Categories > Anime/Manga > Yu-Gi-Oh! > Wordless
The ring spirit had declared himself as eternal as darkness; this one claimed no such thing, but he was indestructible in a way only a mad man could be. Immediately, he had recognised what he was – anger, rage, hate incarnate – as someone who knew about these things first-hand, better than the other Malik ever had. Better, he thought, than the ring spirit. Better than anyone else he had met in his short life.
Right away, he knew that he would not want to destroy this one for a long time. Would want to watch the hate and the insanity grow until the thief became the one he had met in the future, and whom he would eagerly kill a second time.
And this self-proclaimed king had a body, a real body that was his own, not one his spirit form was wearing for convenience: rough, calloused hands, sharp teeth, dry, hungry lips, nails like claws digging into his body, desperately wanting – he knew, and closed his eyes in bliss – to tear him apart and drink in the darkness he was made of.
But he hated, hated the thief's angry spirits and their revenge cries, hated the dark god he wanted to resurrect, hated more than anything the thief's stubborn silence that remained even despite of the knife that was pressed to his throat – even in his powerless fury, he looked forward to licking and sucking the blood from the wound –, as he demanded that he forsake that god.
It was in vain that he ordered him to forget him and his dead village, that they, /he/, needed no god to sink Kemet into darkness! He could make Ra himself bow to him and let the world bust into flames at his command; and the true meaning of the harshly whispered words, as he dug in the knife dangerously deep for emphasis, and the thief's hand treacherously slid up his back, ready to snap his neck, was always: "worship me, me, /me/!"
Right away, he knew that he would not want to destroy this one for a long time. Would want to watch the hate and the insanity grow until the thief became the one he had met in the future, and whom he would eagerly kill a second time.
And this self-proclaimed king had a body, a real body that was his own, not one his spirit form was wearing for convenience: rough, calloused hands, sharp teeth, dry, hungry lips, nails like claws digging into his body, desperately wanting – he knew, and closed his eyes in bliss – to tear him apart and drink in the darkness he was made of.
But he hated, hated the thief's angry spirits and their revenge cries, hated the dark god he wanted to resurrect, hated more than anything the thief's stubborn silence that remained even despite of the knife that was pressed to his throat – even in his powerless fury, he looked forward to licking and sucking the blood from the wound –, as he demanded that he forsake that god.
It was in vain that he ordered him to forget him and his dead village, that they, /he/, needed no god to sink Kemet into darkness! He could make Ra himself bow to him and let the world bust into flames at his command; and the true meaning of the harshly whispered words, as he dug in the knife dangerously deep for emphasis, and the thief's hand treacherously slid up his back, ready to snap his neck, was always: "worship me, me, /me/!"
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