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Suddenly, an azure streak so brilliant it’s nearly white parts the heavens. It carves a path to the ground, and in its wake stands a man at 5’6”; approximately 160lbs. His athletic frame is well toned, the result of extreme discipline drilled into mind, body, and spirit over a few decades of committed training. High above the clouds and thick blankets of smoke, red sprites occupy the upper atmosphere over the point where his lightning had struck. The cold plasma thriving in the expanse pockets of nitrogen produced by the volcanic activity in the region.

It doesn’t take long before the smell of melting soles alerts him to the face that the area is too hot for him to stand in his shoes apparently. He sighs, shaking his head dismissively as his almond shaped charcoal eyes scan the terrain. His left-hand scratches at the back of his head, the right clutching the haft of his halberd about the middle of its length. The heavier blade hangs slightly angled towards the ground with the put positioned about elbow height where it extends behind him. To his left hip secured by belt is unmistakably a katana of some design, an eighteen-inch rod with tapered points secured on the opposite side.

Lifting one foot at a time he pries his ruined shoes off, and he tosses them haphazardly aside as they come off. As each foot grows bare, he returns it to the charred terrain of cooling lava unperturbed. It would take a lot more than extreme temperatures to compromise him.

He knows not who calls him out nor why, though the Slayer doesn’t take kindly to open threats. Willingly he meets whomever on their terms, forgoing his full regalia considering their designation in the name of vanquishing the likes of daemons; any comparable monsters as far as he’s concerned. Unlike his predecessor, he doesn’t discriminate against the monsters of mankind. If his opponent proved to be a good person, he’d spare them. Otherwise, he’d feel no remorse over their abrupt conclusion.

Regardless, he doesn’t anticipate the battle will last long once his opponent arrives and the formalities have come to pass. In his experience, win or lose, the best fights never lasted quite as long. Unless he had the pleasure of sparing his Master of course. As he awaits the reveal of his adversary, The Merle Knight proceeds to stretch. He maneuvers his halberd, switching hands as necessary. Dressed in a black, skin tight tee and a pair of black harem pants, he hardly appears equipped for the terrain, let alone a bout threatening enough to weigh against his life.

From deep within his lower Tanden (Dantian), the Raiju bellows its thunderous roars throughout his psyche in anticipation; ever excited by the prospect of their expressions via actual combat as opposed to pettier training and spars. His free, open fist folds approximately over his naval, and he rubs his belly reassuringly. As if to be soothed.

”Soon,” he mutters seemingly to himself.

He sensed the man well before her came into view, peering up at him just before the additional alert was afforded unto him, and after the shifting of celestial bodies sans the effects such a feat would wreak on the world itself. From the metal of his limb to any armor and weapons, Jinsoku could sense it all clearly given his electric affinity. Again, the opponent lands heavily, cracking the scorched earth his strength uncontrolled; indiscriminate.

”I’m Ser Jinsoku Hayabusa. Second of James Eredas of the Order of Force Majeure,” he says, a lilt of arrogance on his voice despite his Master’s sincerest warnings.

His opponent tears away their cloak, casting it to a local lava pool. Jinsoku by contrast remains unmoved and unimpressed. No stance, no guard, no subtle activation of his Dao nor Yoki. He affords Zeo a crooked, wry grin as his charcoal eyes narrow sharply on him.

”Good luck,” he says coyly.

’No kings, no gods, only man.’ he muses, remaining poised. He’d wait a moment longer for his would-be opponent to commence. He grows restless awaiting Zeo, enough so that he lifts his left, open fist and effectively signals with the back of it. He folds and extends his fingers repetitiously, taunting Zeo. Bring it.

He furrows a brow, still grinning, and a chortle escapes him as he watches the lurching wave encroach. Even as it picks up speed, it remains a fraction in the lower echelon of his own prowess. As for the temperature, it was hot, though it pales in comparison to the heat experienced via his affinity. Lightning. His lower Tanden opens, allowing the Raiju's illustrious Yoki to flow through him, and his charcoal eyes become a blue so brilliant it's nearly white.

”Ganbare,” he mussitates to his opponent likely unheard.

He crouches, leaning towards the approaching wave as if preparing to tackle it. The moment the wave breaks their line of sight with one another, Jinsoku remains aware of Zeo passively through the varying degrees of electromagnetic pulses twixt himself and the environment. He kicks off the cracked, charred earth with muscle control so precise all his force is packed into propelling him forward without wasting energy in translation. Not only does he maneuver several dozens of times over the sound barrier, producing shockwaves around him as he travels, but he also leaves a generous afterimage where he previously stood.

Whether Zeo can keep up with or react to speeds greater than 200,000 mph, Jinsoku pierces the wave; his shockwaves parting it unnecessarily in a span no greater than his toroid. Concomitantly he raises his polearm overhead, and as he breaches striking range he lands while thrusting his halberd for Zeo’s lowered torso. By the time he slows enough to compliment typical human thought and perception (50-100 milliseconds), Zeo would be impaled, and hoisted disrespectfully off the ground; extended over Jinsoku’s head where he’d still be grinning arrogantly as he looks up at him with a narrow gaze.

The force behind the blow is one generously over 65 billion pounds of force, exponentially compounded five times because of its alien composition, which translates to a whopping 325 billion pounds of force threatening Zeo. All focused behind the top spike of the halberd with its traditional head facing Jin’s left, the back spike pointing to his right. He twists into the strike, keeping his left fist open though positioned in a half guard.

Zeo's greatest warning was the disturbance to the wave of lava, though to see his afterimage on the other side may beg that he still idles there; it merely depends on Zeo's senses, closely followed by his speed and agility. Despite his aversion to taking life, his opponent's bloodlust is nearly palpable. Had he been merely a man by standard definition, he'd be dead already. Though unfortunately for Zeo this wasn't the case. As he strikes, the Raiju bellows throughout his psyche aggressively anticipating a challenge; though Jinsoku remains unconvinced.