Compacted

While he listened to the presence, D half-closed his eyes. He was
changing this being that possessed the density of infinitely compacted
darkness into a form like his own. That was his only chance of victory.

Of course, this was totally unrelated to the actual physical form of his
opponent. D would only cut down the form made manifest to him—that
was the extent of it. Somewhere within D, a gigantic, powerful figure was
moving toward completion. An image of the Sacred Ancestor, wrapped in a
black cape, a pair of fangs jutting from the vermilion lips chiseled into his
pale skin.

The instant it was complete, D focused all of his physical and mental
energy into the sword racing from its sheath.
Light cut the darkness.
With the sunlight of midday showering down on him, D thrust his blade
into the ground and clung to it almost like a crutch as he got to his feet. The
heavy shadow of fatigue clung to his beautiful countenance.
“Looks like he’s taken off,” he said, even his breath ragged. He was
answered by a quavering voice.
“You scare the hell out of me. That you could wound him . . . your own .
. . ”

6 - 2