The storm raged from shadows wrath unleashed, thunder shattering the very heavens with animalistic growls that buckled the earth at its foundations. Foggy darkness twisted in the thundering darkness of the night, writhing through the bloody courtyard of Kazuki's tower in serpentine movements.
Then a deep, coarse vibration shattered the turmoil—the thunder of motorcyclist engines approaching in rhythmic cadence, humming through the rain with the cadence of forbidden lust building in tempo until it obliterated even the rain's constant lashing fury.
Riders burst forth from the darkness—landers of the inky deep on their metal steeds, the motor cycles shining wetly malevolent in erratic bursts of ragged lightning glinting in the turmoil.
These were the Drakans.
The Soul Samurai twisted in Yakuza traditions, their skin suffused in the thick leather hooding that clung so sensually yet tautly muscle-cupped that second skin coverage, their faces concealed behind red Oni helmets whose gruesome visage snarled in hungry devilment.
They revved their motors in rhythm, a deafening roar that heralded war in the primal cry of mating: hoots and snarls ringing off the walls of the tower, promises of carnage and rapture entwined.
The machines skidded to a halt in a semicircle around Akira and Vernon, tires smoking on the wet asphalt, the smell of burning rubber mixing with the iron tang of blood and wet, glistening sweat. Together, as one, they killed their motors, their cries rising in a blaze of glory that shook every bone, every hidden recess of their bodies.
"SIR VERNON, WE HAVE ARRIVED PURSUANT TO YOUR INSTRUCTIONS—WE READY OURSELVES TO BATH IN THE BLOOD OF YOUR ENEMIES!"
The police and guards, the pathetic pawns of the president, unleashed a frantic barrage—as if knives of jealousy slashed through the storm in a frenzy of bullets. But the Drakans were no normal men; they were Yakuza-hardened in the crucible of underworld supremacy, made physically agile and supple like deadly weapons of sin.
They moved with feral agility, turning and leaping among the bullets like deadly dancers in a morbid rhythm. Automatics and guns appeared furtively in hidden holster pockets, shiny and deadly as instruments of sin in grotesquery and horror.
They spoke in mathematical flashes of gunfire in beat and rhythm, and each one found its mark with ghastly results: guards falling in a welter of wet gasps as if they'd preceded to a dripping grave in a chorused symphony of agony and anguish; red blood bursting like volcanic geysers in hot splashes. The battle field turned into a blood bath. the rain water on ground turns red by the bloods of fallen deads.
In the midst of the chaos, Akira called to Vernon, his naked face, his mask lost in the melee, carved with a primal, savage look, rain etching a course down the sharp angles of his face as if tracing tears.
"This is our opportunity, brother, the perfect storm to bring Kinard crashing down to our vengeance!"
His lips curled into a wicked smile, his eyes burning with a brotherly intensity, his huge body exuding a power that vibrated the air around him.
"Don't order me brother,"
he snarled, his tone heavy with a brooding playfulness, a sense of that illicit brotherly love simmering with their loathing, a potent and intoxicating force.
Akira's lips curled into a smile at the verbal barb, a flicker of lust burning in his eyes with the bloodshed—including brotherly lust, an aphrodisiac in the midst of warfare.
They tightened their grip on the hilts of the humming blades of light that seemed to drink the very darkness around them and charged towards Kinard as one.
Yura loaded the AZIMIS mercilessly—the sound a sick crack that sent the huge gun humming like a wounded creature that was a part of her. They aligned the gun on Kinard, her back arched like a goddess on a pedestal of mockery—the breasts pressing against the soggy blouse like a pugilist's fists.
They yelled as one—stony faces upthrust towards the heavens like flower-vanes towards the sun——"LET"S ROCK !"
He tossed back his head and gazed at the crimson sky, and a thunder of laughter burst from the depths of the abyss—a deep, mocking, God-like laugh, full of malignant joy and the ecstatic cruelty of a deity playing with his toys.
"Oh, dear God," he bellowed above the storm, "what a divine chess match you have in store!" He smiled, "Pitting my own flesh and blood against me," he roared through the tempest, "my own sons, born from my loins, now converted into daggers pointed at my heart!"
But Akira attacked first, leaping high with his katana slicing downwards in a diagonal arc from above, its cry slicing through the rain like a promise of Orgasm in Pain. Kinard dodged with an agility that was supernatural, turning east with a blur of motion, but Vernon was there, swirling his gargantuan blade in a 360-degree arc that sliced through air with a whoosh of pushed-back wind, attempting to split his father in two at the waist.
Kinard leaped high once again, daggers flashing, grabbing Akira's hood in mid-dodge and pulling him close—the two bodies making contact in a fiery clash, Kinard's hot breath against Akira's neck like an illicit caress.
Putting every ounce of strength behind it, Kinard flung Akira backward, the force tearing at the hood and sending him rolling through the mud.
Akira's mask had long since slipped, revealing his ruggedly handsome face twisted in anger, but he landed easily like a cat, flexed muscle rippling across his torso, rain dripping through his flayed chest where his flung-open shirt had torn, revealing sharply chiseled abs covered with wounds that spitting blood from it.
But Kinard's work was incomplete when he swung his leg in a swift hook, snagging Vernon's ankles in a sly trip move. Vernon stumbled, and a solid kick to his stomach, bursting with bone-shattering intensity, rocked his body back, a sound moment that was a burst slap magnified a thousand times over.
But Vernon's body flew backward when a figure stood ready to catch his brother's massive back—an act that resulted in both men's bodies crashing into each other as a symbol of support that lit fires within both their dark, hot-blooded souls.
In that one moment of a beating heart, Yura shot the AZIMIS at the base of the tower's pillar; a fireball erupted with a hellish burst of flames as the concrete was slammed into shattered shards of rock. A cascade of broken pillar came crashing down like a horde of vengeful angels as Kinard was buried under a rush of debris.
A few torture-filled seconds passed in complete silence; then—lit by an unearthly red glow from within the mound—sick and blood-red fingers touched the ruins.
A massive explosion shook the very foundations of the land as the crumbling stones were reduced to ash in an explosion of orange and red; when the blast faded, Kinard stumbled forth unharmed from its midst, his body aflame with licking red and orange tongues of energy that made him appear bigger and more godlike in the midst of his dark and burning aura—his eyes burning bright with an unclean hunger for power and conquest.
"Finally!"
he bellowed with thunderous dramatic effect, his grin stretching into pure, sinful bliss, his laughter bubbling forth from his very pores like an evil orgasmdemon's orgasm—as his voice boomed through the night with soul-chilling ecstasy, his grimy hand slapping over his evil right eye, revealing his twisted vision.
"I've created the most powerful vessel—not just any work of evil! Those human worshipers of mine, adrift in their sins with their divine idols, it's high time I take the throne of creativity away from that pathetic deity above!"
He moved forward, pressing a possessive hand on Kinard's massive shoulders, his fingers burying themselves into Kinard's muscle with a meaningful sensuality that sizzled with an evil intensity.
"Open for me the gateway to my divine realm out of hell,"
Azazel ordered with a sensuous command that was almost a growl, but with an added dimension of sexual arousal.
"We shall command these sinful beings—to bend them to our will, have them kneel to us so that they can beg for our touch!"
Vernon's scream sliced through the night like the anguished cry of a lovesick soul.
"NO!!!"
He charged ahead with raised sword in hand, arched muscles rippling with effort as the rain mixed with the sweat that glistened on his exposed skin.
"Dad, you'll be damned before you unleash this hel—"
He raised his hand slowly and dramatically, and the sky obeyed his bidding—turning a deep crimson red as if hemorrhaging from a million invisible sores. The rain changed; raindrops coalesced into blood that dripped warmly and stickily on exposed flesh, drenching fabric to accentuate every curve and hardline of lust. Police and guards and Drakans scrambled back in a blind panic of fright—at bodies slick with crimson and hearts racing with erotic fear as reality itself twisted about them.
Our eyes met, Azazel's on one level of reality, mine on another, although still corporeal, still tempting, still beguiling, still ever so slightly tortured, as I vocalized with husky defiance,
"Isn't it a tad too early in the day for all of this, old chap?"
The smile on Azazel's face was the very definition of seduction, his eyes locking onto mine with that timeless, sinful draw.
"But it was our dream, Lucifer—yours and mine. To wreak our revenge on these miserable humans, to see them squirming beneath our heels, pleading for mercy."
I kept quiet, the truth choking in my chest like a tongue of forbidden fire. Yes, I had conspired to rule the humans, loathing their weak, seductive bodies with a ferocity which teetered into lust.
Now, however, being subject to Akira's whim, I could do nothing but suffer, shackled by a devotion that twisted my desires into tortured agony.
Then, dark crimson portals began to rip apart the world—that is to say, the mouths of hell yawning apart, spewing their darkness that whispered of eternal agony and bliss. Kinard turned to the boys. And in a complete reversal of events, tears glistened in the corners of the demon lord's eyes. The ritual of putting on the mask of deception was slow as he began to speak in that deep voice.
"Forgive my transgressions, my sons," Kinard said.
A blinding flash of light enveloped both Azazel and Kinard, and their bodies were consumed as the light dissipated, leaving behind only a echo of their strength through the blood rain. He smashed his fist into the ground, shattering stones with the impact, as he let out a raw scream of anger that reverberated with pain as he cried out:
"I knew it! It was all a trap to protect Kazuki! A means to lure him into this hell!"
Vernon rushed into the tower, blade at the ready, bursting into Kazuki's penthouse office where the rat was hiding. However, upon bursting into the doors, Vernon saw that the Kazuki was indeed dead, his body lying limp in a organ it seemed, his chest literally opened up from savage cuts from blade, as if torn apart by a fit of passionate rage.
Vernon spoke softly, his voice full of dramatics and the pain of being betrayed,
"So now, it seems indeed, we are simply pawns within the game that Azazel so masterfully creates for himself. However, the board is indeed laid out, and flip it, brother, we shall."
The portals opened wide, with shadows churning inside, and the night heavy with the promise of doom. What terrors would be unleashed? And in this dark romance of lust and revenge, who would be the ultimate beneficiary of triumph?