It is something small that starts it, a quick decision made lightning-fast in the back of the king's brain. And had he the time to analyse it, to run it through with the seemingly lethargic nature of proper thought, he would be horrified at how his instincts serve to betray him. His previous intentions, for both compromise and conversation, his aim of building a world where no more possible Komugi's would have to shiver under threat from beings like himself...well. In this world it all vanishes within the space of a second.
Because it is in that very second that he darts through the gaps Netero's defence barely allows, watching those golden arms as they stretch out to encase him in a universe of possible push-backs and crushing slams; all the while knowing that without Komugi's lessons on strategy-building, he would be lost within the clever angles of their palms. But even those lessons flee away, overcome by adrenalin as his hand reaches out, fingers crooking round the bend in Netero's skull. It is a stroke of luck, one that in another universe, perhaps, fate would decide not to gift him with.
Beyond the scope of his fingers, Meruem sees the other man's eyes widen. That, more than anything, still his hand. But then, like providence, Netero's single, remaining human hand gives a quick twist through the air before plunging straight down towards his chest.
Meruem does not stop to wonder at the other man's sudden desire for suicide. But he recognises the action itself as some form of mental compromise. So his fingers twist in, his mind flickering through diagrams he had made Pitou show him once during a fit of boredom. Almost carelessly his hand crashes down through the squelch of muscle, shattering bone in its wake, all to crush out the sparks of electricity that roam beneath and give Netero his shape.
And it is perhaps, another genius stroke of luck, that Meurem does not touch all the parts of Netero's shattered brain, that he misses the now sluggish crawl of disjointed electricity as it fires through the chattering neurons responsible for the constant pump of Netero's heart. Somehow, the man continues to breathe within the crude splash of artistry Meruem has made of his head. But his creation of the golden Buddha disappears, his arms falling free from their mantis-like movements with all the delicacy of a god being snipped free from his own pantheon.
Meurum springs back, regret briefly clouding his features, as the nen of a great warrior shifts and shakes into a barely recognisable flow. He lowers his head. 'I am sorry,' he says. 'You deserved a better fate.'
Disgust makes a jutting snare of his lip before it smoothes out into a bitter smile. He is angry, no, enraged at himself; because here he is, with all the patience of a lowly child, ending the fight in a way that robs his opponent of any sort of dignified choice. It is not the idea of cruelty that bothers him, oh no. It is an impulse far stranger, one that Komugi, in her gentle way, has taught him to give: respect.
He turns and jumps, leaving Netero's broken brain to run itself dry as the blood pools out of the crushed skull, running red and thick. He leaps through the twisted cones of rocks, clever eyes catching on their unnatural shapes and wondering at the phenomenon. A few minutes later though, when he is nearly out of range, he has no reason left for wondering at all; the rose bomb reaches out like a cruel god to shatter the landscape as Netero's heart, almost breathtakingly, shudders to a stop.
He barely blacks out. And yet, it is a still little discerning to come to, a few seconds later, and find that Youpi has to stare up at him now, his head barely coming up to his shoulder. There is a flutter, to his side, and he sees that Pouf's wings, once so magnificent against the sky, now measure the span of a single doorway. They are not quite children to his size, but Meruem finds himself shaking his head at the sight; their love has served him well, just as always, though he wonders briefly, if it should always be to their detriment.
'Pouf!' he commands. 'To the skies.'
With a strain and a shake, Pouf launches them upwards and Meruem, with little concern, watches the burns on his arms and legs sink down into the hue of his skin, as though they had never been. It matters little to him, for tucked away, deep inside, where no bomb can touch, lies Komugi's face, hovering in his memories like a guiding point.
'Humans,' he chuckles. 'Such frightening creatures.'
He does not miss the exchange of looks between Youpi and Pouf.
'You have always been faithful,' he says mildly. 'Though I know now that faith takes on many forms. The human I just faced placed his final faith not in his own abilities, but in others, scientists, I would imagine and ones considerably weaker than himself. What form, I wonder, does your own faith take?'
'You, the king, your majesty,' Pouf intones excitedly. 'The only king in the world!'
'And yet,' Meruem muses, 'I would exchange such a title for my name. It is Meruem. And I find myself wishing for you to addresses me by it.'
There is a shocked silence from Pouf. But Youpi shifts, his jaw cracking slightly as he learns how to move his now-smaller muscles.
'Meruem-sama?' he tries, ignoring the horrified glare Pouf sends his way.
Meruem smiles. He can already imagine how Komugi will say it, her voice trembling and catching on the same suffix she will no doubt place on the end. Hopefully, of course, he will teach her to say it simply, stripped of all honour that he might, once, have wished for it to embody.
It takes time but eventually he manages to seek out Palm, following her trail to the underground town Bizeff built for himself. She stands before him, barely a shudder in her soul. But the king knows better, can see the beauty in her as a light that grows and grows, feeling it flicker as his own nen reaches out to caress it.
'Why should I tell you where she is? After everything you have done!'
'Then don't,' he says simply, reflecting to himself that before, such a voice raised in anger against him would have made his tail twitch in irritation, just enough to make her bones crash and splatter against the floor seconds later. 'You've earned that right. You don't have to tell me a thing. I will simply do what I should have in the beginning; I will find her myself.'
And he turns, leaving Palm, tall, bright and shaking in her own light. He half-expects her to attack him, to try and claw at his back with nails that will be rendered feeble, barely as sharp as pencil against his skin. But she doesn't. Perhaps, because she, like him, understands now what it feels to have hope leech out from her soul.
Humanity, in some ways, has lost, after all. It's just as well for them then, he reflects, that he no longer has any wish to destroy it.
