A Blade Set to Whetstone[Atlas]

Vastime was such a marvelous place. To think that such a place existed where you could just drop everything that you were doing and be subject to a fit environment to spar with one another, or even settle your differences. What a place, Torabevu couldn't help but marvel at the measures taken to ensure the calamities of their skirmish was subsidized to one specific area. Limiting the casualities to an absolute zero and the damages to a minimum. It was all so impressive and Tora was severely impressed, taking a glimpse around the area as events were beginning to unfold.

He'd not let the technology of the country void his mind for too long, as the tenor of his opponent seemed blood-thirsty. As though Tora were a gazelle grazing upon the land and Atlas a fierce lion, protecting his territory after a long slumber, corrupt from the disturbance placed before him. He could remember the whispers among the stands speaking about Atlas, calling him the "Warhound of Vastime" and Tora could see the precise definition right to the title right before him.

A quick and decisive measure was taken toward Tora, a mantra of movement that was so precise and clean-cut that he'd be unable to react. Expecting the man to grab for the saber or the pistol upon his waist, was entirely thrown off guard by the unarmed attack. His battle prowess had descended, not taking the fight seriously enough from the getgo. Not being able to sense the surprise attack as he could feel the trained fingers sweep upon his forehead, a blinding-heat causing a nuisance to his optics as the fingers balled to a fist with haste and drove into his skull with high tenacity. A groan cracked the crushing sound of the fist slamming into his dome. His legs were driven from underneath him as they followed suit to the direction his head implored, seeking an escape from the force shoving him away. His body wrangled the courtyard's grassy terrain, the smell of burnt hair tingled his nostrils as his eyebrows were synched from the heat of the punch.

Torabevu stared upon the sky for a bleak moment; depression seemed to consume his being. He didn't feel as though he had entered a leveled playing field. In seconds he was sent to back, without even being able to produce an ounce of resistance. It was true that he was entirely overwhelmed by the heat of the battle, and it had only just begun. Malice crept through his nerves, taking control of his mind. He couldn't stand the condition that he had let himself get into, but did he carry the bravado to overcome it? There was no telling. His many years of living he held many regrets, and those regrets didn't coincide with failure. No, they lived within chances that were given to him, but he didn't accept. They lived at that desk in the Gotei, not here in battle. Now was not the time to add another regret to the list. Now was the time for retribution.

Bringing himself to his feet, he readied himself once more. His left eye shut from the blood that trickled from his split skin. Wiping the excess, he drew his eye open to see the warrior bouncing. "Come, and break yourself upon my wall." Tora couldn't contain himself, the excitement that once resided in him returning once more. He brought his Zanpakuto to the frontlines, letting it be an extension of his will as his body surged forward toward his opponent. He anticipated the distance brought between the two would be to make use of the pistol on his hip if Tora were to charge at him. He would do just that, pressing his rear foot with a ferocity. Whether or not he would attempt to fire at him or come at him with an attack of his own, he would flash step to his flank and execute a quick and decisive slash to remove his other arm. He would bring the blade down and up around the extremity just beneath the elbow, his body moving with the flow of his sword. If he were to miss the swing, he would follow through with his strike and then step forward pressing the blade against the abdomen of the tower before him, pressing onward in the same direction gaining a strategic placement before he waited for his opponent's next move.

While the feeling was fresh, he wished to concrete the burning that was etched into his heart. He'd not take a moment to revel in the previous moments but continue forward repeating the same feeling of satisfaction over and over again until it was charred into his entity. His mind was clear, but his movement felt rustic. Perhaps the blood of his new foe could lube his battle sense.

"They say that walls are built to see who has the strength to knock them down, I intend to be that."