It seemed like Ledo was trying to steal Belial's thunder. Corpses? Their stench reached Belial's nostrils even from his present vantage point. But these were not the fine, willing creations that he devised with his recently learned technique; from what he could detect, the unliving beasts that clawed their way up the skyscraper were merely puppets to Ledo's will.

The Kiffar shrugged off his invisibility.

"I came here to kill or be killed, Ledo. Come and show me the beauty of the universe in death."

Belial stared down into the streets, ignoring the vermin that crawled towards Shade's throne. The hints of a grimace tugged at his lips; strands of his hair fell like black gold around his neck. His eyes swirled like smoking charcoal, burning across the city, sweeping through it in search of [i]one[/i] addict, [i]one[/i] whore, [i]one[/i] beautiful abomination that attracted his hungry eyes.

Ledo was a part of one of the holopuzzles that children loved to contemplate in their spare time. He was a piece that lent greater clarity to the image as a whole - not the last piece, but an important one all the same. Whispers in the Force and murmurs in crowds told him things. Information flowed through him just as sure as did the power that coursed undeniably through his veins.

"Ledo, you're going to be a part of something beautiful."

The dark prince smiled. Ledo, Shade, Aiden, the Pentacle Athame and its trio of puppet rulers. They were all tributaries feeding into the vast and powerful river that was Belial; Kai Finreaj and Nuka Methoataske had once been counted among their number, but those waters had dried up and vanished as Belial plundered and drank greedily from them. Now their souls were forever bound to his legacy; where he went, their corpses were a bridge into immortality. Belial was God and the blood of his prey were the ambrosia that strengthened his mighty heart.

Of all the titles that a man can bear, there are few that equate to "slayer". A king may rule a nation, having conquered it with no wit other than his own; a lord, prince, duke or earl can possess treasures and wealth from the spanning the galaxy and into the cold depths of the Unknown Regions. A master craftsman may create things, gilded and glittering with the sweat of their labor, items so precious that they eyes and hearts from every culture crave and covet them.

Jedi and Bogan wield the very fabric of space and time, able to bend nature and fate on a whim to their will, capable of creation and destruction with the same fickle demeanor as the gods and the Force itself. Even priests and their clergy who demand the respect of both worlds mortal and otherwise, as well as those beyond our comprehension. Their hands are steeped far and deep into the realm of faith, where many of us have become so entrenched as to never escape. It is in that lot that Ledo's children lie; it is in that purgatory that they will forever smolder as but ashes of what they could have been.

To all of these great people, only one man lifts his chin, refusing to accept inferior status. No one bows to him and no crown sits shining on his head. Minor deities such as Shade respect and fear him, unable to replicate his feats with the same level of valor. Grandmasters and great failures give to him their blessings freely, placing at times a higher burden onto his shoulders than onto those of the Force they worship.

When the cities burn, they come to him. When the oceans boil over and fortresses crumble, their call goes out to him. When blood stains the fields scarlet and ash chokes out the stars, they search him out and him alone. Of all the creatures of land, sea, sky, space and the incorporeal, he hunts the great and the meager both. His blade is that which has been whet with ten thousand lives and will continue to be gorged on many more. He does not do battle with man, monster, or god, for they shrivel in his shadow; he chooses to lock blades with the single creation that inspires fear in all beings: death itself.

No one can claim to be his kindred. His body may be covered in the scars of his destiny, but with lost flesh he has bought strength incomparable and legendary status. He is a hero and a champion, a villain and devil. He is the slayer, the man who supports the sky as it falls and pushes back the sea with his breath, whose feet stifle earthquakes and whose mind lends space to the galaxy itself.

Belial's [i]goal[/i], his [b]dream[/b], would not stop until [i]he[/i] became the slayer. He would not be humbled by Shade or by Ledo. His bridge across the tides of fate had been built on a foundation of carcasses, men whose hopes had been cruelly ripped away from them in pursuit of glory. Belial's dream swallowed those of who fell beneath him. All philosophy filled his body with the strength continue, and the hum of his lightsaber was the song that would start as he pushed open the doors into the land where gods play.

To that end, he would not stop to save any being trampled underfoot while he chased his [i]destiny[/i]. Aiden Dekker had fallen, as would any who dared interfere. Ledo's memories would be sucked under the black tar of Belial's goals. Eventually, Shade too would be swallowed into the dark oblivion that waited once Belial reached sweet salvation.

These Elom streets were a stepping stone. A duel with Ledo would be decided by will, and Belial, who had traversed a hundred systems to reach his current place, had no intention of faltering.

"Bring on your corpses. Bring on your apprentices. They will crash against me like waves into a cliff. Even you, Ledo, are merely a ripple in the waters that make me."