♤ Arch images in different art styles.I know we all had a different taste and imagination when we're trying to create a picture of what we read, based on the details we have, right? So it depends on one's imagination can an illusion turn into a piece of reality. I put Arch's images in the comments section as always....we appreciate beautiful things... Well who wouldn't...♡
-----------------
Arch leans back against the withered tree, staring at the cola can like it holds the secrets of the universe. The "Donghua Betrayal" still stings. It's one thing to be reincarnated with the power to shatter islands; it's another to look in the mirror and see a face so ethereal and "pretty" that you look more like a legendary daughter of Whitebeard than the scarred, barrel-chested titan of a son you planned to be.
His ego hadn't just been bruised; it had been dismantled. He'd made his peace with it—sort of—by simply refusing to acknowledge his own existence in reflective surfaces. He could appreciate beauty in the world, sure, but his own face was a constant reminder that the ROB had a very specific, and very annoying, taste in character design.
Gurarara... eight years in the dark dreaming of being a monster, only to come out looking like a silk-skinned immortal," Arch mutters, rubbing his face. "Life is a cruel joke, Foxxy."
The real tragedy wasn't just his face, though. It was the Archive.
In the underground, the phone had been his window to sanity. He had documented everything. Not just the Hebi Hebi no Mi, but every strange glowing moss, every jagged crystal formation, and even specific boulders that had interesting textures. He was a scholar of the mundane, a curator of the dark.
But the thrill of the surface—the battle with Kyukon, the sheer scale of the sky, the freedom of the Kibi wasteland—had short-circuited his brain. For three days, he'd been so high on adrenaline and "Main Character" energy that he'd forgotten his primary directive: Document the Journey.
"I missed the Temple... I missed the Shrine... I didn't even get a shot of the first 'Invader' camp," Arch laments, gripping his hair. "I'm a failure as a photographer. If I ever find that ROB again, I'm not just gonna punch him for the 'Pretty Boy' look; I'm gonna sue him for emotional damages."
Arch stands up, the dry Kibi dust swirling around his boots as his frustration boils over. The memory of his "Donghua" reflection is like a splinter in his mind.
"Gurarara... unrecognizable. That's the goal," he growls, his shadow stretching long and sharp against the orange earth.
He begins to move. It's not just a tantrum; it's a display of the raw, unpolished martial arts he honed during those eight brutal years in the dark.
Left jab! Right straight! The air whistles as his fists cut through the stagnant heat. He pivots on his heel, his 6'2" frame moving with a grace that even he hates to admit is "beautiful." Left hook! He follows through with a powerful uppercut that sends a shockwave of displaced air upward,fluttering the withered leaves of the tree above.
He doesn't stop. He pivots to the right, his weight shifting perfectly. His right foot swings in a heavy, bone-breaking arc—a roundhouse kick that would have decapitated a lesser man. He transitions into a backflip, his white hair flashing like a streak of lightning, and lands only to deliver a final, thunderous left roundhouse.
"I swear! I'll show that ROB who he's messing with!" he screams at the empty sky, his voice echoing off the distant ridges.
For a full hour, the Kibi wasteland is filled with the sound of snapping air and the thud of heavy strikes. Arch isn't just practicing; he's exorcising the ghost of the "Pretty Boy" betrayal. By the time he stops, he's drenched in sweat, his chest heaving, but the frantic energy in his eyes has cooled into a sharp, focused calm.
"Haaa... haaa... that's better," he mutters, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He looks at his knuckles, which are glowing with a faint, restless energy. "Okay... concentrate."
He turns to the 9-foot beast, which has been watching the "performance" with a look of mild boredom, its snake-tail coiled neatly.
"Hey, Foxxy. Pack it up. We're continuing the journey. We've wasted enough time shadow-boxing ghosts."
That realization adds a dangerous layer to Arch's personality. Beneath that "Donghua" perfection and the silk-white hair lies a hair-trigger temper wired directly to the most powerful DF abilities in existence.
To the rest of the world, he looks like a masterpiece. To Arch, his face is a permanent scar left by the ROB. Anyone foolish enough to comment on it—especially in a way that mocks his masculinity—isn't just insulting a traveler; they are lighting the fuse on a human-shaped tectonic bomb.
...
..
.
But for those who have the guts, in the upcoming future let's stay quiet for a while and pray for them...
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
------- to be continued-----