Pride of a Generation [Emil, Nero]

"What was that?"

His voice called out, pretending to have not heard Nero clearly, every bit of his tone being spoken with provocation at the forefront, that inflaming song woven in his voice. He could tell the boy was of the kind who thought it best to maintain composure in a battle - utter foolishness to the pale man. To keep the human spirit tame amidst a fight was an act in futility, a betrayal of nature; that was what he wished to push the young man to understand by experience. From the pain radiating in his body to the sickness of anger wrought on his mind, to presenting himself as an adversary to down.

War was not for the demure.

Between his strikes and his own self-inflictions, he must be in quite the amount of pain. He truly did wonder how far adrenaline would carry him, watching the formation of that arrow radiating their surroundings, bright as the sun. Old memories of that elder Arant's bitter words resurfaced with the scream of the newer generation, eyes following his movements with little excess of effort until that attack initiated, his completely still body abruptly vanishing as the arrow crashed down upon the spot he occupied a mere half blink ago, his position untraced until the chilling sensation of menace could be felt behind the bright man, if his reaction were lacking in the brief moment it would take to identify that the man had appeared behind him, he would be struck by a sharp elbowing to the upper back, the man backing off and appearing on the ground, relatively unscathed as he'd address him once more,

"You're attacking me as if i'm a lumbering hollow idly waiting for the bite of your arrow to sink into my mask," His sharp words attacked Nero again, "Have beasts been your only opponent? You fight as if you only duel animals. Your gratitude should be immeasurable - if I were your enemy you would have been dead several times. I have been pulling my punches this entire time, you know. You haven't as much as driven me to use my fists or the entire lengths of my legs, not even so much as have me contemplate on drawing my weapons."

He'd approach the downed boy, grabbing him by his hair, and slowly pulling his head up to look him in the face. He didn't seen to be deriving any enjoyment from this, despite the pleasant expression on his face, his eyes conveyed sheer disappointment.

"Can you truly call yourself a Sternritter?"

Another attack faltered. Another attempt failed. A familiar song and dance that encompassed the entire pace of the battle so far. His arrows, no matter numerous or singular, did little to force the man into action beyond tossing him around as though he were a mere ragdoll. A sharp elbow collided with his back, plummeting his body toward the ground's soil, like a bright star cast down from the sky. His melody meant nothing. His ire meant nothing.

The sudden nature of the attack left him an enemy to gravity as his body crashed headfirst into the hard floor of the training grounds. The taste of copper flooded through his mouth, his scarred fingers held firm against his prized longbow. Each mocking word that freely flowed from Emil's lips were akin to a knife twisting around a gruesome wound, only to then be removed and doused with salt.

Humiliation for his failure, humiliation for approaching this battle improperly. He wasn't Emil Holsen the retired and commonly lively quincy. No, he was something far more callous, far more relentless in his approach. There was nothing but the cold indifference of disappointment in his eyes, lifting him up as though he were some sad excuse of a child who was hardly worth the effort.

Can you truly call yourself a Sternritter?

For a moment, a vision flashed into his mind. The turned back of a man who had never truly acknowledged him despite his best efforts. An elder whom he admired almost more than anyone in the world. What would he think of this poor performance? What of his peers? No, to be more precise, why did he even care about any of them right now? He was the one being humiliated, undermined, overlooked... The vision seemed to shift back to reality, where the disappointed expression of Emil's face was the only fixture that comprised his colorful gaze. At that moment, as though an atom bomb had went off in his mind, he snapped.

"Huoooooooh!!!"

An animalistic growl, half garbled, wholly feral, tore from his lips. His own personalized form of blut began to take effect, several lines of vermillion streaking across his body. His bow transmuted into the form of a longsword. Resoundingly swinging that blade upward in a decidedly ferocious stroke, Nero shot his leg at the man's chest to kick him away. Even if that act meant parting with the hair he took delicate car to maintain, it mattered little.

Everything that dominated his vision was death. Like a bull with a cape mockingly swept before their eyes, he saw nothing but crimson. He wanted to see a dead body. He wanted to punch and claw this well-respected elder open like a beast. His the kick was only a way of separating the distance, a method to carry his body back in for a contest he was never wholly familiar with. Whether targeting the face, his shoulder, the groin, his eyes, he was swinging that fiery longsword with the intent of wounding him proper---to see him bleed. Right now, at this moment, wiping that mocking expression off his face was the only objective that stood at the forefront of his mind. Composure no longer held any precedence here. Blood. That was all he wanted to see. Pure, flowing crimson...

There was only one of two things he'd expect from him now - either the droop of defeat, eyes rolling into his skull as his body gave into the weight of pain and agony, proven to be a failure of his prideful blood, his words and desires no more than hot air, or...

An activated grin grew on his face with the sound of life pumping back into the young man, glowing veins and the tear of will filling his ears, the foot connecting with his chest to force the two to part, emerald strands fluttering from the man's fingertips as he positioned himself to retaliate the incoming onslaught,

"That's it!" Swings of the blade raked his clothing, burning and tearing his attire as a few strikes were stopped short by his Blut's pulsating activation, hardly any attempt to evade was given as he allowed Nero to really wail on him, to get a taste of lunging for a human being than a mindless beast. Though he certainly did a number on the boy's composure - that look in his eye was of pure bloodlust. He himself was composed, even as he began to sustain burns and cuts from the constant attacks; he needed to know what that intense feeling was, to hold the willingness to fight and end another if needed. One needed to know what that sensation was like in order to repeat it, "Come at me! Strike me! Kill me, boy!"

It reminded him of his days training his daughter, though that was priming her more for combat than giving a stepping stone for attitude adjustment; children didn't have quite as many bad habits to unlearn.

A hand would lunge for him once more - his neck this time. Another would move to interfere with the path of the longsword for that moment. It was quite distinctly an action a human would make, one he expected Nero to figure a counter for by now.

Fury remained superior in a mind that was normally composed and efficient. The mocking provocations had proven supremely successful in drawing out his ire, after all. He was no longer an archer acting with poise, but a warrior with sword in hand, and brutality in mind. Magenta eyes demanded blood and nothing else. He would have blood. He would cut flesh. Flesh would be burnt. Longsword met with blut vene as his sword was thrown off course every now and then.

Yet, his efforts were meriting some form of success. It was hideous. It was so unlike him. This man had drawn him down from the lofty world he had always thrived in. He never killed humans. His arrows had never pierced a body composed of flesh and blood. Mindless beasts were all that occupied his world. Hollows. What was this? Casting that question to the back of his mind, his eyes read the movements of his hands. One reached in for his neck, the other to grab onto his longsword.

Maintaining the offensive system of his crimson blut, he fiercely shifted his body backwards, drawing his sword and body back in preparation for a follow-up attack. Grinding his longsword along the ground, generating an arc of spark and flame that sought to earn purchase against the man's form. If he moved out of range, Nero would leap upward to strike at him from above like a bat of out of hell. Nothing would satisfy his spirit more than to see him bleed. The limits of his body, the frustration, the blood, the pain, the humiliation... all of it would be sated if he cut him open. That's what he wanted. That's what he deserved.

There came that sword, the vulnerable part he targeted moving out of the range he gave leeway to, the frenzied Nero lacking interest in letting up. Even as he smoothly avoided the first up swing, he watched as the colorful man came at him from above. Everything he displayed was the attitude he expected in a life or death situation - the unwavering desire to persist and defeat the opposition, to fight with every molecule down to your last breath if need be. He was young, inexperienced, but he certainly held the will and pride that kept their race alive.

And with that satisfied...

A sharp, metallic clang stung the walls of the training arena, the mocking aura of the man having turned to that of a satisfied one. Should Nero see through the red mist, he would see that a silver sword had come up to meet the fire of his resolve, holding the flaming blade back with little problem.

"Congratulations," His voice returned to that calm, placid tone, his smile pulling up to emulate a genuine show of pride, giving him a light pat on the shoulder as his lips parted with another ancient verse, "Be At Peace."

He supposed that the Arant wouldn't have calmed down with a simple indication that he'd won, so a calming song layered onto praise only seemed appropriate, "Better to find that drive here, than on the battlefield. Good job, that's a fantastic start."

Nero had never been filled with such indescribable ferocity before. He had known what it felt like to be insulted, overlooked, to be judged. He hadn't even been accepted by anyone in his adopted family first outside of his mother and father. Slighted? Certainly. Inferior? Of course. Rage? inconceivable. And yet, he had given himself wholly to a fire he was not familiar with. Naturally, it was frightening. Terrifying. This wasn't him... or was it? Even now, as the song calmed him down, Nero took a moment to gather himself and reflect on the violence he had given himself to.

His mind was particularly satisfied, at least, with the momentary victory he had earned through his efforts, even if he hadn't expected to be driven this far. That Emil had pushed him that far was a little frightening, but he supposed, now that his mind was regaining composure, that there was a lesson to be learned - a method to the madness, so to speak.

Exhaling softly, Nero wiped the blood and gravel from his eyebrows, his sword dispersing into ambient reishi. It was such a jarring shift, watching the man so effortlessly transition between fierce and demanding to lively and encouraging. Even so, he gathered himself in spite of it all, bowing before the man as he curiously observed the man's posture.

"That was... certainly more than I expected, and intense too, but a valuable lesson is a valuable lesson. Not every opponent will be a mindless beast. Even so, I see why you earned the accolades and respect you have. Tenacious and frightening doesn't even begin to describe that nature of yours in battle..."

His sword returned to it's sheath about as quickly as it was drawn, refraining from overstaying as it was little more than a tool to be wielded when necessary. Ah good, he didn't need much prodding to calm down; with the amount of rage he expressed, he had considered the possibility of needing to layer two songs to force him to wind down before he overexerted, not having to do that was quite the convenience - he left his legs intact for a reason.

But despite all of that, the boy still held the need to commit to formalities, bowing to him and singing his praises while reflecting on what he learned here. Emil was not the sort to fall to flattery, especially in this given situation. His smile dropped for just a moment, a hand coming down to lightly swat Nero's head with two of his knuckles, soft enough to not cause any additional harm but definitely hard enough to be an annoying amount of momentary pain.

"There is showing respect to your comrades, and there is idolization. I recommend keeping the latter idea in check. Relax, reel back the formalities; some may make a fool of your aggrandizing."

That smile was drawn back to his lips in a near instant, "Put your energy toward more important matters first, like your injuries to start. Best get you to a hospital before your adrenaline high fades."

Nero winced at the knuckle thwacking him across the head. Formality was something he wore on his sleeve, viewing his superiors as people worthy of his utmost respect. They had earned that respect from his point of view. Even so, further reflection told him that perhaps that was no longer necessary with that man. After all, he challenged and goaded him to such a murderous degree that he wanted nothing but to cut him in half, spill his blood.

"Nn, okay. You're not wrong there. I get that a lot. I guess I shouldn't be so formal with the man who demanded that I ought to take his life a few moments ago."

When he pondered that particular train of thought, it was easier to imagine approaching him a little differently. Relax. Yes, he did need to do that more. The adrenaline was fading, and most of the bruises and fractures in his body were starting to make their existence apparent. Scaling back on the formality, he would direct his gaze toward the closest infirmary. This would have a peculiar impact on him moving forward, but it was a valuable lesson to hold close to his chest. An impactful battle that provided him a glimpse of the brutality he might well have to entertain in a live battlefield.

"It's clear that I have much to learn and adapt to moving forward, but this has left me with a curious sort of intrigue. In any case, my injuries are top priority now. When we cross paths again, hopefully I'll be able to force you into tapping into the wider depths of your abilities. For now, I need to get my injuries healed before I fall out. Until next time, Mr.Holsen."