manifestation of all the horror Azrael's presence would inflcit on any sane lifefrom taking on an almost tangible form. It too may be a clue.
"Did the Sealed God dispatch you into this world, monster?"
Rugal begins to walk forward, closing the distance with a confident stride in spite the blow he had just received, his voice a clear growl, his mind still sharp, his psyche actively battling the suppressive extract left by Azrael's last punishing blow.
"Come to collect his debt after all these years?"
He lunges into a forward dash, not quite to the almost invisible speed he had executed initially, but still faster than most trained fighters could possibly hope to react to... let alone untrained animals.
"It's too late now," Bernstein's deep voice rumbles, "I'm not the young man I was back then!"
He would aim to slam into Azrael, his right hand going for the man's throat in a bid to carry him by his neck and, with the momentum of his advance, slam him into the armored wall of the command and control superstructure.
"In the end, you will feed me!"
His left hand would spear its way toward Azrael's abdomen, the whole limb already laced with a vile, miasmic green energy that writhes over his arm like a living thing. If contact is made, Bernstein would feed, attempting to wrest no small amount of that power absorbed by the Mad Dog back into his own body!
COMBATSYS: Rugal successfully hits Azrael with Rugal Execution EX.
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Rugal 0/-------/-======|==-----\-------\0 Azrael
"Sealed God...? What the hell are you talking about? I've eaten so-called Gods before. They're nothing special..." Azrael flicks his hands, the feedback from merely striking someone of Rugal's level certainly massive. But his grin spreads a little farther, as those red eyes seem to darken further. "But I can feel it in you. A little spark of divinity. Like a parasite... is that why you're turning out to be such a fitting foe? I've never been pushed by someone this far in my entire life!!" A rather overt declaration that this man has not met many in the way of peers, even with the strange allusion that beings that consider themselves divine might have ended up on the wrong end of the Mad Dog.
"Come...!!" Rugal's hand lashes out, catching Azrael by the throat and driving him backwards. The motion's beginning and end finish before anyone else present truly comprehends the movement, whirls of air roaring in the vaccuum created by the incredible fighter's motion. A sizeable dent is slammed into the metal behind, and the impact does indeed slow Azrael for the first time in the fight. But it's like gripping deep within a dark void. The twisted strength and dark stamina drawn in is filled with some strange blackness, a hint that Rugal himself might find himself on the wrong end if he lingers too long... Unsurprisingly, his clawed fingers, despite the incredible sheathe of his Orochi-hardened power, only heavily dimples that iron flesh, not managing to pierce the skin...
And then Azrael moves. One massive hand shooting up to catch the one Rugal grips his throat with. His full power roars in a compressing grip, to twist and yank it aside. A moment later, Azrael slams out his forehead, to slam it right upon Rugal's face with abrupt, massive force...
And, if he manages, that lingering power would be launched into his very soul. Something he might have never felt in his life, physically or consciously. Fear. Prey. Like a thousand buzzing insects creeping up one's form, countless hooks and chains drawing down limbs and body with numb weight, amongst the concussive force launched behind.
His stamina's quite low now, but the power of his assaults has not abated in the slightest. "You eat me...?! Excellent!! I think you could, hahaha!! You're like me, Bernstein... a man with strength too high to ever be tested. Why do you waste it with these damn techniques and showy motions?! Who are you trying to impress? I want to see it!! I want to see the brutal desperation of a man pushed to the brink, relying only on the power in his own two FISTS, and nothing MORE!! That's how I want to live!! THAT'S HOW I WANT TO DIE!!"
COMBATSYS: Rugal endures Azrael's The Terror.
-@- Dazing Hit! -@-
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Rugal 1/----===/=======|====---\-------\0 Azrael
When The Cannibal speaks of knowing nothing of any Sealed God, there is no doubt in Bernstein's mind that he utters the truth. Only a craven maggot would spew forth lies on the sacred field of battle. If Azrael says he has consumed beings that call themselves gods before... then such must be the case. If he says he has never been pushed this far before - that all his incredibly monstrous existence has found him facing unsatisfying prey, then that is a sentiment the Lord of War can, in his own twisted way, empathize with.
How dull it is, at the top. A lifetime of perfecting every nuance of every known style of martial arts, and inventing a style all his own, and to what end? Where are the gods lurking? Where are the true challenges? Krauser promises as much, at least, an offer tantalizing enough to bring Rugal halfway around the world to the northern shores of Germany. Opportunities like this do not come along often.
The two grapple briefly, Azrael's back against the bulkhead of the thickly armored superstructure, Rugal's right hand at his throat, his left hand pressing in on the hardened, impenetrable abdominals of Azrael. Even without being able to pierce his flesh, without being able to discover what the color of this monster's blood is - or if he even possesses any at all - the Tyrant of 'R' is able to pull heavily from that infinite wellspring of power, siphoning off some of it into a burning aura of deep crimson so dark as to be just shy of ebony flame.
But the brutal hold is torn loose as Azrael breaks free, the tree truck think arm of Azrael tearing Bernstein's hand from his throat, leaving the crimelord open to a smashing headbutt directly into his face.
With a mighty crunch, Rugal staggers back, blood spilling from his nose. He whips his left arm, discarding the lingering putrid green energy against the deck with a unpleasantly wet splat. Sparks flicker in his right eye, the cybernetic accoutrement clearly damaged, black-metal bits protruding around the socket that houses it. The pain to his face is enough to daze even a man like him, one who has endured the savage blows of the world's strongest and still found them wanting.
But it isn't the pain that blinds him or that has him hesitate, leaning forward, his right hand clutched against the left side of his face, his good eye glaring back at Azrael, but the aura that penetrates his every thought, crawling in, a vile, loathsome thing. Seeds of fear, adrenaline shock, and panic surge into his system. Feelings of being overwhelmed, like when he fell to his knees on the Isle of Gaia's Tear, an unremarkable rock out in the middle of the ocean. Unremarkable but for what lies buried there... and for who discovered him the moment he finished bashing aside the Priestess of the Mirror.
Goenitz. The Lord of Wind, a being of power beyond any Rugal had ever encountered before or sense. He remembers now what it felt like to be brought low by him, to have his eye torn from his head with a single scything flick of the man's wrist.
And then another feeling creeps in - an insidious, mind shattering sense of helplessness - being unable to act, unable to stop the inevitable, unable to prevent the death of the only soul he had ever cherished.
A deep growl rumbles in the man's throat. He remembers exactly how he dealt with that fear, that panic, that crippling sense of helplessness. He remembers just how it was he was able to move on in spite it all. It wasn't skill, it wasn't ironclad willpower.
It had been rage. Pure, unadulterated rage.
The growl grows louder as he begins to break through the Terror, becoming a thundering, living thing of its own, as black flame courses over his body and swirls about the deck at his feet, melting steel.
It is with a roar that he surges back into Azrael. There is no style, no concept of skill. Just rage fueled menace as he seeks to drive one arm into the man's chest and hook him back against the armored still wall behind him. If pinned, Azrael would find himself caught within a sudden fount of bloody energy bursting up from beneath him, accompanied by the howls of the damned. Viscous, thicker than blood, and acidic, Bernstein would hold him there for only a moment before tearing him off the wall, gripping his neck with both arms, and turning to leap several meters into the air and come crashing back down to slam Azrael's back against the abused deck of the Black Noah, pinning him beneath him as he stands over him.
A tremor would be the only warning before a second, even larger geyser of that corrupt energy explodes up to consume the man. Even Rugal's own arms are not immune to the caustic power, skin burning, black smoke of charred flesh filling the air around him.
The fear is gone, the panic scattered, the memory that conjured that sense of helplessness forgotten. In their place is rage in its purest form as he seeks nothing less than the The Cannibal's ultimate demise.
COMBATSYS: Rugal successfully hits Azrael with Gigantic Pressure.
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Rugal 0/-------/-----==|=======\-------\1 Azrael
"Yes...!! That's what I wanted from you. So even you knew true hopeless fear on the battlefield at some point in your life..." Azrael comments with a laugh, although it's not derisive or insulting. If anything, he sounds surprised. The Terror, after all, might be at best a curious distraction without having something to insidiously grip within, a mere biological response easy suppressed. Where a wise man might press the advantage, instead the bestial man waits, curling his fingers with his eyes wide and manic. He has not evaded a single blow thus far, while Rugal has warded off many of his. That this encounter is not entirely one-sided alone is somewhat surprising, by that standard...
A hand grasps his face. He can see it, but he can't do anything about it. No. Perhaps if he was able to read Rugal's body language, predict what he was doing. Yet he can only slightly grin when he's driven backwards into the wall. Blackness roars over him, burning much of his remaining outfit, lost to that warbling, inhuman skull that seems to warp in a damned shriek. Smoke trails behind as Rugal hauls him bodily, the pair descending to slam hard within the deck, sending the entire ship quaking, sinking a few inches towards the ocean before wildly bobbing up.
The form is still within the clinging black flames then for long seconds, his entire aura now muddied and dark, the overwhelming sense of a warrior and fighter now all but gone. Until a fist lashes out, aiming to strike Rugal's chin with a sharp blow and stagger him backwards. Lurching upwards, it becomes obvious that somehow the Mad Dog still lives.
"That... was it... what I came here for...!!"
He twists and then launches out a brutal knee, driving nothing but that raw force that sends the remnants of the magnificent blow that floored him whirling out and extinguished to show the charred and burnt deck.
"Not to win... or lose...!!"
And then he whirls into a final kick, intent on sending Rugal hurtling upwards into the air with a roar.
"BUT TO FEEL THE TRUE STRENGTH OF YOUR FISTS, AND NOTHING ELSE!!"
That shimmer, as he kicks off the ground to flit up, and aim to intercept the other man with a full-forced swing towards Rugal's chest, aiming to launch him like a missile towards the shattered glass walls of the tower he was eating from earlier.
That was the last of his stamina, however. He lands awkwardly, crashing down to a knee with a grimace and heavy panting, as if confused. "...? The hell... is this? Can't... move my body right...!!" Does he really have no idea what it feels like to lose?!
COMBATSYS: Azrael can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
COMBATSYS: Rugal blocks Azrael's Full Spartan.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\ <
The uppercut from the pinned monster catches Rugal cleanly on the chin with a jaw shatteringly strong blow, wrenching the man's neck to the side and sending him reeling back, his grip on Azrael's neck broken. The idea that anyone could possibly attack back from that state had clearly never crossed his mind - not that he had been in a particularly thinking-friendly state at the moment.
Rather than daze him, however, the jarring pain in his jaw snaps him out of the blood red frenzy, his mind surprisingly sharp in spite the abuse his head has taken throughout the feast of combat. Surprise doesn't register in his human left eye as he lifts his arms, bloodied, burnt flesh, partially mixed with the ashes of his right coat and shirt sleeves that burned along with his arm.
The crushing knee from Azrael is met with a step in knee block with his own left leg, intercepting the piston-like force before it could reach its full potential. The impact forces him back two steps, but when the final kick comes in that would have driven him away, Bernstein kicks into Azrael's strike with his own kick, sending another shockwave of force out from between the two, blowing any remaining loose debris clean off the deck and starving out the burning jet fire from earlier.
He could feel it now - the Mad Dog's swings no longer had the power they once had. To kick into Azrael's kick would have been to invite shattered bone at the onset of the battle. But now it is force he can answer with his own. The vigor of this inhuman brute is not infinite after all... but how many living beings could possibly hope to exhaust it as this Orochi fueled veteran master?
Lifting his right arm, Rugal looks at the damaged flesh, skin flaking off from where it was burnt by the acerbic nature of that crimson fount of power moments before. It will heal... that corrupt blood in his veins will see to that. He moves the hand to his jaw a moment later, fingers devoid of feeling rubbing at the last clean hit he suffered in silent contemplation.
Azrael's puzzlement is an unexpected declaration. At last, he can no longer fight. Given Rugal's condition, how much longer could have lasted himself? His right hand grips the edge of his coat and with a single, powerful tear, rips the ruined jacket from his shoulders, hurling the scorched, tattered remains to the deck.
In the past, those who had entertained him most earned a place in his gallery of legends, preserved for all time at culmination of their greatest hour... But he was no fool. Even if he could drag the beast to the chamber where dozens of fighters had lost their lives to the bronzing process, he has no doubt that such a process would be insufficient to end this man anyway. Would the molten bronze even have time to harden before Azrael simply decided to break free and continue his rampage?
Smoke from the smoldering fire blows past Rugal as he strides back toward Azrael. All about the deck, injured men in black uniforms and body armor lie groaning, unconscious, or dead. Dents in steel designed to withstand torpedoes, missiles, and massive, armor piercing naval cannon shells shows signs of dents, tears, rips, and gouges from the power on display in the battle.
Those 'R' soldiers spared the worst of the collateral damage are already moving in to check on those not so fortunate as Rugal's pace quickens. It is difficult to tell the tattered garment over his torso was a white dress shirt at one point, the sleeves gone, the front over the chest scorched and torn open.
"You have proven to be most excellent entertainment, Azrael."
He begins to sprint, right arm hooking out to catch the finally slowed monster in a lariat.
"Now receive your reward."
His path forward would continue surging toward the edge of the deck, a roar forced from his lungs as he turns into the momentum and hurls the invulnerable living object from off the ten deck high platform out into the ocean.
Rugal stands at the edge of the deck for a long moment, blood dripping from his face against his chest and shoulders, neck length blond hair, damp with sweat and blood, waving in the sea wind blowing perpendicularly over the deck.
Finally, he turns, walking back toward the command and control tower, barking out orders as he does.
"Clean up this mess. And take us out to sea."
A chuckle is heard as he passes by his men, deep and throaty. Yes, it would seem this World Warrior event shows promise after all...
COMBATSYS: Rugal has ended the fight here.
What might be most shocking is Azrael's own recovery. Already, power is beginning to seep within him, if not rapidly. Still, within ten or fifteen minutes, he might be able to fight strongly once more. And give the satisfied expression on his face, he would likely have zero compunctions about continuing the war of attrition to it's ultimate conclusion. "Tch... the best meal I've had... ruined at the good part because I lost... Never thought I'd see the day!!"
He's snatched, and for a single shocking moment, his stance spreads and heels dig into the floor. It takes a split second to overpower him, and then he's being hauled body backwards towards the edge of the ship. He hurtles over the edge of the ship, arms and legs spread wide, remnants of his outfit tattering behind.
But those crimson eyes never leave Rugal's own as he laughs in a manic fashion. "Don't worry... I won't make this mistake next time...!"
A great splash, and he sinks like a stone. It takes long moments to confirm... he's not coming back up. A nice thought that he's drowned, perhaps, but he's certainly out of the picture for now. But with that watch on Rugal's wrist, and the finals of the tournament, it might not be the last time he ever meets the Mad Dog...
Log created on 22:17:25 02/04/2018 by Azrael, and last modified on 00:04:43 02/10/2018.