"—Blade Master"
He's reached utter perfection—a paragon to all that is the sword... so they say at least.
Every swing was without wasted movement. His strength was comparable to any one of his companions even without reinforcing himself with mana through sheer momentum. His dexterity surpassed the processing of robots. Eve could attest to that, even if sourly. His blade was so sharp, there was nothing of the physical plane he couldn't cut.
Therein laid the problem.
And so, there, on his burnt knees, barred of the nasod arm he once hated, he glared up from the hill that dared to try reach the Heavens.
He couldn't cut Gods.
For all his speed, he couldn't surpass those who pridefully called themselves "Higher Beings." For all that speed, he could do nothing as it reinforced his very flex. He couldn't cut at their mystical energies with his meager own. He couldn't block, nor counter with a wide Aisha-leveled attack when given time to channel. He couldn't. He wasn't a Mage, an Archer, or Gunsmith of any sort. He didn't have the control of mana Elsword or his Legend of a sister. They had near-perfected it, throwing whole battlefields into the air or maintaining an enlarged sword that dared to cut only what they desired. While he could "replicate" such feat... It was only but temporary. He could only expend mana forward, whether through his body (more so his nasod arm) or his sword. No matter how he did it—he knew, he knew, so bluntly any one person could do so also. It was simple, effective, and was enough before he learned to create winds to capture the same effect with a simple swing of his bloodied sword.
Initially, he began using mana by channeling his ever-burning rage into the fires that once plagued him, his past, his dreams and now the very present. However, it wasn't very effective. And, of course, it still wasn't—it was even used against him.
His fire—meager, unadulterated, stupid—he had so stupidly called upon, impulsively, had shot from him, only for it turn back and transform into a true inferno by the will of "The Gods."
The likes of Aisha's mystic protections overturned, Rose's, Chung's, Eve's AND Add's technology failed to even temporarily halt it, Rena's sacred whispers were burnt, and Elsword's and Elesis' sheer overwhelming defenses were rendered useless. —Even Ain's heavenly conjurations failed in the might—and he might as will be the actual Demigod among their group. Ciel, useless in the art of "protection," tried to cover Lu, who could only try to shove him and protect the "squishier" Demon, failing as it was too late.
Even in Gods-be-damned sync.
His flame, the likes of which, could barely whole a candle to Aisha's mysticism was now their greatest agony.
And yet, the weakest of flames reached him as the Gods stared directly at him, as he burned—burned by the flames he couldn't help but still fear from, no matter how far his "enlightenment" ranged internally.
Despite being futile as it was, he dared not to run and, as they say, 'fight another day.' He couldn't. Each and every one of his companions were on his conscience in some shape or form. Despite his militant mindset, he couldn't leave them. In some part of his mind, his... friends were the only things he lived for, he told himself.
...For all their hard work—work where they watched families burn, friends bleed, and lovers either cry or lie dead—they were being punished.
Still staring at him, the "Gods" relayed nothing as he mustered a glare. Frustration bubbled from the boiling hatred.
'Enlightened? Him?' He could only scoff, mentally.
He was never the weakest. He was only pull punches. He was being stupid. He feared losing who he was to the bloodshed. His singular hand clenched. Unlike Eve, when she changed her "Code," whatever that meant or Elsword, when he decided to foolishly carry Conwell for some time, Raven hadn't gotten over such a notation.
He was a hypocrite. His flames of hatred, anger and revenge had been forgotten, not forgiven nor reduced. He was too busy repaying the "El Gang" in bringing him back to his senses. While he wouldn't like to admit it, they had grown on him. Young men and women fighting a war. The flames flickered from within him as memories hardened his gaze.
He promised himself they wouldn't end up like he had: a puppet.
So, just where was the oh-so perfect "El Lady"? Where was the woman they had so firmly believed in? Where was the woman they had felt they needed to believe in?
Elsword's naivete had sought the group to believe in the woman, who stood powerless against the demons. Raven knew he knew better but didn't say anything. Some part of him regretted it—nevertheless, speaking up against it was futile.
This situation was perfect in allowing him to liberate his one constant emotion.
He was done being a bitch.
Fate had kept him alive for this long. Through the darkest hour, or even the brightest, and he knew Fate wasn't done with him yet. 'Fuck Fate.' Gritting his teeth, he looked to the scorned metal besides him. Fate gave him that arm. He didn't need it. Tearing his gaze from the heap, he looked onward to his blade that was flung from his person. 'Fine, I didn't need it anyway.' Despite his words, "Fate" was the only "True God" he believed in.
All the while, it was only Raven who noticed not his black aura. Akin to smoke, his aura and he rose, one-armed, covered in burns, cuts and soot.
"I do not... I do not acknowledge you." Tripping as he strode forward, "I'm... I'm no one's bitch—damn it!" Coating his discarded arm and his liquefied sword, the black aura rose.
Looking around him, the flames that surrounded him and everything that breathed, his anger peaked. They were his flames—his flames to command!
"I will not bow down to... the likes of you!"
At his last word, everything stopped. Fires ceased to burn. His friends could only stare, dully. The "Gods," however, dared him to continue.
His black aura exploded.
From burning black to a brilliant azure, his eyes glowed, his sword gleamed, and his arm—the arm gifted to him by mechanical monsters—glistened in disdain. His eyes pierced air as he channeled his fury, unadulterated.
For all his hate, he did not so with Fate. At least, Fate had gave him powers; those of which was not unlike the legendary Phoenix. Never did "it" promise or lie. Never did "it" give up. Neither shall he.
Bating a breath, he spoke, defiantly, "This blade," he brought it up to his eyes, falling into a stance, "will taste your fucking blood."
In terms swordplay, Elsword and even his sister would sincerely share that they were inferior. He deserved his title as the [Blade Master], any one else would say. He would've never agreed. Perhaps, this little group he had joined swayed him more than he thought. He had ever cared for titles especially, but ...what should he call himself now?
...He didn't care at the moment.
He was done holding back.
There was no need to care.
"Final Blade."
As if he were Add, the world shattered.
Aes: Gotta go fast ~
I always felt like BM was a guy who held up a front 23/7 (as oppose to 24/7). If you dun agree, then you dun, I suppose. What I find funny is that I don't actually like BM all that much. -shrugs-