The mental preparation for war had been finished, but there was always so much to do. The trifecta of the being of a person consisted of the body, the soul, and the mind. That to be able to embrace what needed to be done, to accept all that he was and has become he must delve into all three. Through his letters written in his most vulnerable moments he had found a peace within his soul and mind. But that was not the only level of preparation needed for the coming trials and tribulations. His body would now find it's self thrown through hell, to push his limits in a way which transcended his mortal coil. But it would not be simple, nor would his reflection be so.
The King of Vastime, informally known as Desmond, stood in front of a mirror'd wall within his personal gym. An underground facility which could endure and hide the continental shaking power he could exert. However, his emerald eyes where focused on his visage, staring intently at the history of his body. Clothed in a simple article of clothing to hide his modest bits his full body was on display, allowing him to reflect upon it. Scars littered his body, deep gashes which had improperly healed forever tainting the olive skin. Deep tissue burns grotesquely healed over causing darker skin to form on certain parts of his body.
Each wound, each scar, bore a story to the man from his human life to his life as a spirit. A constant pain he rarely spoke about, nor complained about. But even now it was apperant how much the man had suffered in his relatively youthful state. The little imperfections of his body he rarely spoke about, such as how his left arm could never fully straighten out after his fight with Wolf Lionus. The way his ability to taste faded ever so slightly over the years, most likely due to some type of brain damage he had suffered. The soft ringing he heard when he stood still for too long. Imperfections. Wounds. Scars. Reminders.
All of those little reminders had built up over the years, perhaps if he was less reckless in his youth he would be faster, or even stronger perhaps. And in being those things perhaps quicker to join the fight. For all the people he's saved, for all the lives he's protected, those where not the things which he thought of. In this moment, while staring at the imperfections of his body, he thought of how he failed to be fast enough to save everyone. How he failed to be strong enough to protect those which he couldn't. If he was perhaps smarter, or more tactful, maybe he could've even avoided war entirely. If only..
If only he had been someone else.
But that was not what he could be. Nor was it what he was. In all his failures and successful one constant factor remained. He was Desmond Hayden, and that was who he would remain. As bronze callouse finger tips traced a jagged scar on his inner elbow, he was reminded how he got these scars. In the service of the world, in the pursuit of a forlorn dream that he knew was impossible. But it was that dream which was worth fighting for, it was that dream which served to motivate the man to move forward. Even now as his body seemed to fail him, he pressed onward. He was marching towards annihilation with a body which seemed to be failing more and more everyday.
The callous fingers of Hayden seemed to drift towards his chest, resting over his heart. Emerald eyes simply staring at the spot quietly. He did not have long. All those years of strife where catching up to the man, culminating in this final act. His final requiem to the world would be one last war for all the marbles. He most likely would not see it's end, but if his death could serve a purpose a final motivation of the world to unite and throw their oppressors back: He'd throw his life into the inferno.
Thus, he'd remove his hand. The King, Desmond, would turn away from the mirror breaking the solemn quiet reflection. There was work to be done, a body to be brought to standard. He was burning his years away with every punch, everytime he pushed himself he was burning the match on both ends. But as he walked into the center of the arena, his breathing slowing as his reiatsu began to steadily rise. Fingers beginning to curl into tight fists, closing his eyes as the world seemed to lose all sound. In the quiet ether, there was only one person, and one person alone.
He had only himself. And his last hope, his last ambition, was that it would be enough. When his time came, he would not have Abalia, Nelliel, Henrex, Liu, or any of them. He would well and truly be alone, in one last final gambit to inspire the masses. It was for the best; for he did not know if he could bare to tell them goodbye in person.
Coding Altered From: [THEFROST]'s