[Exalted] Ain’t No Devil

It's the first days of Spring. The sun is high and bright in the clear blue sky, the wind smelling faintly of salt as it blows in from a sea that sparkles like sapphire. The air rides that razor-thin magin, neither too hot nor too cold, the kind of day the word 'balmy' was invented to describe. A man could drift off in the shade and awaken an hour later, comfortable and refreshed.

You're grateful for the air that rushes over you, cooling the sweat on your skin, as you hurl yourself to the ground and roll. You feel the tremor through the sand as the hammer falls, hear the dull boom of an impact that throws sand high into the air all around. You come up from your roll on one knee and twist toward the other man, bare arms bulging as you bring your weapon around. He's misjudged your range again - or maybe he just didn't think you were strong enough to lift the damn thing from this position. His options boil down to 'let you live' or 'risk losing a leg' and he chooses what anyone would. He jerks his leading leg back as your massive blade slices through the air it used to occupy and backs up a few more paces, teeth gritted in a frustrated snarl. You rise to your full height and swing your sword around, letting it rest at a waist-high guard position.

You tilt your head with a soft 'tsk'. He exhales like a set of furious bellows, bringing the hammer down into his free hand with a meaty smack. The roar of the crowd dulls, ring after tiered ring of onlookers shifting forward to the edges of their benches - if they weren't already there - and holding their breath as one.

It's the first days of Spring and the annual Festival of Cleansing Air is in full swing. Out there people are revelling in the streets or watching the parades or taking boats down the petal-strewn waterways with their sweethearts, but in here? In here people know where the real action is. The Festival pulls people from all over the satrap, but the Tournament of Ten Winds casts the net even wider. For some it's the prize money. For some it's the fame. For some it's just the rare chance to duel in the presence of living divinity - for every battle takes place beneath the watchful eye of four highly-decorated dignitaries from the House of the White Swallow and its venerable patriarch himself. The latter is never seen to use his draconic form in public, but the way his keen eye gleams from up in the VIP box, the heavenly insight is palpable. For you, it's a little of all three.

It's midmorning on the third day of the tournament and you're in the semi-finals up against this immense bastard that you had pegged to be a problem from day one. He fucking scythed through the melee like a farmer reaping the season's crop, but still there was too much chaff between him and you to settle things early before the gong rang. Fucking amateurs, crowding the bottom of the lists for a couple free meals and a chance to look tough for their girls.

The aformentioned immense bastard calls himself the Bull of the White Sea. Claims he's descended from the Bull of the North himself, and it's not impossible. He's got a full foot on you easily, his scarred hide dark and thick as leather, his head crowned by a pair of massive horns. Really it's just the very human face snarling at you and the fact he's got sandals on instead of hooves that give away the fact that he's only a beastblood, not the full thing. He's barely clothed, just a fur loincloth compared to your breastplate and helm, but that doesn't matter much either way. His warhammer's practically the size of you and he knows know to use it. But you decide to check again, just to be sure.

You come at him from an oblique angle, feinting low only to circle around and cut for the shoulder. Steel rings on steel as he catches it on the banded haft, just below the head. Repels you with a flex of arms as thick as your legs before you can do anything tricky like slice his fingers off. You go with the rebound, duck the retaliation sweep that would've decapitated you and aim another cut for his barrel-like stomach. Clang. He catches it below the head, but this time he's had enough. He uses the hammerhead like a hook and sweeps your blade off-course, around and around until you're off-balance. Thump, a single footfall feels like a tremor deep in the earth. His grinning face rushes forward to meet you beneath a brow just as lethal as his hammer.

Your core flexes. One hand slips free of the blade. You use its weight like a fulcrum as you lean out of range, swing around, and drive your fist into his kidney. Just a dull smack like you punched a cow carcass, a grunt more of annoyance than pain, but you didn't plan to stop there anyway. You keep turning and you drive your knee into the back of his. That gives him something to think about. You take a single step back, just enough to give yourself room, draw your sword back and swing. He's got good instincts. He whirls around, pivots on his kicked knee despite the pain and swings his hammer right back at you. Your weapons collide head-on with an almighty CLANGGGGG and it feels like your bones try to shake free of your arms. You stagger back, barely stop yourself toppling over, and by the time you've righted yourself so has he.

The crowd is going wild for this. It's hard to tell who they're even rooting for at this point - probably neither. You're sure that's why they threw you two at each other for the semis. Whoever wins gets to fight the real hero of the tournament tomorrow. Today they just want blood. There's a certain honesty in that. You can respect it. Doesn't matter much to you right now. What does is the fact that that collision knocked a noticeable chip out of your sword like a tooth out of a smile. Bull's hammer isn't looking so hot either, but he's got a whole lot more blunt fuck-you metal to work with. If you keep dancing around clashing with him, it's not gonna be you that comes out on top. If you want out, you need to end this now. Decisively.

Your favourite.

You hold your sword low and back, tip scraping a furrow in the sands as you charge forward. It's a rush so suicidal that it gives even the Bull pause, just for a moment. Wondering what you're playing at only to decide he doesn't care. He knows you're going low so he swings from on high, his hammer poised to descend like a meteor from the heavens- no, it's a feint! Once you're too close to break off or change course he switches angles, letting it drop only to swing around low from the left. Whatever he hits - ribs, arm, skull - he'll shatter. One love-tap and you die. Your feet pound across the warm white sands, all of Creation seeming to slow to a crawl as you watch that cracked steel hammer come for you. Once nice, clean hit and maybe you'd be dead before you realised. Just darkness and nothing. When the alternative is being crippled, you take what you can get.

But he's misjudged your range again. Assumed you were trying to strike him in the ankles as you ran past like some runt wolf with a knife in its jaws. Your blade rises and rises, your whole body tilting left as you haul against its weight. Your massive sword goes completely vertical and descends even as his hammer rushes up to meet you.

You go blind. You go deaf. You only have touch left as you go spinning, sprawling, fall broken only by the sand. You barely keep your grip on your sword, and even so its weight nearly yanks your arm from your socket. Your head is ringing, keening loud inside your ear like a trapped insect, pain throbbing behind your eyes like a second pulse. You force your eyes open and you see light. Blue sky. You aren't blind. You aren't dead.

You're still half-deaf, bu you hear Bull's hideous scream all the same as blood fountains from the stump that once was his arm, falling like red rain to stain the sands blossom-pink. You wonder, idly, where his arm landed.

THNK. His hammer lands beside you, arm still attached in a death-grip that will never slacken. Oh, there it is.

You let out a low groan from deep in your chest, slowly rolling over and forcing yourself to rise. The whining is fading, slowly but surely, only to be replaced by the cacophanous roar of the crowd. The way they're carrying on you'd think you just gave them the best show they've had in years. You grin mirthlessly up at the throng. And taste copper. Mnrgh. You spit bloody phlegm and dab at your cheek - ah, you're bleeding. And your helmet is gone, you realise much belatedly. It's lying in the sand several feet away, straps snapped, half caved-in. No blacksmith's going to be resurrecting that, so you leave it. Instead you shoulder your sword, puffing and panting to catch your breath even if your lungs are burning hotter than any fire. Bull's fallen to his knees by now, his screams finally died down to heavy huffs and gasps of agony, his remaining hand clasped white-knuckle tight over the sucking wound that used to be his shoulder. A guy his size, he might just paint the whole pit red.

The shape of the chanting changes. It's not just wild cheering and various shouts of utter disbelief any more. It's time for the fun part, the time they save for the semis and the finals. With Bull so thoroughly disarmed, the white-robed announcer standing by the VIP box calls for a vote. Will the people allow the medics to rush into the pit and attempt to save the beastblood pirate's miserable life, he asks, or shall they see the gravewalking mercenary perform the final coup de grace? If you thought the crowd were loud before, are you ever in for a shock. You grimace as the noise builds, rushing in one ear and mingling with the endless whine in the other.

You walk away. It's not five steps before the crowd that was losing its mind in awe of your audacity turns to boos and jeers. More than a few of them go right to calling you a coward. Some demand you come back and finish the job, others are content to just hurl general abuse. It's not surprising. It all mostly just rolls off your shoulders, flowing together into mixed-up white noise. The pit doors you first came through open as you approach, medics rushing past you with a stretcher and supplies. Huh. Guess they defaulted to trying to save him. Maybe it wouldn't be as fun watching him slowly bleed to death. Either way it's out of your hands now. You step out of the light and the noise, back into the cool and relatively calm shade of the lower levels. Your blood is buzzing in your veins, your head is pounding but your mind is clear. One more down. Tomorrow's the big one, all or nothing.

You see the medics once they're done with Bull, obviously. The steel-haired man with rock-steady hands who stitches up your temple doesn't say anything about how reckless you were, but his pursed lips and resigned stare say everything. You don't mention it. You're used to that too. He cleans up and moves on, always more work to be done, and you move to the washbasin to clean off the rest of the blood drying on your cheek and matted in your hair. There's a small silver-backed mirror set on the wall behind it, maybe for the fighters who prefer to treat their own wounds. You've never been one to deliberately seek out your reflection, but it's there whether you like it or not, and it draws your eye.

You've always been pale, no matter how long you sweated and bled farming and fighting in the fields. You run colder than most, enough that a simple touch of your hand is usually enough to get people complaining. Your close-cropped hair is black as night save for a bone-white lock that hangs almost down to your dark eyes, and when you look closer you can just make out the shadowed shapes of your veins. And, to top it all off, you're probably due a shave. You grumble under your breath and splash one last cupped handful of cold water on your face, drying your hands on your trousers.

You'll have to find a blacksmith willing to do a rush order on fixing up your sword. No use leaving it to shatter on you tomorrow and squander all your hard work. But it's still early, barely noon even, and there's plenty to see and do with the Festival is in town. Question is, the hell do you even want to do all day?

[ ] Go get drunk. Okay not drunk-drunk, not the day before the big day. You'll be responsible for once, keep it low-key. Find somewhere nice and affordable and just watch the hours fly by.
[ ] Go eat. Not what they feed the fighters here, it's too frou-frou fancy for your blood. You need something cheap in vast quantities that you can dig into and sleep off overnight.
[ ] Get a massage. Hey, why not? You've been beat all to shit today, might help keep you limber for tomorrow. Assuming anyone in town is willing to get that close even if you pay them.
[ ] Watch the parade. If you go early you can probably find a good spot to stand where you won't be surrounded by more screaming cheering people and their children. You've never bothered before but hey, maybe it's not that bad.
[ ] Go down to the harbour. Most shipping is prohibited during the Festival and everyone's either in town for the parade or in the arena for the semis and the side-bouts. It'll be quiet by the waterfront. Quiet's good. You can think with quiet.

Prologue: The Winds They're Blowing

Chapter One: Blood And Sand
Chapter Two: Soaking It In
Chapter Three: Final Round
Chapter Four: The Hand That Offends
Chapter Five: To Suffer Immaculately
Chapter Six: The Chrysalis Grotesque

Act One: Dusk Is At Our Door

Chapter Seven: Welcome To Hell
Chapter Eight: Prince Of The Green Sun
Chapter Nine: The Patrons
Chapter Ten: The Contrary One
Chapter Eleven: Testing The Limits
Chapter Twelve: Coronation Day
Chapter Thirteen: Hell And Back Again
Chapter Fourteen: Stretching The Legs
Chapter Fifteen: Reforged
Chapter Sixteen: Malleo Invicti
Chapter Seventeen: What Lies In The Blood
Chapter Eighteen: Adoration [Mature Content]
Chapter Nineteen: A Little Strong-Arm Tactics
Chapter Twenty: Negotiating Terms
Chapter Twenty-One: Conceding Defeat
Chapter Twenty-Two: Skipping Town 'Til The Heat Dies Down
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Gap That Can't Be Closed

Interlude One: The Empty Sky

Act Two: None But The Holy

Chapter Twenty-Four: A Fractured Mirror
Chapter Twenty-Five: Nature Walk
Chapter Twenty-Six: Tea By Moonlight
Chapter Twenty-Seven: What Lies Beneath
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Weather The Storm
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Basking In Glory

Interlude Two: The Immaculate One

Chapter Thirty: Piecing Together A Plan
Chapter Thirty-One: Into The Underworld
Chapter Thirty-Two: The Shape Of Justice
Chapter Thirty-Three: An Open Hand
Chapter Thirty-Four: Mirrorshard

Interlude Three: Reasoned Despair, Frail Hope

Chapter Thirty-Five: Iconoclast
Chapter Thirty-Six: Something Deep Inside
Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Other Side Of The Coin

Interlude Four: Gateway

Act Three: Save All Our Souls

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Back To Hell
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Back In Hot Water
Chapter Forty: A Single Father's Day Out
Chapter Forty-One: The Terror Of Being Known

This Quest will be run on a diceless, purely narrative basis a-la the systems that have already been used in many other works, with the potential for tweaking or rebalancing down the line depending on any number of factors. The average Exalted character has a truly staggering amount of powers, abilities and mechanics they can all mix and match to their hearts' content, but Jiro is not your average Exalted character. Forms, Charms and Skills as mechanical concepts are all filtered through his own perception of them and how they gel with his mortal knowledge base - his character sheet is intended more to provide a detailed summary of what he can do at any given time, with options to expand down branches and pathways that suit both his character and the story. Rather than discouraging certain options with 'disfavoured' tags, Jiro simply doesn't have the option to learn those sight unseen in the first place.

XP
Experience Points are earned by completing narrative arcs, particularly impressive accomplishments in-story and the good ol' Training Arc. They are awarded and usable for upgrades only at appropriate moments, such as between acts or during stops over in Malfeas or other situations in which Jiro could feasibly improve upon his abilities. If anyone should wish to powerlevel Jiro through the use of fanworks and I encourage them to, please feed my son he is starving they are currently valued at 25xp for non-canon omakes (side stories, homebrew demons, that kind of thing) and sketches, 50xp for canon works or more detailed art, and 75 or above for anything more exceptional. These numbers may change in the unlikely event that there's a gargantuan influx, but for now them's the breaks. Skills and Charms can only be upgraded one tier at a time, and all XP must be spent towards something in every valid instance even if there isn't enough left to upgrade something.

Charms
The library of supernatural abilities and techniques an Exalt will accumulate over their long (or tragically short) lives, filtered through their own perspective and understanding. Infernals in particular draw their power from the Yozis, but as the Unquestionable is filtered through a human mind some refraction and distortion is to be expected. Jiro's Malfean and Isidoran Charms correspond to his first and second Primary Skills respectively, and thus their efficacy is intertwined, while his Elloge and Ebon Dragon Charms are considered tertiary tricks to be used as needed. Individually they are graded on three tiers.

Basic (75xp) - A relatively simple and straightforward Charm, easy to mix into an existing style and not too energy intensive.
Evolved (250xp) - The Charm's central concept elevated somehow, often mutated into some new yet thematically similar form.
Ultimate (500xp) - The Charm perfected, integrated into the Infernal's style and, much like the Yozis themselves, their very being.

Skills
Skills are graded on a nine-tier scale. Primary Skills are your core proficiencies, the most broadly-applicable tools in your arsenal, and thus take the longest to raise. Secondary skills are more specific or otherwise niche areas of expertise, and thus are half-price.

Novice (N/A) - The baseline in a Skill, absent any kind of training or experience. Don't expect much.

Proficient (250xp) - The fundamentals of a Skill, born from a decent amount of study and practice. Nothing to write home about, but better than nothing.
Adept (500xp) - Practical experience enters the picture here, and forged all together it's enough to really start making a career out of it. Most mortals hover around this level.
Veteran (750xp) - Time, trials, blood, sweat and tears are what it takes to push you to this rank. This is where the true professionals are, rubbing shoulders with the weirdos and edge-cases and naturally gifted. The skill's as easy as breathing.
Distinguished (1000xp) - The talented, the dedicated, the survivors, or the real freaks. The absolute limit of mortal hands and mortal minds, people with this level of skill sometimes fall in with the Exalted themselves, if not carving their own names into the skin of Creation.
Elite (1750xp) - You've transcended the limits of the mortal realm, turning what was once just a 'skill' into something more like an artform. Any self-respecting Exalt's central Skills should reach this level, if not higher.
Master (2500xp) - Near-complete understanding, comprehending its intricacies, complexities and boundaries. Where some still struggle for mere 'competence' you seek innovation and refinement, accomplishing things no mere mortal would think possible. The domain of the Exalted, and only the strongest of spirits.
Champion (3500xp) - The kind of unquestioned enlightenment that causes masters to turn to you for advice and enlightenment. You now embody this skill to its fullest, as intimately familiar with it as you are your own shadow. Only one Primary Skill may be raised to this tier.

Items
Creation is no stranger to artefacts, treasures and priceless remnants of the long-distant past. Considering the essential nature of your Coadjutor and your Past Life, neither are you. These are simply treated as Secondary Skills, allowing you to master or improve them by spending XP, but other advancements are possible via various IC actions and means.

Charms

Primary Skills
Dragon-Slaying Overrun Style: Distinguished (175/1750xp)
The style of a man who has fought with a sword too large for him all his life, reforged into a man who will slay dragons. Jiro's intimate experience with a two-handed sword is in many ways transferrable to what he is now, but in almost as many ways it will hold him back. He must relearn, and learn to truly tap into the vast well of power inside him to run roughshod over the Tamura Clan's holdings and enact his revenge.

Jiro is slowly coming to terms with the full implications of the power he now wields, his greatsword no longer a heavy burden to bear and battle but a tool of easy killing, reshaped and reforged just as drastically as his own body. While it can still hardly be called a 'style' in polite company, it sure gets the job done.

Reforged Hand of Malfeas Style: Adept (0/1,000xp)
Jiro has never been much of a martial artist - more of a tavern-brawler and alley-scrapper, the kind of man that keeps himself alive by any means necessary, blade in hand or no. His body is unused to the Celestial forms common among the Exalted, but even barehanded he is no longer weaponless. The Hand of Malfeas is a tool of destruction - perhaps in time, the rest of him shall be as well.

Hard work has been paying off, slowly yet surely, plus a few visits to the School of Hard Knocks. Jiro is still no great martial artist by Exalted standards, nor even particularly versed in any of their formal styles, but something with more brutal elegance to it than throwing a few punches and a kick or two is emerging. Perhaps further study is warranted thanks to his recent brushes with channelling the essence of his own component souls - twice the fists, double the power, right?

Secondary Skills
Anima Banner (Slayer): Veteran (0/500xp)
The Anima Banner is a trait shared among all Exalted, the ability to let slip the bonds of their burning keter soul for only a moment, letting the furnace of power billow free in visible sheets of light. They say all of Malfeas' chosen hold within them the potential to metamorphose into horrifying devil-tigers, wreathed in the toxic green flame of Ligier's light, but Jiro is far from that day. His Essence control is sloppy, his command of his Banner uneven. Against another Exalt, even a Terrestrial one, he will rapidly burn himself out without further training.

They say that experience and failure are the best teachers. Still, Jiro would prefer they didn't come with corresponding asskickings. Faced with the icy-minded and steel-nerved essence control of an elder Dragonblood, and his own paltry flare sealed by pressure-point strikes shortly after, he has been forced to confront his inadequacy and do something about it. His Essence control is steadily improving, its drain less noticeable, and with greater control comes greater power - when his banner burns brightly enough his demonic mien grows more pronounced, his coadjutor's influence on his new form more pronounced, whatever form that may take.

Experience continues to teach the young Slayer, not just how to master his own powers but those of the souls that call his home. Burning the candle at both ends to defeat Ayano only to narrowly escape the wrath of her undead brother shortly after has taught him the full measure of his limits, and with such understanding can only come improvement. Jiro's stamina and mastery of his Essence reserves have improved, and having experienced rampant fusion with Daji's powers once before he may reach inward again with greater finesse. When his anima banner flares to Bonfire levels he may channel fragments of any soul's power, not just Sidir's. When he flares Totemic he may attempt to merge once more, burning through his Essence like a shooting star streaking across the sky in exchange for temporarily wielding powers the likes of which he may never come to master on his own. The cost makes it a dangerous death-or-glory gambit, but no matter how desperate the circumstances Jiro will always have an ally.

Death's Embrace: Adept (0/375xp)
A curious and shameful thing, crafted in haste and under duress. Death's Embrace is a suit forged from shadow and necrotic Essence with just a dash of moonsilver, bonded to Jiro by the powers of the dead he constantly, uncontrollably emanates. Further resource investment (under severe protest) has at least smoothed out the kinks in the so-called 'armour' so it can start doing its job right. It offers light protection by most standards, akin to finely-crafted leather armour - while Jiro can hardly allow others to stab him, combined with his Malfeas-hardened flesh he is safe against glancing or otherwise lesser blows where it covers him. The addition of several semi-prehensile 'straps' allows it to grip and hold objects against Jiro's body, circumventing the lack-of-pockets issue. Additionally it can heal itself from all but the most grievous of damage.

If experience has proven one thing, it's that Jiro takes a lot of punishment in his day-to-day life. Not only that, he's far too willing to venture into environments hostile to his very wellbeing. Sidir may not be able to protect him from everything, but he can do this at least. Death's Embrace can now construct a half-mask for Jiro that covers his nose and mouth, physically and spiritually filtering the air he breathes. This extra layer of protection working in concert with his own hybrid nature eliminates the active drain on his Essence that the lands of the dead otherwise inflict, though restoring the energy he does lose will still prove noticeably more difficult than in Creation. As a fringe benefit this mask allows him to breathe easily in more mundane situations as well, such as underwater or enveloped in toxic gas.

The Devil-Tiger's Daiklave: Adept (0/375xp)
Jiro's old, beloved sword, warped and twisted and transformed into a demonic butcher of men by a power hidden within him that eclipses even Sidir's talents. Forged from Malfean brass and black basalt with an emerald core, it acts as a potent conduit for Jiro's Essence, eagerly channelling the powers of the Yozi to augment its natural ability to cleave even armoured opponents in two. Of course now that it has been created it is within Sidir's power to explore and improve, should he be given the time and materials.

With its latest improvement the Daiklave's Isidoran influence - and its almost Metagosian hunger - makes itself known. It greedily chews through whatever it cleaves, whether it be stone or flesh or anything in between, to fuel Jiro's corona-shroud. Flickering trails of collapsed matter and black stars trail in its wake, obscuring its path and its wielder with debris, and the claws at the pommel grasp greedily for a hearthstone to clutch and drink deeply from - whatever the fuck that is.

The Mantle of the Stars: Adept (0/375xp)
A living cloak forged from the living soul of Viermaan the Celestial Worm, offered in surrender and supplication. It retains many of the manyfold worm's protean capabilities, able to move independently to blind Jiro's enemies and foul up their attempts to attack, or reshape itself into four agile tentacles with which to attack and defend and grasp at objects. With more time and materials perhaps yet more of Viermaan's abilities could be unlocked for Jiro to wield. Either way, he refuses to let the worm's lingering will have any say in the matter.

The cloak has been improved, albeit with some reticence on the craftsman's part, to better serve the bond of Elloge that connects it to Daji. When transformed into worm-tentacles they may fire jets of highly pressurised blood like beams powerful enough to slice through flesh and bone, however range is limited and the 'ammunition' is the stuff of the cloak's own makeup. The Mantle consumes itself to attack in this manner and repairs itself slowly if fed only with Jiro's blood - however Jiro's foes have theirs in excessive supply, and it will slake the worms' thirst just as easily.

The Hammer of the Unconquered: Adept (Locked)
A priceless wonder, second to no tool of creation in this age or any other. The Hammer of the Unconquered was capable of miracles that could leave even the Exalted in awe, emanating a power greater than all the factories, artisants and craftsmen of Creation combined with every bell-like ring as it struck home. Even the ghostly afterimage of its radiance that summons itself to Jiro's hand could be capable of such great things, if only he knew how to unlock its power.

Some greater fraction of the hammer's power was unleashed in Jiro's second encounter with Hayate, shedding hundreds of orichalcum swords each worthy of name and legend all on their own in phalanxes and volleys at a time. Is the hammer truly a miracle on such a level it is able to generate one of the five magical materials from nothing? Or is it accessing some sort of hidden stockpile, created untold centuries ago?

Past Life (Halphas, the Sword of the Deliberative): Adept (Locked)
The previous incarnation of the corrupted Solar spark that burns within Jiro's soul. Halphas was a veteran of the Primordial War and carried this Exaltation for years beyond counting, forever honing his craft in search of one more great wonder. Much about the man and the extent of his connection to the Yozis remains uncertain, but one thing is clear - some part of him remains, in Jiro's thoughts and dreams. His castle still stands in the heart of the world within Jiro's dreams, no matter how faded its glory may be. His hammer held fast the seal that kept Sidir imprisoned where he found himself, and it is the image of that long-lost hammer that appears in Jiro's hand if he only calls for it.

Something about Hayate caused the Solar's shade to stir once more. What spark of recognition awakened his long-dead anger? Something in his demeanour, his abilities? Or was it simply fury at Jiro's inability to overcome his enemy? Whatever the cause, Halphas' power saved Jiro that day, and leaves the Infernal with even more questions about his borrowed power than before.