Thread:YingHe/@comment-38036641-20190629182104/@comment-36159587-20190629205000

(Sorry, took a bit to type, and the notification didn't come through)

 It seemed like millennia since he had last trained with Kenshin and Rune. It was once such a bright, beautiful image in his mind, but as time passed by, it had come to start to fade. No, it wasn’t as time passed—he could remember everything so clearly if he truly wanted to. If it still had that much meaning to him, then he would have put much more consciousness into the memory, making it more than a flashback—rather, an experience he could relive even in the darkest of his times, if there was such a thing.

 But, the good memories had been replaced by his subconscious, without him having felt it. If his emotions were physical, he’d teach them a lesson. But, there was nothing he could do about it, at least for now.

 The feelings were still there. When Rune hadn’t done anything, he hadn’t cared much. After all, they weren’t very close at all, just two beings held in place by his fault: The title he gave her, and she accepted, that meant nothing.

 It was…different, for Kenshin. His sensei was the closest to him—he knew there was nothing—no one more important to him than his teacher, and he intended on keeping it that way.

 But he knew…somewhere…

 Maybe one day, his nagging consciousness told him, there were people who would replace him. He was more replaceable than filter paper. Kenshin had his family, after all. He had the world to look—but for GalaxE, Kenshin was his world. He’d trapped himself, somehow, like that. And if Kenshin left him again, his world would shatter.

 It’d come to be that the only hurt he could feel was caused by his sensei, his closest. And it would hurt so much, he knew. Why succumb himself to such pain?

 Even now, as he took the steps he had once taken to that first training session, he recalled the mark. It wasn’t so much Kenshin telling him his past that had numbed him, than the other’s leave.

 He’d tried to prove himself. He wanted to prove he could be useful. He went into Alexander’s base, even with Ribbon telling him there were more chances of him dying than not. He got the information leading to the other’s defeat; even if it wasn’t completely his work that led to it, he hoped to pride himself that he had at least contributed to something. When his master had been possessed by Kokumajutsu, he had done nothing. The world’s chaos raged around him—instead of helping, he did nothing.

 Nothing.

 Perhaps that was why the resentment built up. For himself, primarily—everything led to himself at the end.

 It was all his fault. He was always too weak, too hesitant, never able to do anything.

 He had thought his impersonation—his mission, risking his life as a deity capable of dying—would be a source of pride. He had put aside his feelings—that he had been abandoned—to try to become useful. Kenshin hadn’t just left him, after all. He’d also left Rune, Rina, and the rest who he undeniably cared for. It wasn’t just because of him, he knew.

 He’d never thought, though, that his sensei would return when he was away. That every first relationship he had built was fall apart when he was gone, and they didn’t care. If he were gone a bit more, he still doubted they would care, or even try to investigate. It was a trap, perhaps, set by the world—and it proved that he didn’t matter.

 So be it, he’d decided. He’d tried not to care. He would try to solve everything on his own. If he had to die, then…he would die alone.

 But, despite everything, he still did care. But, no longer for the rest. He cared not for those at Rune’s domain.

<p style="font-family:book antiqua; color:#38acec"> It was for Kenshin, and how his sensei cared for him.

<p style="font-family:book antiqua; color:#38acec"> But...there was something harsher than even betrayal when Kenshin was merely worried for him when he was missing, potentially dead. It was…disappointment, of a sort. Those days…he felt dead. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything except knowing that if someone he knew, who wasn’t a mortal, didn’t come, he’d just be there forever. Something about the eternity seemed promising, as did the hope that perhaps someone would save him, instead of him trying to save someone else.

<p style="font-family:book antiqua; color:#38acec"> He’d counted down every second—no, millisecond—that he had inside his mind, paralyzed and unable to move. In there, he also tried to imagine just who it would be, ignoring his fears that he’d be stuck there forever.

<p style="font-family:book antiqua; color:#38acec"> He had thought it would be Kenshin. It wasn’t. It turned out to be the Fallen Angel, who’d known him for less than a month.

<p style="font-family:book antiqua; color:#38acec"> Heh. He was so pitiful.

<p style="font-family:book antiqua; color:#38acec"> Galaxian shook his head. There was nothing really to stop these thoughts from surfacing. It was only sometimes he could find momentary relief from his emotions that plagued him so. The first was when he was happy enough, a rare occasion now, to forget. The second was when he trained hard enough—exerted himself above his current limits enough that the pain inside physically was enough to counter the rest that had already built up.

<p style="font-family:book antiqua; color:#38acec"> And so, he was heading over to the plains again, grappling with both the memories and the different weapons he had taken time to create. A particular one, like a mace, was cutting his back every five seconds, but since he couldn’t feel and couldn’t bleed, he didn’t care.

<p style="font-family:book antiqua; color:#38acec"> Shuffling out into the clearing, he had to pause before registering there was someone at a familiar spot. Maybe someone else was here—after all, the Medieval Sect didn’t lack in mages, or just people who apparently sat on a rock at plains.

<p style="font-family:book antiqua; color:#38acec"> His vision was a bit off lately. It was possibly him going too far with training, or maybe that bit of cosmic energy gone wrong that he’d had to absorb from Dairo into his own form. Maybe both.

<p style="font-family:book antiqua; color:#38acec"> He turned to leave, the mace cutting into his shoulder again. But, worse, it made a cacophony of noise with the chains.

<p style="font-family:book antiqua; color:#38acec"> Shoot. He hadn’t wanted to reveal his presence to a random someone.