Let It Begin (60x) [Rensou]

[Deleted]

The Gladiator was a fine ship; Sohko could see that as soon as it was before him. It wasn’t an intricate or elegant ship but rather efficient with a vicious aura about it. It fit its owner’s personality well. Sohko’s ever racing mind made notes and calculations as he stepped, his creative side flowing. Somewhat a jack of all trades, the grandson of a blacksmith, son of a sorceress and a swordsman, was good at nearly anything he attempted. His constantly churning gears always had him pondering which coupled with his formerly eidetic memory and past bouts of insomnia, had allowed him to become quite adept at a many things.

Years of alcohol abuse and a more pure path had weakened his memory and lessened his sleeplessness, but he was never truly right. Regardless, this combination left him a master swordsman, elite blacksmith and crafter, able mechanic and designer of space vehicles, and an ever evolving user of the arcane arts. In truth the only thing he had ever failed in was dancing, however the surrounding details of it were heart wrenching memories which Sohko stashed away in the deepest recesses of his mind, but forever haunted.

As he entered the gravity chamber however, his usual confidence waned. Never afraid of a good fight, the saiyan swordsman was nonetheless a little anxious over the General’s invitation to a sparring match. When the message had come over his heads up display, he had stood for a moment, dumfounded. After all, he had insulted Rensou, verbally assailing him to the point of calling him a “fucking failure.” Anger had given Sohko the power to stand against Hiruen’s immense strength, but the fury had faded. He had seen the look of those coal eyes that day and had seen a man in as much pain as he.

“This should certainly be interesting.”

He muttered as he stepped off to the corner of the room, removing duster, shades and blades. Sohko was well aware of Ren’s disdain for weapons and was more than willing to oblige the brawler. Tossing them into the air, he waved a hand that pulsed with a faint hum of magic. The airborne apparel collected itself neatly and hovered at an arm’s length before him. Stepping away from the temporarily enchanted clothing, the bladesmith rolled his shoulders as he began to loosen up.

His intense physique, although always up to general saiyan standards, had only truly reached its peak upon death. Rigorous training with the Western Kaioshin had pushed his body farther than it had ever been pushed; a daily occurrence in the regiment of the Patron Saint of Drill Sergeants. Stretching, each muscle clearly defined beneath the mechanical light, he looked down to see his chest armor. It had been such a constant in his life since childhood, since his beginning in the PTO. Pulling it off, revealing the rest of him to be similar condition, he threw it into the floating pile of clothing.

There would be no room for weapons and armor in this sparring match, of that Sohko was sure. As he waited he began shadowboxing, continuing his warm up, pausing only to adjust his heavily weighted clothing in an ever continuing obsession to placing them exactly right to allow maximum flexibility.

“Come General, let it begin.”

He said to himself as he placed his left index finger to the floor and lifted his body, perpendicular to the ground and upside down, and he began doing pushups. These were always Kasai’s favorite, although usually he would then stand on Sohko’s lifted feet and juggle ridiculously heavy objects which he made appear out of thin air. The Western Kaioshin was nearly as eccentric as he was strict. Nearly.

[Rensou Hiruen]

Hydraulics hissed, and the spiraling staircase that connected the trio of floors within the vessel echoed with the soft fall of graceful steps. The closed mechanism steamed with effort, not a single groan echoing from the well oiled machinations as individual portions of the entrance from bridge to training deck opened. Masamune awaited the man whom had clawed his way from the depths of hell to return to the realm of the living to see his vengeance fulfilled and his people flourish. Without a word, the son of Tsuyei descended the stairs and stopped, his carved physique facing a fellow Saiyan in the midst of preparing himself.

“No armor then, Masamune?” he asked cooly, rhetorically. With a smooth motion of his arm, the scarry fighter reached behind his head and tugged his armor around head and unruly shocks, and a flick of the wrist sent the ensemble toward the corner of the room where it landed with a bounce.

The fighter was now wearing naught but breeches, wristwraps, and boots. Darkness accentuated with an inkling of light, a picturesque reflection of his soul and his bare chest a splendid tapestry of his struggles. Long lines etched up and down the left pectoral, diagonal markings running parallel in a duo. Another long-healed slash crossed horizontally from left breast to right, and the marking given to him so long ago by Boliko, the burn of his finger, stood out with some measure of neatness to the chaos of cuts. The insignia of the empire upon left pectoral where a badge might reside. Level with his naval, an old indention showed where the spar of the Epoch Star had pinned his left arm to his body in his last battle with Touketsuki Yakedo.

Pride in race and family had kept the broken and bloodied warrior standing, and he had fought in such a shape, looking to the tattoo of the Hiruen crest upon left bicep. Truly, Rensou Hiruen was a creature so marred in physical modification that in the hideousness of the entirety, there was much beauty.

“I don't like you, Sohko,” he informed, rolling his arms outward as his powerful shoulders rippled and went 'round in their sockets.

Rensou Hiruen spread his thick legs, his boots sliding with ease upon the tiles as he lunged from side to side, completing his usual routine before entering a training session. With a bit of focus, his power leveled off ridiculously close to Sohko's own. Experiences with Tsuken, Noko, Anienne, Vera, and countless others had given him a finite mastery of controlling his own strength, and truthfully, it was far more than controlled. Rensou Hiruen had managed to handicap himself and his endless strength to five digits away from Sohko's own, and he grinned as he stood straight and cracked his left hand into open palm.

“That does not mean I do not respect you,” he informed, slipping his right boot out before him while he settled his weight on the opposite, loading himself like a spring. There was little retreat in Rensou Hiruen, nay, this man weaved and blocked within melee range like an artist; if Sohko mistook his ability for that of a brawler, he would be sorely mistaken. The father of Tsuken was a counterattacking machine, tried again and again in the trials he had placed before himself. Masamune was a master of his blades, a transcendant of the typical sword-swinging warrior, and Rensou Hiruen was a pinnacle of precision, speed, reaction, and execution with his fists and feet. The knees and elbows were hell themselves, and the man did his most brutal work close enough to see the pain in the eyes of friend and foe alike.

“I've called you here because I think you can become a Super Saiyan,” he finally revealed, ripples of cyan shivering outward from his body meekly before he cocked his left arm backwards and leveled his right before him, and the very act seemed to signify to oceanic inferno of his aura as it exploded into jagged shards, swirling and audibly popping with bio-electricity as the immense ki within the man standing across the short expanse from Sohko Masamune prepared himself to push this one to a state so few Saiyans ever accomplished.

“As legend myself, I think it was best I saw you to the gate! ! !” he roared, fully prepared for combat. The computing system of the vessel was so intricate that it picked up on the subtle details of Rensou's power peaking at the limit he had set himself to, listened keenly to his beating heart, and decided the master desired the decided level of gravitational increase.

Ayleen's voice echoed throughout the chamber.

“Gravitational force multiplied by sixty units, Master Hiruen,”

“Increasing fighting space, removing stair-well,”

And no sooner than Ayleen had informed, the stairway halved and slid upward and downward into the bridge and quarters, respectively.

“Esteemed guest, best of luck versus the Master, you will require it,”

The insult had been a special bit programmed into Ayleen not minutes before by Rensou Himself. The Saiyan grinned, his dark eyes locked on Sohko Masamune, though he studied his opponent not only with his eyes, for he attuned himself to his energy signature as well. Two fingers beckoned Sohko forward as they curled toward Rensou Hiruen.

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[Deleted]

“I don't like you, Sohko, that does not mean I do not respect you, I've called you here because I think you can become a Super Saiyan, as legend myself, I think it was best I saw you to the gate! ! !”

At first his words began as the swordsman had foreseen, though veered in a manner Sohko hadn’t expected. Of course he knew Rensou did not care for him; the feeling was rather mutual. Hiruen had slaughtered thousands of innocents; no different than the tyrant he had a hand in vanquishing. That was not the true reason though but merely a façade. Sohko disliked the General because he was once like him. Brutal. Merciless.

The sorcerer hated what he once was and hated even more that it was still a part of who he was. The fact that he could understand Hiruen’s vengeance is why he had distaste for him. Projecting this not so subtle aversion on to the General was subconscious, for Sohko once liked Rensou. He was a proud warrior and a true son of Vegeta. However it was not easy to forgive him for his absence during Vegeta’s demise; just as it was not easy to forgive himself for being powerless to stop it.

Super Saiyan.

They hung in the air long after they were spoke and enticed Sohko’s full attention, despite his naturally wandering mind. Every saiyan knew the legend and longed for the day that they could become a part of what had become myth in the many years following Emperor Bardock’s death. The vast majority would never feel the golden wisps of greatness rage from their form. Nam had been the first, then Boliko, Ren and Serori not long after. Would he be the next? Could he be the next?

“Gravitational force multiplied by sixty units, Master Hiruen, increasing fighting space, removing stair-well, esteemed guest, best of luck versus the Master, you will require it.”

It was a moderate increase to what he had come quite accustomed to, due to the currently limited capabilities of the his own ship, Aegis. The comment of the artificial intelligence was actually more encouraging than anything else. His own computer was eccentric to say the least and very little he said during training could be taken positive. Not to mention Pewter considered puncturing a hole through his side as “winning” that day’s training.

The robotic female voice was not incorrect however; it would need a fair amount of luck. Although Rensou was restricting his power for an even match up, he still held the upper hand. His own tolerance for increased gravity was far above the swordsman’s. Not to mention Sohko was the master of blades, not fists. The Masamune, his family’s sword, had been the only thing he had of his parents throughout most of his life, and he learned to master it as his ancestral predecessors had done for countless years before.

Hiruen was a man born of the gladiatorial pits, where he honed his knuckles into weapons of bone and flesh. Though he was no amateur, having advanced training while under PTO enlistment and the guiding hand of a vicious god who had a penchant for brawling while dead, he was still not of a closely comparable skill level. Rensou was a master of fists, and as Sohko was the best with a blade, the General was just as such with tools he twitched to beckon the bladesmith forward.

“Bring me to this gate of which you speak; and I shall raze it to the ground.”

Supercharging his mind by entering his Theta state, Sohko simultaneously weighed his countless options. Immediately he closed his eyes, seeing the unruly lochs which hung from the back of the scared soldiers head. Opening them he was there, upon him and throwing a haymaker to the side of his head. Rensou was wise in the ways of martial combat, the bladesmith new this to be absolute truth so he did not dare insult the man by thinking such a plain tactic would work. As the strike continued its path, the swordsman initiated a technique that caused a sudden intense spike in his speed, giving him the ability to seem to simultaneously appear at two places at once.

The afterimage, a stable blur whose presence could be noticed through peripherals, but such sight was unreliable its ability to determine. The true heir of the Masamune legacy appeared crouched before the living legend for a fraction of a second before shooting upwards, enhanced with his bukujustu, aiming to deliver his tightly clenched fist to the chin of Rensou Hiruen with all his might, in what could prove to be a very powerful move.

Sohko would prove Rensou’s vision of him a precognition if it cost him every bone in his stalwart frame.

[Rensou Hiruen]

“Bring me to the gate of which you speak; and I shall burn it to the ground!” Masamune declared, and the son of the Hiruen lifted his lips into a flashing grin, canine bared as his posture without and desire within begged the opponent into his hellish embrace, those eight weapons that were his knuckles and shins and those joints resting between shoulder and fist, thigh and foot~ To think he could amplify the menagerie of destruction with those heirlooms of his, those spheres –perhaps the Saiyan devil was a weaponmaster in his own right, magnetizing and polarizing his spheres in slamming arcs and crushing mirrors of the flesh.

The sorcerer approached, his energy spiking in a manner altogether similar to the beloved Zanzoken of Hiruen, the rising energy within him punctuating the proverbial sentence mere milliseconds before the execution, and to think Rensou would actually be capable of identifying such measures now that Sohko had revealed himself capable! But nay, not just yet could the momentary advantage of swift movement be systematically eliminated before the elder Saiyan would capitalize on every revelation of Masamune's arsenal. Identify the skill-set, negate the advantages obtained, and seek victory through appropriate means.

The fist cracked into the chin with a resounding force, the head of the Saiyan flitting up and back upon the vertebrae the skull found itself stacked upon. Eyes clenched themselves shut as the worst of the pain began, a reddened splotch already formed where fist had met the center of the jawline. Sohko had managed to strike Hiruen with full force, a crushing blow to open the proceedings. Already Rensou would note the energy spent on the part of his sparring partner, and the best of the pain flooded his systems. . .the sudden realization that his mind and body would be tested to the very limit. This sword bearer was more than adept on his feet, he required no improvement other than that which could be gained through years of repetition in search of improving the most finite portions of technique.

A face locked with pain let a pleased growl roll from throat, and a grimacing mouth returned to a grin.

The next things to occur were a sheer mastery of combat, an example of the fighting instinct the father and mother and brother and the pits and the planets and the monsters had sewn into the combative mind of an absolute titan in the realm of the physical!

Rensou Hiruen began to fire back before his eyes had ever set themselves on Sohko. Through instinct, he knew exactly where Sohko was : just before him, with his lifted arm still balled into a fist! A tiny measurement ago, he had felt the very thing leave his chin! Reflexively, that body made the decision to offer answer of own accord.

That leg leaped, slashin out, aimed for the very center of the man crouched before him – should he unfurl at the rate that Rensou realized he would, his leg would plant toughened shin into ribs with a somewhat hindered torgue due to the current positioning of the Hiruen form, but it would be painful should it land successfully. Unimpeded by the idea of return fire, Rensou would continue to stride forward and give what he got in return as with a push of Bukujutsu, he moved his body forward and attempted to sink his other knee into the very midsection he had decided would be his first target this eve~

Whether Sohko Masamune had been sent away haphazardly by his combination or Rensou himself had bounded backwards, he would never know. What the man did understand was that he was now some distance from this foe who might one day be a friend, his body crouched and his senses wild. Rensou would never see this being become what he himself had without testing his truest strength and crushing it, for only in the most perilous of moments could a Saiyan truly ascend beyond their limitations.

Those spheres came to life, swirling around Rensou Hiruen before he lowered their positioning to drag them harshly against the tiles of his gravity chamber, a circle of white-hot sparks spraying out from his position in a beautiful, violent display. Cyan licked the ceiling as his power burned brightly around him. “Your swords, Masamune! I will not deny you your weapons should I present mine!”

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[Gray Callahan]

(ren pregrade: 1300x2.7=3510

[Rensou Hiruen]

Sohko's pregrade: 3,250.