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Jonas gave a short laugh and shook his head, "Not really. You don't respond well to nonphysical pain, so stabbing you or turning your testicles to mush is the best way I can think of. Well, not the best way, but the easiest way in my current state." His form would sweep forward with the intent of sliding his blade into Yusuke's left side, his medical knowledge giving him some insight on a place to aim the blade as to not be fatal or incredibly harmful. The blade would actually not cause any pain entering his body, in fact, Yusuke likely wouldn't even notice it had entered him aside from a slight pressure. Pain would come later.

The pain eased off to a point of near nonexistance, "Charge your fun little spirit gun, don't care at what as long as it isn't me. Try to keep hold of it." Once he began charging the pain would slowly increase to higher and higher levels, basically until the point that Yusuke couldn't handle it anymore and either lost the spirit gun or blacked out, or both. For reference, each 'wave' of pain would look like emerald fire roiling over his skin to his alternate sight.

The pain would subside once the projectile was launched into the sky, back to a point where it was almost nonexistant. The man's smirk had returned, "Not bad, not bad at all. Now, instead of focusing on energy of your own, use your alternate sight to see the pain tearing into you. Try to alter the flame you see."

((If you still wish to skip ahead as discussed, please feel free to do so in your reply. ^_^))

From the blade the green flames would spread, working into Yusuke's body to sear away at his flesh as they had before. Instead of forcing a great deal of pain throughout his entire body, this time it would fester around the wound, much less excruciating than it had been previously. With this focus the blade would begin to drip with the black fluid known commonly as Agony, "Good, now refine the flame. Force it back and away, out of your body."

There is but a few moments in which Snow just hated and hated everything around him. Everything about him. Everything that stood or made meaning for this petty world of his. To an extent, everything is but a meaningless battle for the sake of satisfaction.

Motivation.

Hell, even a meaning in this petty life of his.

Now with the goal trashed by the man who had no name, who was the Unnamed, Snow hated the b*****d with all his heart. To an extent he has to thank the man for ending the demonic thirst lurking inside his soul...

But with nearly every single form of power stripped from him, there is nothing to do but to drink and wallow at the unsettling silence as he left the grounds of the Battle yesterday.
No applauds were given to the man named Snow. Just whispers and hisses, what has to be expected from the crowd that watched his battle with glee. The spoil goes to the victor of this match, and alas, Snow does not have that benefit at all...

None at all.

So there he was, walking away from the Battle Stadium and Arena with a heavy dank mood as he looked upon Blacksmiths that would help enhance his blades, as a method to balance his power loss somewhat. But without a reward, without even money to use to pay the Blacksmiths or workers...

"No money? Shoo, shoo! You're ruining my business here!"

"But, kind sir, I am just merely asking for --"

"Do not make me repeat myself, young fool. Business is business, and no world is cheap enough to let you have what you want!"

"..."

For the fifth time, Snow walked away from the nearest shop that would - or could've - helped repair his dented and chipped blades back to nominal status. He lived as a nomad, worked as a nomad...
Just how the hell do they think they are? Just how is he supposed to live in a society where even a hint of kindness is shunned on?
Snow cannot help but pull the hood down tighter over his head, lowering his face and walking down into the streets of the town, tired and hungry from all this ordeal. Rows of food were placed everywhere to sell, and cocky fighters and contenders littered the street, pushing themselves away from the sweat and the blood still reeking from the cloak Snow wore, unwashed and uncleaned from all those fights and injuries he had.

He swallowed down his saliva, gnawing at his lips unconsciously while he continued to walk, continued to stare and be stared by spectators, watching and walking away from him, hushing their children to the sides as if thinking him as some...

No. There's no point in thinking.

Finding himself near some dumpsters, his weary eyes spotted some food on the ground, perhaps broken and littered from a torn bag. Rotten and unfit to eat...
What else could he do, but to sit down, picking up some drops of rice, a bit of crumbs and half-eaten food...
Remembering memories of the past which he would rather never remember....

He threw away his pride, his pride as a fighter and as an opponent, and slowly ate the food, forcing himself to eat.

To eat...
And remember the pain which came after.

He gagged uncontrollably, biting down the bile that threatened to come out of his mouth. Coughing and sputtering, it is a sad sight indeed to see a fighter, now nothing more than a beggar in the streets. Fates indeed, and lo, does the Gods laugh at their miseries.

Snow got up, at least able to control his hunger for now.

Turning about, it wasn't a surprise when he saw more of these fighters coming forth, either to jeer at the defeated opponents within the tournament, or to just try their hands at fighting against Gods. Gods that made fun out of mortals. The irony...

"Well. Look at what we have here." A voice said from behind. Spectators who watched the fight yesterday wouldn't be surprised to see Snow, now wandering aimlessly around the streets like a beggar ever since his defeat. And knowing just how bad a man can be humiliated, the people here know no limits on human morality and prejudice.
And here we see the true foul side of mortals as one.

"In the streets already? My, I do have to wonder why they let you out, considering how you lost just like that in the battle yesterday. You and your "oh my, I'm so weak" attitude." The man mocked, laughing at Snow along with some other members.

Snow kept silent, turning about to face the man with a lifeless look on his face.

"Oh, what's the matter? Going to hit me? Going to hit innocent bystanders and make a fool more out of yourself? The infamous wielder of Ice, Snow, forced to the streets like a beggar, where he cannot help but 'Terrorize' young citizens and finally be hunted down like..."

The man sneered, making rude gestures as if teasing the fighter even more in shame.

"Dog? Pig? Do you squeal at least? Oh, I bet you do, don't you? Oh yes you --"

Snow nonetheless remained silent, eyeing how the other bystanders, how the other spectators around the streets were walking to their own business. Some pretending it isn't happening. Some standing around to enjoy the remarks, some crowding around to see what the commotion was all about.

If he did try to kill the person standing in front of him...then he would just be...

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Are you scared out of your wits that you can't do anything at all? Hmm? Hmm?"

Snow clenched at his weapons a bit tightly, even with all the dents and the chipped off metal on his scabbards and his blades. The worn off hilt guard that was nothing else but the result of losing its power...and without a word, he turned around quietly, against all the intentions and anger that burned inside his weary heart.

"Look at the fighter go! Coward, beggar and a chicken on top of that!"
Some chymed in to laugh at Snow as he turned -

And look at a man, clad in armor who reeked of nearly the same smell as he does.

Death.

His eyes made contact for a brief second with the man, before he continued down the streets amongst the jeers and the laughter behind his wake.

It is pretty obvious that his body was shaking. Even to his most strongest stance, his best attempt to keep his face, such words continued to haunt him and his thoughts for a time untold beyond this moment, beyond the future and to the memories that piled along with all the bitterness that could only well up to so much extent, before being locked there, in that icy wall of his.

In that lonely world of his.

So much in tune to that silent world inside him, that Snow failed to hear all the other whisperings among the streets, the noises, peering at him and eyeing at his ragged cloth up and down. It's true that Snow isn't well organized, but to even his mind...
How can he be organized, if everything he once lived in is turned upside down?

To the sixth Blacksmith that inhabited this town, Snow gave a gloomy sigh before walking, an old man with a scruffy beard peering up with small spectacles at the 'customer' in.

"Oh..! Why, hello there, young man. How may I help you?"

"Yes....my.."

He slowly untied his belt, releasing his two worn out blades and scabbards, along with his bracers that he wore underneath the simple cloth of his. "Do you think there's any hope of...repairing, or salvaging the remains of the equipment?"

The old man rubbed the beard for a sec, in thought, while he then took the weapons and littered them onto the floor, examining the designs. "Well..." He began, eyeing the peculiar ornate designs on the hilts and the odd addition of an extra hilt where the blade's dullest points are. "I can see that you're going for a switch between a long blade and a medium blade distance by adding another hilt in front...but this sacrifices defense, and it also collects water and causes the metal to rust and corrode over time because of its grip on the structure itself."

The old man examined the weapon even more.

"Many places on the weapon appears to be chipped and broken....The connecting point between the Tsuba guard and the handle is loosened, making it easy for the weapon to wobble and the blade to be brittle. I can't say that we can salvage the entire thing...but it's mostly useless in another fight, that I would guarantee. As for your bracers..."

Sheathing the irrepairable blade back into a scabbard which has a worser condition than the blade itself, the bracers were wholly dented, as a result of blocking so many strong blows against fatal spots that would've killed Snow immediately.

The old man was silent. "I would suggest replacing your entire equipment. There's nothing I can do that can salvage it. As for the replacement...we do have some fine stocks of reinforced carbon fillings on the blades, making it extremely durable and able to withstand almost any type of maximum blows without breaking. Fancy some, I suppose?"

Followed with a toothy grin, it only meant to Snow that it's going to cost him. Again. "But sir.." He said softly. "I don't have any money to pay. Is there another way which I can perhaps...work the payment off?"

And like all the other Blacksmith he went to, the old man's attitude immediately changed into one of scorn. And like all the times he'd been forced out of the shop, this time was of no different as he was shoved out, along with his weapons and his equipment being thrown out, called "Garbage!" by the Blacksmith himself.

Well.
That's life, is it not? Snow quietly thought to himself, reaching down to pick up his thrown gears and patching the broken equipment back onto his clothings, as he wondered where else he might find a Blacksmith...with a different attitude, at least.

Not again...

It wasn't coincidence this time as Snow smelled the same scent of Death from before, from a man who he saw just a few moments before. Standing up straight now, he holstered his weapons and again looked at the man berating what seems to be a small mystical creature. The exact terms?

Uncertain, since Snow travels mostly by himself.

But mistaking the fact that the armor clad man was here for another purpose, Snow linked the fact of seeing the man watching him being jeered at, followed by the man standing in front of him, a meter or two away....

"...Are you here to watch the show of me being humiliated even more by others for your own twisted pleasure, or are you here just to laugh at me, like everyone else that has been doing to the defeated?" Snow suddenly questioned darkly, the question aimed obviously at the man with the creature in his hand.