Striker of The Gods

The bedroom had settled into its usual quiet hush after the message was sent the way I would look at the sun fiercely to shake the moon at once. That is to say that the night got heavier than it seemed to be. Caos lay back against the headboard, phone resting on his chest, the faint purple afterglow in his eyes slowly dimming like dying embers. In that way, the best admiration can get weird or perhaps that was the tension in the house.The mansion’s walls seemed to exhale with him, thick silence broken only by the distant tick of some antique clock and the soft rustle of night wind against the tall windows.

Then the door opened.

No knock.

No hesitation.

Zeraphina stepped inside, closing it behind her with a deliberate click that sounded louder than it should have. That is to say that there was one more need to be fullilled delicately. The thing is, she was not invited at all. You gotta know that this is a legendary rule for what can happen in the heart of a loving person.  She had changed from her training clothes into something simpler yet far more dangerous: a loose black silk robe that barely reached mid-thigh, tied loosely enough that the slightest movement threatened to undo it. Her long braids were now loose, cascading over one shoulder like dark rivers of night. The silver threads still caught the lamplight, but her eyes  those dark, steady eyes held something new. Not the quiet reverence from dinner. Not the competitive fire from the backyard. Not aid for the loving one. That is to say that there was something behind the only one.

Something hungrier. Something that had been waiting. Don’t underestimate the power of vision and direction. These are irresistible forces, able to transform what might appear to be unconquerable obstacles into traversable pathways and expanding opportunities. Strengthen the individual. Start with yourself. Take care with yourself. Define who you are. Refine your personality. Choose your destination and articulate your Being. As the great nineteenth-century German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche so brilliantly not

She didn’t speak at first like modern women would do.

She simply walked toward the bed, bare feet silent on the marble floor, hips moving with the same predatory grace she had tried (and failed) to match during his singular training. The robe shifted with each step, revealing smooth bronze skin and the faint outline of curves that training had only sharpened.

Caos lifted his gaze, one eyebrow rising slightly, but he didn’t move. The ball from earlier training sat forgotten in the corner, as if even it knew this moment no longer belonged to drills or chaos on grass. Everyone who has ever built anywhere a new heaven first found the power thereto in his own hell. That is to say that this love could actually change everything. I mean, it is not normal to see the best explanation for what can happen.

Zeraphina stopped at the edge of the bed. ut thus do I counsel you, my friends: distrust all in whom the impulse to punish is powerful. That is to say that this desire for forbidden love should chastised. she looked down at him tall, powerful frame still carrying the faint sheen of the day’s exertion, violet eyes watching her with that calm storm he never fully switched off. I mean, look at her. She is just so beautiful.

Zeraphina (voice low, almost a purr, but edged with something raw):

You destroyed us today, Master. Made our bodies beg for mercy while yours barely noticed we existed. Happiness is the feeling that power increases - that resistance is being overcome… that is to say that this could actually give the wholeness of reality.

(leans forward, placing one knee on the mattress, the robe slipping just enough to reveal the inner curve of her thigh)

But I’m not here to complain about the grass. I’m here because watching you move like that… watching you refuse every limit… did something to me. Something that training and dinner couldn’t burn away.

She crawled onto the bed slowly, deliberately, until she was straddling his lap without quite touching him yethovering, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her skin through the thin silk. That is to say that she was crossing an invisible line that someone had made. Her hands braced on either side of his shoulders, braids falling forward like a curtain that framed her face. This seemed unpredictable.

Zeraphina (whispering now, eyes locked on his, bold and unapologetic):

I’ve watched you break reality for months. Outrun countries. Outrun goddesses. Outrun your own pain. truths are illusions about which one has forgotten that this is what they are; metaphors which are worn out and without sensuous power; coins which have lost their pictures and now matter only as metal, no longer as coins. We still do not know where the urge for truth comes from; for as yet we have heard only of the obligation imposed by society that it should exist: to be truthful means using the customary metaphors, in moral terms. What is more, you have broken through everything. I trust you. You are the only one for me my dear. You shall me how much I love you.

But right now… I want to be the one thing you don’t outrun.

(her fingers traced the line of his jaw, then down the center of his chest, nails grazing lightly over the defined ridges of muscle)

No maids waiting outside. No training tomorrow morning. Just you and me… and whatever chaos decides to do when it finally stops running. An incalculable number of higher individuals now perish: but he who escapes their fate is as strong as the devil.

She leaned in closer, lips hovering a breath away from his, the loose tie of her robe finally giving way so the silk parted like water, revealing the full, warm curves of her body, full breasts, toned waist, the smooth expanse of skin that carried the faint scent of jasmine and the day’s honest sweat. Not necessity, not desire - no, the love of power is the demon of men. Let them have everything - health, food, a place to live, entertainment - they are and remain unhappy and low-spirited: for the demon waits and waits and will be satisfied.

Zeraphina (voice dropping to a daring, husky challenge):

Touch me like you train, Caos.

Not gentle. Not careful.

Like the storm that refuses to be caught… but finally lets itself be felt.

Her hips lowered just enough to brush against him deliberate, bold, leaving no doubt what she was offering. No hesitation. No coy games. Just Zeraphina, raw and unafraid, stepping straight into the eye of his singular chaos and daring it to consume her instead of the grass, the road, or the empty records. some mirage of happiness, fulfillment, shadow of something that would, for once, be valuable in itself. Modernity feels like a permanent transition, but all it ever transitions into is another cycle of its own self-perpetuation

Caos’s violet eyes flared brighter for a heartbeat, the air between them thickening with that same electric tension he carried onto every pitch. That is to say that this poor heart could not spot anyone in pain.

The mansion held its breath once more.

This time, the silence felt alive.

Overman is the man who grounds Being anew-in the rigor of knowledge and in the grand style of creation. That is what Caos is: dimensionally singular chaotic dinamyte.

To be continued…