Post by Marcelius on Oct 7, 2013 6:56:07 GMT -5
(OoC: This thread is for the training and mastery of Cero. It is a solo thread, exclusive for Marcelius Despres.)
Hungry. So very hungry. All the time hungry, all the time starving! Eat. Eat anything. Eat everything, eat it all till it does not hurt anymore! Eat and eat. Eat, eat, eat, and eat! This was his every thought, of every moment, of every day. It was whole. It was a purpose. It was everything he was not. It was everything he desired. He was Hollow. Strong, terrible, hungry, and incomplete. He was not alone. There were many. Oh so many. Just like him, each hungry and incomplete. They all wandered, without reason to sit or stop. They all suffered, endless hunger they could not sate.
Through the sands. Through the forests. They all had to keep walking. To keep moving. To keep devouring. What set him apart from all of the others, was his knowledge of this. Knowledge of his pain, and why it hurt him. Knowledge of who he was, and why he suffered. It gave him identity. It separated and lifted him, rising to a pedestal the others might never learn of. From his lifted view, he could observe them. He could watch them as the scoured and scrounged, always looking and never satisfied. He could, and he did. For days that became weeks. Weeks that became months. Months that became years. For years and years and years.
The more he ate, the stronger he felt. He wondered if the others could feel the same strength. He wondered if they craved it. For he did, it was all he wanted. It was all he could need. Feeding did not make him feel better. Feeling stronger made him feel better. Ripping the flesh and spirits of those weaker ones gave him much delight. Seeing them suffer, letting them bleed, then eating everything till the did not exist anymore. This was his routine, this was his delight. It became his hobby, and then it became his art. Never feeling bad for his canvases. Showing no pity when he cut them. No mercy when he crushed them. No Remorse when he chewed them.
It always felt like this. It grew worse when he was alone. Pain that grew from inside of him, causing his heart to wretch. This pain was not the product of injury, nor was it the symptom of disease. It was both really, it was every kind of pain one could imagine. It was because of his past, that he felt it. like the ailing of an addict, or must suffer the repercussions of their former indulgence of toxin. For him, the pain could be felt physically...but it did not arise in the flesh. The source of his agony, was in his mind. It was held within an inner world. When he closed his eyes, he could transport himself there.
Upon a stage, with the only spotlight shined on his head, he sat in view of an infinite theatre. In every direction from the stage, the audience gathered. There are so many, that their numbers begin to dwindle into the ever darkening world. When left alone, he succumbs to their call. Begging, as if for an encore, for him to return to the stage. Once he arrives however, the audience begins to perform instead. They sing, they cry, and they yell. They do everything they can to garner his attention, desperate to be heard and remembered. For they are not real, nor are they fake.
They are souls, too many to be heard, who are all so desperate to be heard. The only time they get to be themselves, is when they are heard. He looks out to them, recalling their every detail and behavior. When this happens, they come to life before him, and for a moment, they may speak of their life with him. When they are remembered, they get to feel unique. When they are unique, they can be an individual. When they are separated from the horde, and can be themselves, it is the same as being alive again. They crave this feeling, they need the delight it brings. Unfortunately, he can not bring them back or provide them true relief. For if he were to let them sing, let them dominate the stage...that he himself would have to give it up.
Eyes opening, Marcelius quickly took in his surroundings. Within seconds it was clear to him, he was back in his room. Warmth returned to his skin, as fake sunshine poured through the window. Dust was kicking up through the air, contrasting the stillness of his space. It was awful. Such quiet. Such lack of motion. It was driving him back to madness. So much so, he dragged himself from his comfortable chair. Releasing a groan as he rose, proving he had grown too complacent in his seat. By the end of his breath, he was out his door.
Into the halls of the Palace. Out here he would find peace, by locating distractions. Filling his head with the thoughts and plans of others, he would drown out all the ideas his own conscience would conjure. The lives that dwelled within Las Noches, the scores and scores of Arrancar, were perfect for his needs. By observing them, learning about them, he could focus his mind on lives of actual consequence within the world. They were more important than those who have fallen in the past, for they still possessed opportunity.
Yes, any one of the great members of his race, could go on to achieve marvelous and wonderful things. From the two of his head, he could name nearly a dozen who had already done such wondrous things for Las Noches. There were even special examples, like the mighty Espada. Souls so powerful, that they could shape the will of all of Hueco Mundo. The lives and value of these souls, far outweighed the opinions or desires of those within him. Yes, this was the creed by which his new life was to take shape. It was a dismissal of the past, so that a better future might be built. It was honorable, and wise...and it was the most difficult ambition he could have ever chosen to live his life by.
For today, personal growth would be his prerogative. It could not always be about the other souls in Las Noches. Somedays had to be devoted to himself, so that he might improve his quality. The topic of self improvement was quite the confusing subject, for the likes of Marc. This was a result of his highly complex soul. Just as all other Hollows and Arrancar could claim, he was the product of numerous spirits...all pressed into a singularity. Often he felt that way about it himself, like his soul were black hole. Having grown quite powerful of his many years of life, he did so by way of death and consumption. Had it not been for all the lives that now torture him, he would never have attained any power of his own. Whenever he attempted to better himself, in any way, the thoughts of all those he killed begin to sing out. Though they do not actively speak poorly of him, they break his will be playing off of his guilt. Speaking of their lives and their deaths, his own shame takes over from there.
He questions why he must improve himself? What good could come from it? Would it not be the same as consuming more innocent lives? The questions worked at the foundations of his confidence, until they drove him into accepting the progress he had made thus far. Fortunately, Marcelius had grown quite the sizable amount of willpower over the years. He had fought back the voices, and overcome them. They rise against him quite often, but he fights them back each time. However, exhausting himself in training or other forms of strenuous activity, only makes it easier for his internal enemies to speak up. Today however, they were already causing a ruckus, so he might as well get some much needed labor out of the way as well.
There are several locations within the castle of Hueco Mundo, that young Arrancar can train and improve their techniques. Given that every citizen of Las Noches is expected to fight and defend it, training was often quite necessary. Newly formed Arrancars, or those who are lacking in power, are forced to face one another again and again...until they ascend their current potential. There was a level of joy that he found in it. Given his need for numerous distractions, he had become quite the social butterfly. In these training facilities, he could indulge his need for social interaction and refine his techniques. Before stepping into any of the training sessions with any of the various Hollows here, he took a moment to observe them. From what he saw, there was no shortage of power or diversity here. It was interesting to see so many different scales of strength, coalescing together in this beneficial way. What was to be expected, was the arrogance and aggression that fueled most of the souls.
There was no shortage of injuries and no shortage of insults either. All of it was a joy to spectate, but it was not without drawbacks. For starters, he was forced to watch bullying and life threatening almost constantly. The difference between Hollows born of angry deaths, and sad ones. What the outside world never took time to understand, was that an Hollows death is a significant influence on their future. No matter how powerful or old they grow, they never forget the feelings connected with their deaths. It is a sad, but important truth about his kind. One he understands, and embodies. Examining the practice of Las Noches' soldiers, did more than just stir his philosophies. What he saw was also a reminder, of his own experiences when he first arrived. The instructor he had been allowed to choose. The klessons he had been taught, on how to live and be as a proper Arrancar. No words could express how much he appreciated the time and education he had received. Still, there were many teachings he had not agreed with. To be an Arrancar should not include needless death and constant conflict. If he could have his way, he would hush all infighting amongst the legions of Broken Masks. Sadly, he was in no position to do such a thing.
For in Las Noches, as with all of Hueco Mundo, it takes great power and title...to command any form of respect. That was not a life for him; however, for he did not possess the merit or desire to pursue Las Noches' ideal on "powerful". Then, snapping him from his deep daydream, the burst of a hot Cero came screeching towards his location. Though he had been idly lost in his own mind and imaginations, he had kept one "eye" on the activity below. There was a contest, of sorts, now being held by the grouped trainees. They were comparing Cero, as a show of greatness. Given his position on an observation deck, Marc himself had been excluded from the contest. However, he had now received an invitation, of the most direct sort.
Scanning through the crowd, Marcelius created a mental profile of each Arrancar he observed. The easiest data to acquire was their emotions, most shifting between rage and vigilance. These were Arrancar, which meant their lives knew no shortage of emotion. What they felt, always burned brightly. Even Arrancar who have mastered self control, have done so to keep their feelings hidden. Hmmm, but these sort of things could not remain invisible to Marc. His information did not stop there, for next he determine each of their individual strengths.
Several powerful souls here, each one at least that of Adjuchas. A few of them were talking among themselves, but most had retreated to the silence of internal thought. For the most part...they were all staring at him. Given it would be rude to refuse, he made his way down from his perch. Just be descending to the training floor with them was admission enough. Immediately, groups started splitting off and preparing themselves. Marc waited for a competitor to step forward for him, even though he already knew who it would b.
Of course, it could be none other than the challenger who had lashed out at him before. The one whose Cero went tearing through the "neutral" section. He was a tall Hollow, with no hair to speak of on his head. The remnants of his mask stretched far, like a mohawk, curling far aback on cranium. He was tall, with darkened skin. His name, Yamere. The rules were then explained, that it was a contest of Cero strength and power. The two would clash with their Cero, and whoever could force the other's back would be the winner. No sooner had the guidelines been issued, did several Cero sprout up and begin to blast away at one another all over the room. The smile that Marcelius once had, was now fading.
His opponent was already charging his attack, it was impressive and well formed. Whether it was the strongest or not, that remained to be seen...but it would be a contender. Marcelius, unfortunately, was not concerned with his opponent. Within his hand, a pale and pleasant Cero begin to form. His attention was on the other Hollows. Several of them were endangering their lives by competing in such an event. They had no business battling in a straight show of brawn...but if they did not, they would be labeled weak. It was not hard to be considered weak in this society. For those who we determined to be lacking in power, life would become immensely more difficult. So difficult in fact, that instead of forging strength out of hardship...it would break them before they were ready.
Once again, the zealous, passionate nature of the Arrancar race...going to far to be of use. This needed to change. It had to change. It would begin, with a Cero. Released at the same point as his competition. As soon as the two forces collided, there was a massive spring of energy. Where there two attacks crossed, sparks and reaiatsu flew in every direction. They were at a stalemate it seems, with neither being able to overthrow the other. If force could not end the struggle, the endurance would. For Marc, Cero had been a tool far longer than this child had even been alive. Shamefully, in as his time spent in this reality, it had never improved.
But now, in the midst of all these struggling Arrancar, he could see what had been missing. Desire. Not just desire for power, but desire for change. Not only to survive each day, but to improve the quality of those days. Marcelius had never wanted this before, as he had always been compelled by either hunger...or guilt. He could never let himself desire more, or aspire for greater things. Here, in Las Noches, he could see the struggle of those who did have such cravings. They would fight and die and then choose to do so again, so long as their lives would not have to remain the bleak things they always were. He had wanted what they felt, but Marc had never truly felt it. Now, surrounded by all these desperate souls, his empathy could finally grow enough to overpower his Will. He could undo the strength that had been holding him back from within, and strive for the greatness he would need to save his people!
So...with a thunderous crash, his Cero grew and grew. It's form became perfect, and unfiltered...and it pushed deeply into the flow of it's rival. The energy cascade was glorious and bright, and when it was over, the young Yamere's Cero had been blanketed and destroyed. Yamere himself, who should have stood doomed in the path of the blast, would feel a rushing heat of joy swell through him. Enveloped in a yellow haze, the emotion would be pure and from his core. He was thrilled to still be alive. A mastery of anything, is first a mastery of one's self. With Marcelius once again the master of his heart and mind, control and manipulation of a Cero became as child's play.
No voice of objection came, as he choose to leave the training grounds behind. Simply turning to leave, he thanked his opponent and the other's for allowing him to join in. Once out of their site, he let out a deep sigh. One built of both joy and great relief. Through the halls he would begin his wandering anew. There was still so much of Las Noches to explore, more importantly, new lessons to learn. It was fortunate for him, that dispute his great age, he had no trouble picking up new tricks. In honesty, it felt more like rediscovery. Marcelius had given up, a great time ago, on being a spectacular warrior. This was the thought he was most sure of, in his outrageously complex collection of memories. Despite the certainty with which he held this belief, he was well aware he did not know it's true origin. How long ago, it really was, when he decided against killing and conflict.
Regardless, he had developed some talent...and not all of the credit goes to his past. Today had been important, one he would never forget. Even if he tried, it might prove impossible. While walking along, unsure of his next destination, he created a warm light for himself. It was a Cero, perfect and pleasant. It did not crackle with unattended structure or wobble with poor density. It appeared uniform and...sublime. To Marc, like many things, it developed additional meanings. From this day forward, Cero was to be an elegant solution and sign of conviction.
Instead of a messy spray of raw aggression, he would use this technique to further himself and his ideals. An old anecdote came to mind, of mastering a weapon so that one day it would not have to be used. Hmm, a beautiful thought...but not one that this particular world was ready to entertain. Not yet, anyways. So until the time comes, that Hollows evolve past the need for Cero..., the old man smiled, and pressed his collected reiatsu against the wall. As he walked, the energy carved a long, curvy, flawless line. "Who am I kidding, they'll always find this fun."
Hungry. So very hungry. All the time hungry, all the time starving! Eat. Eat anything. Eat everything, eat it all till it does not hurt anymore! Eat and eat. Eat, eat, eat, and eat! This was his every thought, of every moment, of every day. It was whole. It was a purpose. It was everything he was not. It was everything he desired. He was Hollow. Strong, terrible, hungry, and incomplete. He was not alone. There were many. Oh so many. Just like him, each hungry and incomplete. They all wandered, without reason to sit or stop. They all suffered, endless hunger they could not sate.
Through the sands. Through the forests. They all had to keep walking. To keep moving. To keep devouring. What set him apart from all of the others, was his knowledge of this. Knowledge of his pain, and why it hurt him. Knowledge of who he was, and why he suffered. It gave him identity. It separated and lifted him, rising to a pedestal the others might never learn of. From his lifted view, he could observe them. He could watch them as the scoured and scrounged, always looking and never satisfied. He could, and he did. For days that became weeks. Weeks that became months. Months that became years. For years and years and years.
The more he ate, the stronger he felt. He wondered if the others could feel the same strength. He wondered if they craved it. For he did, it was all he wanted. It was all he could need. Feeding did not make him feel better. Feeling stronger made him feel better. Ripping the flesh and spirits of those weaker ones gave him much delight. Seeing them suffer, letting them bleed, then eating everything till the did not exist anymore. This was his routine, this was his delight. It became his hobby, and then it became his art. Never feeling bad for his canvases. Showing no pity when he cut them. No mercy when he crushed them. No Remorse when he chewed them.
It always felt like this. It grew worse when he was alone. Pain that grew from inside of him, causing his heart to wretch. This pain was not the product of injury, nor was it the symptom of disease. It was both really, it was every kind of pain one could imagine. It was because of his past, that he felt it. like the ailing of an addict, or must suffer the repercussions of their former indulgence of toxin. For him, the pain could be felt physically...but it did not arise in the flesh. The source of his agony, was in his mind. It was held within an inner world. When he closed his eyes, he could transport himself there.
Upon a stage, with the only spotlight shined on his head, he sat in view of an infinite theatre. In every direction from the stage, the audience gathered. There are so many, that their numbers begin to dwindle into the ever darkening world. When left alone, he succumbs to their call. Begging, as if for an encore, for him to return to the stage. Once he arrives however, the audience begins to perform instead. They sing, they cry, and they yell. They do everything they can to garner his attention, desperate to be heard and remembered. For they are not real, nor are they fake.
They are souls, too many to be heard, who are all so desperate to be heard. The only time they get to be themselves, is when they are heard. He looks out to them, recalling their every detail and behavior. When this happens, they come to life before him, and for a moment, they may speak of their life with him. When they are remembered, they get to feel unique. When they are unique, they can be an individual. When they are separated from the horde, and can be themselves, it is the same as being alive again. They crave this feeling, they need the delight it brings. Unfortunately, he can not bring them back or provide them true relief. For if he were to let them sing, let them dominate the stage...that he himself would have to give it up.
Eyes opening, Marcelius quickly took in his surroundings. Within seconds it was clear to him, he was back in his room. Warmth returned to his skin, as fake sunshine poured through the window. Dust was kicking up through the air, contrasting the stillness of his space. It was awful. Such quiet. Such lack of motion. It was driving him back to madness. So much so, he dragged himself from his comfortable chair. Releasing a groan as he rose, proving he had grown too complacent in his seat. By the end of his breath, he was out his door.
Into the halls of the Palace. Out here he would find peace, by locating distractions. Filling his head with the thoughts and plans of others, he would drown out all the ideas his own conscience would conjure. The lives that dwelled within Las Noches, the scores and scores of Arrancar, were perfect for his needs. By observing them, learning about them, he could focus his mind on lives of actual consequence within the world. They were more important than those who have fallen in the past, for they still possessed opportunity.
Yes, any one of the great members of his race, could go on to achieve marvelous and wonderful things. From the two of his head, he could name nearly a dozen who had already done such wondrous things for Las Noches. There were even special examples, like the mighty Espada. Souls so powerful, that they could shape the will of all of Hueco Mundo. The lives and value of these souls, far outweighed the opinions or desires of those within him. Yes, this was the creed by which his new life was to take shape. It was a dismissal of the past, so that a better future might be built. It was honorable, and wise...and it was the most difficult ambition he could have ever chosen to live his life by.
For today, personal growth would be his prerogative. It could not always be about the other souls in Las Noches. Somedays had to be devoted to himself, so that he might improve his quality. The topic of self improvement was quite the confusing subject, for the likes of Marc. This was a result of his highly complex soul. Just as all other Hollows and Arrancar could claim, he was the product of numerous spirits...all pressed into a singularity. Often he felt that way about it himself, like his soul were black hole. Having grown quite powerful of his many years of life, he did so by way of death and consumption. Had it not been for all the lives that now torture him, he would never have attained any power of his own. Whenever he attempted to better himself, in any way, the thoughts of all those he killed begin to sing out. Though they do not actively speak poorly of him, they break his will be playing off of his guilt. Speaking of their lives and their deaths, his own shame takes over from there.
He questions why he must improve himself? What good could come from it? Would it not be the same as consuming more innocent lives? The questions worked at the foundations of his confidence, until they drove him into accepting the progress he had made thus far. Fortunately, Marcelius had grown quite the sizable amount of willpower over the years. He had fought back the voices, and overcome them. They rise against him quite often, but he fights them back each time. However, exhausting himself in training or other forms of strenuous activity, only makes it easier for his internal enemies to speak up. Today however, they were already causing a ruckus, so he might as well get some much needed labor out of the way as well.
There are several locations within the castle of Hueco Mundo, that young Arrancar can train and improve their techniques. Given that every citizen of Las Noches is expected to fight and defend it, training was often quite necessary. Newly formed Arrancars, or those who are lacking in power, are forced to face one another again and again...until they ascend their current potential. There was a level of joy that he found in it. Given his need for numerous distractions, he had become quite the social butterfly. In these training facilities, he could indulge his need for social interaction and refine his techniques. Before stepping into any of the training sessions with any of the various Hollows here, he took a moment to observe them. From what he saw, there was no shortage of power or diversity here. It was interesting to see so many different scales of strength, coalescing together in this beneficial way. What was to be expected, was the arrogance and aggression that fueled most of the souls.
There was no shortage of injuries and no shortage of insults either. All of it was a joy to spectate, but it was not without drawbacks. For starters, he was forced to watch bullying and life threatening almost constantly. The difference between Hollows born of angry deaths, and sad ones. What the outside world never took time to understand, was that an Hollows death is a significant influence on their future. No matter how powerful or old they grow, they never forget the feelings connected with their deaths. It is a sad, but important truth about his kind. One he understands, and embodies. Examining the practice of Las Noches' soldiers, did more than just stir his philosophies. What he saw was also a reminder, of his own experiences when he first arrived. The instructor he had been allowed to choose. The klessons he had been taught, on how to live and be as a proper Arrancar. No words could express how much he appreciated the time and education he had received. Still, there were many teachings he had not agreed with. To be an Arrancar should not include needless death and constant conflict. If he could have his way, he would hush all infighting amongst the legions of Broken Masks. Sadly, he was in no position to do such a thing.
For in Las Noches, as with all of Hueco Mundo, it takes great power and title...to command any form of respect. That was not a life for him; however, for he did not possess the merit or desire to pursue Las Noches' ideal on "powerful". Then, snapping him from his deep daydream, the burst of a hot Cero came screeching towards his location. Though he had been idly lost in his own mind and imaginations, he had kept one "eye" on the activity below. There was a contest, of sorts, now being held by the grouped trainees. They were comparing Cero, as a show of greatness. Given his position on an observation deck, Marc himself had been excluded from the contest. However, he had now received an invitation, of the most direct sort.
Scanning through the crowd, Marcelius created a mental profile of each Arrancar he observed. The easiest data to acquire was their emotions, most shifting between rage and vigilance. These were Arrancar, which meant their lives knew no shortage of emotion. What they felt, always burned brightly. Even Arrancar who have mastered self control, have done so to keep their feelings hidden. Hmmm, but these sort of things could not remain invisible to Marc. His information did not stop there, for next he determine each of their individual strengths.
Several powerful souls here, each one at least that of Adjuchas. A few of them were talking among themselves, but most had retreated to the silence of internal thought. For the most part...they were all staring at him. Given it would be rude to refuse, he made his way down from his perch. Just be descending to the training floor with them was admission enough. Immediately, groups started splitting off and preparing themselves. Marc waited for a competitor to step forward for him, even though he already knew who it would b.
Of course, it could be none other than the challenger who had lashed out at him before. The one whose Cero went tearing through the "neutral" section. He was a tall Hollow, with no hair to speak of on his head. The remnants of his mask stretched far, like a mohawk, curling far aback on cranium. He was tall, with darkened skin. His name, Yamere. The rules were then explained, that it was a contest of Cero strength and power. The two would clash with their Cero, and whoever could force the other's back would be the winner. No sooner had the guidelines been issued, did several Cero sprout up and begin to blast away at one another all over the room. The smile that Marcelius once had, was now fading.
His opponent was already charging his attack, it was impressive and well formed. Whether it was the strongest or not, that remained to be seen...but it would be a contender. Marcelius, unfortunately, was not concerned with his opponent. Within his hand, a pale and pleasant Cero begin to form. His attention was on the other Hollows. Several of them were endangering their lives by competing in such an event. They had no business battling in a straight show of brawn...but if they did not, they would be labeled weak. It was not hard to be considered weak in this society. For those who we determined to be lacking in power, life would become immensely more difficult. So difficult in fact, that instead of forging strength out of hardship...it would break them before they were ready.
Once again, the zealous, passionate nature of the Arrancar race...going to far to be of use. This needed to change. It had to change. It would begin, with a Cero. Released at the same point as his competition. As soon as the two forces collided, there was a massive spring of energy. Where there two attacks crossed, sparks and reaiatsu flew in every direction. They were at a stalemate it seems, with neither being able to overthrow the other. If force could not end the struggle, the endurance would. For Marc, Cero had been a tool far longer than this child had even been alive. Shamefully, in as his time spent in this reality, it had never improved.
But now, in the midst of all these struggling Arrancar, he could see what had been missing. Desire. Not just desire for power, but desire for change. Not only to survive each day, but to improve the quality of those days. Marcelius had never wanted this before, as he had always been compelled by either hunger...or guilt. He could never let himself desire more, or aspire for greater things. Here, in Las Noches, he could see the struggle of those who did have such cravings. They would fight and die and then choose to do so again, so long as their lives would not have to remain the bleak things they always were. He had wanted what they felt, but Marc had never truly felt it. Now, surrounded by all these desperate souls, his empathy could finally grow enough to overpower his Will. He could undo the strength that had been holding him back from within, and strive for the greatness he would need to save his people!
So...with a thunderous crash, his Cero grew and grew. It's form became perfect, and unfiltered...and it pushed deeply into the flow of it's rival. The energy cascade was glorious and bright, and when it was over, the young Yamere's Cero had been blanketed and destroyed. Yamere himself, who should have stood doomed in the path of the blast, would feel a rushing heat of joy swell through him. Enveloped in a yellow haze, the emotion would be pure and from his core. He was thrilled to still be alive. A mastery of anything, is first a mastery of one's self. With Marcelius once again the master of his heart and mind, control and manipulation of a Cero became as child's play.
No voice of objection came, as he choose to leave the training grounds behind. Simply turning to leave, he thanked his opponent and the other's for allowing him to join in. Once out of their site, he let out a deep sigh. One built of both joy and great relief. Through the halls he would begin his wandering anew. There was still so much of Las Noches to explore, more importantly, new lessons to learn. It was fortunate for him, that dispute his great age, he had no trouble picking up new tricks. In honesty, it felt more like rediscovery. Marcelius had given up, a great time ago, on being a spectacular warrior. This was the thought he was most sure of, in his outrageously complex collection of memories. Despite the certainty with which he held this belief, he was well aware he did not know it's true origin. How long ago, it really was, when he decided against killing and conflict.
Regardless, he had developed some talent...and not all of the credit goes to his past. Today had been important, one he would never forget. Even if he tried, it might prove impossible. While walking along, unsure of his next destination, he created a warm light for himself. It was a Cero, perfect and pleasant. It did not crackle with unattended structure or wobble with poor density. It appeared uniform and...sublime. To Marc, like many things, it developed additional meanings. From this day forward, Cero was to be an elegant solution and sign of conviction.
Instead of a messy spray of raw aggression, he would use this technique to further himself and his ideals. An old anecdote came to mind, of mastering a weapon so that one day it would not have to be used. Hmm, a beautiful thought...but not one that this particular world was ready to entertain. Not yet, anyways. So until the time comes, that Hollows evolve past the need for Cero..., the old man smiled, and pressed his collected reiatsu against the wall. As he walked, the energy carved a long, curvy, flawless line. "Who am I kidding, they'll always find this fun."
