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(Energy Ball)
Ignoring a few minor distractions, he held his staff within reach as he began to practice whichever abilities he desired. As they seemed far too wrapped up in their squabble to even look at their own lack of logic -- he decided he would ignore them, just as they did to him. Despite his flashy words -- he began to see that he held no real power. In his mind, such a thing needed to be remedied. Grasping the energy within his body, he focused it into a shape -- bland and inorganic -- as he pulled the reserves from his arm. Focusing it into the sky, he tried to release it into the air above -- only for it to obliterate within its own self. Yes, it would not work. Not yet. He needed more practice -- more perfection. (1/4)

Within his second attempt, he found that it was not so difficult to create something so simple. He had an idea in his mind but he could not grasp it -- could not understand how to reach this goal, and did not know where or which direction to follow. Follow logic? He did that so often -- but magic had always been said to be spiritual. Was there really any science within his own mind capable of making sense of all this? With each passing moment -- as he learned this technique, he wondered this, and the further he went, he had become more and more filled with doubt. (2/4)

So it would not be a surprise that within these last two attempts -- he showed a desire to channel whatever emotion... whatever life, was within. "Well then. That's a surprise. I suppose "feelings" actually matter when it comes to magic? Pity to me for believing power was directly intertwined with logic. I suppose the large number of crybabies within the world is rather fitting, then." He tried to meet some sort of limbo -- between logic and weakness, but whenever he tried the spell, it simply would not budge. (3/4)

He couldn't honestly agree with whatever meager attempts he was committing to -- but he tried to find the energy wherever he could grasp it. In all truth, he felt pathetic for being unable to do this. It should have been natural -- it should have flowed with ease. But it did not. And he saw himself to be weak. Frustration drove over him, anger at his own pathetic, futile attempts pulsed through his veins, and as he tried this one, final time, the bolt of energy released itself in a sharp display of piercing force. It was nothing amazing, nor even noteworthy, but he found himself to be impressed with the fact that emotion was not all of that teary, gooey bullshit. Yes... he could draw his power from frustration, anger... feelings that surged through him at nearly every waking moment. (4/4)

(Ice Shards)
How pitiful of him to believe that he would be satiated with this weak amount of growth. He knew he would desire more, and more he would have. This time, it was nothing overmuch; no great leap of growth, simply the ability to mold his energy into shards of ice. But he felt that this wasn't about emotion -- it was about control. Yes, a technique like this demanded more than the prior. He could see this. And so he acted upon it. Although he would fail many times, each time brought a new sense of knowledge to him, even though, in the end, he prepared himself for the possibility of it all being futile. (1/6)

With each passing moment, each passing attempt and each movement of emotions and understanding -- he felt himself attune to his energy, holding it within his gauntlet, but staring at the world before him as it was drawn. It wasn't simple, that was something he knew, but he could see that something like this wouldn't be so difficult. He simply needed to draw the energy from a source. From his body, his mind... his render, whichever it was, he possessed the desire to control it, and that would get him to the point he desired. At least, in his mind. (2/6)

With the third real step of progress, he managed to create one small shard -- frail and incomplete -- as he held it before him. He stared upon it with a small smile -- accomplishment -- but as soon as he had seen it, it was gone. He tried to make sure this didn't break whichever vague sense of achievement he held, but it was hard not to. For someone who had claimed to be so wise -- so powerful and so accomplished, with each day he only proved to himself how wrong he really was. (3/6)

But he couldn't let it go that he was being defeated in more ways than one. Proving himself to be weak, fleeing and being ignored, all three things began to bother him. He didn't want to believe it. He wanted to be perfect. "It isn't desire... it's reality. It isn't a lie if it's the truth. Slander is only slander if it's wrong, and I am, right now, committing such an act... upon myself." But with such doubt following words like these -- was it true? He saw that this had halted his progress within the spell, but his own human emotions could not be escaped. But then, he saw it -- he was not a human. He was a reaper. (4/6)

With the fifth attempt -- he began to see that he was nearing a frail sense of completion. The process of failing and dividing was now over for him. It was now that he would succeed -- and it was now that it would be over. Within this moment, he attempted to gather his energy before all else occurred. Channeling whatever sense of concentration into his render, he took a deep breath as he prepared to cast the spell. (5/6)

And then, and only then, did he manage to create the circle -- misty and cold in both appearance and condition as he managed to create an admirable amount of icy shards. Releasing them to objects all around him, he smiled, reveling in the power he had quickly began to hold. It was nothing in comparison to what he would hope to meet, but for now, and for him, it was enough. (6/6)

(Lightning Bolt)
But soon enough, it wouldn't be. He decided that, while the time was present for him to learn, he would act as much as he could. And one of these times, in his eyes, appeared to be this moment. So striking whatever hesitation from his bones he could -- he carried on with his training. This time it was lightning bolt -- a powerful strike capable of either creating a frame of weakness or sealing victory altogether. However, it did not seem easy nor manageable at this rate, and he would not meet it without struggle. (1/9)

Concentrating lightning energy from the top of his fingers to the body of his staff -- he tried to force the energy to strike the grounds before him. However, instead, his body was stung with a minor pulse of energy. "Ow. Pain much?" However, despite this minor... backfire, he moved on from the pain as he farther advanced through his training. (2/9)

And his progress, slow as it was, only continued to slow. He ignored his surroundings -- the match, the people, only looking at what he wanted to see -- what he desired. This was, to him, power. The lightning he had wanted, tried, so defiantly, to create. It seemed to him -- as it was now, almost futile. But he did not decide to halt nor did he decide it was far time to give in. He focused on the energy within him -- molded it, created what he saw and finally, within his palm, he held one single streak of lightning. It was nothing -- but to him, it was progress. It was evolution; and it would be, for him, enough motivation to carry on. (3/9)

But no. It was never, ever enough. The lightning would not replicate. It would not fabricate into the deity he desired. No, no power. No promise and no conviction. This was not good enough. One streak -- one stop would not reach the end of the road! It had to be more. So he tried, tried and tried again. But it was never what he wanted -- what he saw. Frustration -- disappointment and anger began to consume his eyes as they turned from violet to red. Yes, he had defeated himself in this way. He could not control his own body -- and it was disgusting. But this time, anger and weakness did not prevail. No lightning was made. No satisfaction was met. But anger -- yes, anger was there. And it was stronger than any energy he could muster. (4/9)

It was hardly enough to be considered fervent, the effort he'd went through, but above all it was a step. He had taken many in his lifetime -- but this one was of impression. To gain such power, alone, was something he could never do. He had to rely on his render -- his blood, and that was enough to solidify his weakness alone. But he could not be blamed. He was a child. And this was a man's world. For those with strength and conviction -- for those who understood power and what it would bring. He knew becoming someone would force his path into that of danger, but more than anything, he wanted to be better. Better than the other of his kind -- only acting on instinct, lacking any real power or ambition. He wanted to be the best. And if the only opponent he could ever defeat was his own self, then he would not be the best. He would be a loser -- a waste of life, and the downfall of his kind. Yes, he would not become this. He would reach for more -- and he would HAVE more. No one could take this from him. Not his mother, not his father, not his kind, and definitely not this spell. (5/9)

The streak he held began to swim around his palm, acting almost with life and direction. It was beautiful to see his effort thrive -- it was that one moment in his life when all else seemed of no import. Yes, he admired the fruit of his work. It was one reason he could not hold himself from murder. For someone such as him, young, alone, and abandoned, reaping lives felt marvelous. He was, for those moments, strong. He was doing things that men did -- evil and malicious things, inflicting pain and distraught to all but themselves. Yes, this was all he had ever known. His father did it. He hurt him. He hurt everyone around him and all for his own satisfaction. And as much as he hated his father -- he could never stop admiring him. For what he did, for what he became. Powerful -- it was a word few ever reached. In his eyes, if you had the power to do something, then you were justified in doing it. The weak deserved to be punished. They would not gain some sort of bargain for their uninsightful actions. Punishment. Yes, this boy had given that to many. His father, the first, and many more followed. But he knew that the life he had lead would be followed by retribution. That was why he needed this strength. And in these moments, he realized, that was why he would have it. No surrender; only focus. Only then would he ever meet the power to carry on with his existence. (6/9)

"Just a bit more..." And it was. It was just a few inches further -- just a single trot before it was finished. So much effort, so much agony and frustration, and finally, he would gain reward. He would reap the effort and finally would he be given the power he so-long desired. It was almost orgasmic to see the lightning take shape -- appearing to be a rod now, but with minor flaws that separated it from completion. It was only a little more. Only a minor stretch. But this minor stretch seemed to be... so -- if perhaps too -- much for him. (7/9)

And then, and only then, did the lightning take shape. He aimed it at the sky above him, striking with all intensity. But it could not sustain for long enough. It split off into many directions, dispersing and almost knocking him to the ground with recoil. It was funny to think that just one spell required so much. He struggled to understand how some people seemed so... powerful. How was he comparable to their worthiness? Was he a flea? An insect? Did his prior challenges only lead him to realize that he was, upon the scope of the world, NOTHING? It was not enough to say that he couldn't belong, but to say that he could create a path through force was simply too much pressure. He was going to have this strength. This attempt was not a setback -- it was an awakening. The people who held power had trained for years to obtain this. He suffered for far longer. It would be handled. And it would be had. (8/9)

And finally, it was done. All of the effort finally came down to this final strike -- in which he heard the roar of the thunder as the lightning forced itself to the sky. It was finished. There was no more need for effort. Now, he would focus himself on observation. Maybe -- by seeing the people work in front of him -- he would gain an understanding of what sort of strength he would need for belonging. (9/9)

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