Imago

**Imago** is the main protagonist of Samsara Imago, he's known as **Imago of the Demonic Chest** because of the fact demons emerge from his chest sometimes unknowing and uncontrollably. He is accompanied by his savior, Tara who was assigned to him upon hearing his cries in Samsara.

## Background

Imago is a warrior in his mid-thirties, little is known about his background. He continues to have visions of his past that appear to him continuously.

#### *Niraya* arc

In a desolated village, its location shrouded in the obscurity of an undisclosed island of cold. Here, a haunting silence lay heavily, broken only by the crackling flames that voraciously consumed the wooden and metal structures, casting eerie shadows on the dead bodies strewn about. Some lie in the streets, hanging out of windows and doorways, and even appear on the roofs of the buildings they once frequented. In the heart of this ghostly scene lay a man, in his mid-thirties - prone upon the scorched earth, his wounds seeping crimson onto the ashen ground. As if guided by some otherworldly force, the blood that flowed from the man's torso defied gravity and expectation, retracting into his body until not a trace remained. Slowly, he stirred, his awakening marked by the piercing sound of metal meeting soil. With a steady hand, he used the sword of a dead adversary who lied among him, as leverage to rise from the smoldering ruins. His long jet black hair coiled down over his face, frizzled and partially blocking his field of view, his beard remains full grown and unkept.

Wide eyed he witnesses once again what has occurred, the destruction, the death and he being the sole survivor of this massacre. Panting heavily his chest deflates and inflates like a balloon struggling to fill with air. Breath by breath he masters his breathing until it is back under control. His clothing, torn at the chest area where a scar appears and odd remnants of blood and something else remain. Into his field of vision steps a woman, her presence both serene and enigmatic. Perhaps she had witnessed the events in this town unfold but she wore attire that spoke of modesty, free from ostentation or any overt signifiers of wealth. Her dark sepia skin and bunned hair atop her head contrasted with the pale backdrop of the devastation, lending her an ethereal quality as she observed the man's emergence from the brink of death. Standing at a medium height, her face expresses pity and disappointment.

Her lithe and graceful figure adorned in flowing robes that shimmer with ethereal light. Her skin is a flawless soot, reflecting her purity of spirit, while her eyes, the color of a tranquil pool, hold a depth of compassion that draws all who look into them. She wears robes of a celestial shade of green, symbolizing her connection to the natural world and her role. Adorned with intricate patterns and symbols, her garments flow around her like a river, symbolizing the fluidity of her guidance. Though the man's exterior bore the unmistakable marks of a fierce battle, his brow glistened with sweat mingling seamlessly with the layers of dirt that coated his face. Oblivious to the woman's gaze, he began to weave his way through the remnants of the village, an air of exhaustion trailing him like the tattered banners that once flew proudly in this town. The woman, undaunted by his disheveled appearance and the turmoil that had unfolded,

held her ground. Her eyes tracked his every movement, her gaze unwavering, betraying a familiarity that transcended the grim circumstances. The man, unsure of what to do next, refused to make eye contact with the dead bodies around him so as to not invoke the shame that lied in his subconscious mind.

He sat, stood, walked and leaned against a wall forehead first simultaneously. The woman watched him do this, but dared to interfere. It befalls as if they had shared traumatic moments that had bound them together in a bond unspoken and profound. With his forehead still against the wall. The man finally made eye contact with the woman through the corner of his eye and pushed himself forward, onto his next destination. In that decimated village, amidst the wreckage and the ashes of what once existed, the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the desolate landscape. Dust and ash swirled in the stagnant air as a hushed tension lingered between the two figures trudging through the ruins. The world had long lost its vibrancy, it being sapped away by relentless conflict. He shoots her a "look”, his brown eyes a maelstrom of emotions as he musters up the strength to speak in an aggressive tone. Dried blood in his mouth.

"You again! Stay out of my way!"

His words are sharp, a plea masked as a command. The woman obliged his request, but she followed shortly behind him. Her steps are quiet, a shadow that matches his every move.

"I am your assigned savior and your cries were heard. Of course you probably didn’t notice me, I’ve only been following you for a few karmic cycles but how would you know that?” she relays in a chipper know-it-all attitude, despite the circumstances.

“I don’t cry!” the man refutes, ignoring everything else she said.

“Ugh, aren't you tired of this?” she asks, her voice cutting through the heavy silence “I have been assigned to you by Lord Yama himself and until you complete Samsara I cannot return to Nirvana...I miss my meditation”. She moans in the form of the

question “ugh will you ever complete samsara?” she poses the challenging question to herself, almost quiet enough to blend with the wind.

The man trotted on, on the other hand the savior's breath is unusually cold but she dismisses it because of the climate of the world they are in. The humidity returns to the air, as the two continue to walk, the woman's question lingering like an unspoken truth. They had left behind the remnants of a destroyed village, a place that had once thrived with laughter, now became a graveyard of memories. They crossed the road, its asphalt cracked and pitted, like the scars on the warrior's soul. Ahead of them lay a brief respite--a forest in the heart of the rural country they called home. Its lush greenery sat against a stark contrast to the barren wasteland they had traversed. Still sweating and exhausted, the man endured the weight of the world pressing down upon him. His steps became labored, and his breaths came in ragged gasps. Every footfall served as a reminder of the battles he had fought, the lives he had inadvertently taken, and the innocence he had lost. Finally, his body could take no more, and he collapses of exhaustion. Falling on his back, he stared up at the sky, the azure expanse marred by thick plumes of smoke that implied it would stretch on forever. His companion hurried to his side, her eyes filled with concern.

As his physique transitioned from detailed to blurry and silhouette-like, the man's eyes began to close. The world around him faded, and he felt a strange sense of detachment. The echoes of his past deeds reverberated in his mind, a haunting symphony of regrets and sorrow. The man's eyelids closed completely, and he surrendered to the darkness that beckoned. In that fleeting moment of respite, he could almost hear the distant laughter of children fade and the songs of birds in the forest they now found themselves in. The world he knew had been shattered, but there existed a glimmer of hope buried deep within its ruins. As the woman watched over him, she couldn't help but wonder if they could ever find a way to mend what had been broken inside of him. Within his dream the man stood up in a village on fire, surrounded by a flurry of movement. Movement so quick he was unable to distinguish who was who. This time, his hair remained pulled up and sat atop his head semi-locked together and tied. A style that he wore in the past. People were running in all directions, a look of panic etched across their faces, they were fleeing some impending catastrophe. The man's face remained impassive, but in the corner of his eye, a tear threatened to escape. Before it could fall, another blink of an eye, and an incense stick ignited at his feet to properly start the vision but before it could. The spark of the incense awakened something within him. He gasped for breath and sat up abruptly, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.

"Night sweats?" The woman sat beside him, her eyes filled with concern. She spoke softly, her voice calming.

The man, still panting, didn't acknowledge her concern. Instead, he demanded, "where are we?"

The woman remained unruffled by his rudeness. She had the upper hand in this situation, and knew it. "We are in Naraya. I brought you to the Treasure House Inn, they had rooms upstairs" she replied calmly, "I hope you don’t mind but after you passed out, I brought you here..to this inn, it’s the only one you could afford."

The woman handed the man a small slab of silver metal with a punch designed on it. It had been punched by the inn. The punch took up the entire slab and bore the insignia of the establishment. Accepting the truth of his financial situation, the man sighed. Rock bottom became a stark reality, and this rundown inn reminded of that fact. Gathering himself, he knew they needed to leave this place, indeed the staff did a good job to make it cozy but it wreaked something unwanted and supernatural.

"We need to get out of here..." the man said to the woman.

"I agree" she replied “I dislike being around Narakas. Their demeanor is one of eternal restlessness and agony. Foul souls forever tormented by unfulfilled desires, driven by vain and futile pursuits. Even now they still crave.”

With that, they returned through a hallway to the busy downstairs where she branched off, heading to the bar counter to pay the patron who had rented them the room on such short notice. The man and woman descended the creaky wooden stairs of the rustic inn, their entrance casting an unexpected hush upon the lively bar below. Dark black eyes followed their every move, like hungry predators sizing up their prey. In an establishment where raucous conversations and clinking mugs of ale were the norm, this sudden silence felt like a heavy fog. They appeared unremarkable at first glance, dressed in ordinary attire that might blend into any crowd. However, what set them apart from the rest of the patrons came about from the man's weathered countenance, as if

he had been through a relentless and unforgiving ordeal. His face bore the marks of a battle, though the scars were not visible on his skin; they lay deep within, etched by cruel hands. One of the Naraka's, a regular who sat in the corner booth, couldn't help but break the eerie silence with a hushed question, his eyes fixed on the couple.

"Is that him?" his words carried the weight of uncertainty.

Another patron chimed in, leaning closer to hear the response. "I saw him come in being

carried by that woman," he whispered back, his tone a mix of awe and disbelief.

The mention of the woman only deepened the intrigue. It wasn't often that anyone, let alone a rugged figure like the man, entered the inn in such a vulnerable state, especially in the company of a woman who exudes an air of protective strength. Whispered legends and rumors that occasionally floated through the tavern's patrons but were dismissed when not swiftly validated. Questions hung heavy in the air, as patrons leaned closer to their neighbors, murmuring to one another, speculating about the mysterious duo. Some conversations veered off-topic, tales of their own exploits and encounters taking a backseat to the enigmatic newcomers. The irritated woman spouted out loudly enough for the patrons to hear her.

“What!! Have you ever laid eyes on two people before??”

Gradually, the hush yielded to the resilient hum of conversation. As the initial shock ebbed away, the bar's inhabitants found their voices once more. Stories and laughter returned, and the barkeep resumed pouring drinks with practiced ease. Meanwhile, the man, with his dark eyes scanning the bar, sought an inconspicuous seat. He befell as no stranger to attention and knew how to navigate the complexities of a room like this. As he moved closer to an unoccupied corner, his presence radiated a quiet intensity, inviting curiosity and prompting the questions on everyone's lips. The man's arrival confirmed the stories that had been whispered through Naraya. His past, shrouded in the shadows of war and hardship, remained unspoken, a secret known only to those who bore witness to his entrance that night.

As the woman settled their debts, the man's eyes scanned the dimly lit room. Around him are Narakas, beings bound to eternal suffering and a kind of unfulfillment that lasts forever. Their essence is fueled by desire. Gaunt, emaciated, and almost skeletal physically in nature. When the Narakas figures stand, their skin is a sickly, pallid hue, stretched tightly over their bones, emphasizing the torment of perpetual hunger. One can question how they managed to walk upright with such strength let alone see, with their sunken hollow eyes. Terrifying, their eyes always burned with an unsettling,

fiery glow, representing their unquenchable thirst for more. Their mouth remains elongated, a gaping maw that never ceases to consume. Its teeth are jagged and sharp, evoking a sense of malevolence and insatiability. This grotesque visage is a stark contrast to its frail, withered body, emphasizing the grotesque nature of its existence. One could guess their realm had no tailor because their clothes were mostly tattered and decaying robes that hang loosely from its skeletal frame, either that or their tailor had a poor fashion sense. Of course their garments still fit each Naraka based on their assignment at birth, symbols of a former life, now decayed and insignificant in the face of its relentless suffering. Shy to the eye, the robes that they bear are sometimes made up of faded, intricate patterns and symbols, hinting at a once-prominent past.

The man’s war-esque past nurtured a sense of danger that never left him. His hand rested on the arm rest of the chair, his fingers tapping it thoughtfully. With careful consideration, he combed through the room, searching for a seat that offered the best vantage point. He found it in the far corner, away from the raucous crowd, their hunger, laughter and drunken conversations echoing through the wooden beams of the old tavern. The Tavern is a captivating blend of the past and the future. This establishment stands as a testament to the seamless integration of old-world charm and cutting-edge technology. The exterior harks back to an era of traditional architecture, with ornate wooden carvings, a sloping, tiled roof, and crimson lanterns that sway gently in the breeze. It's easy to mistake it for a historical relic.

Upon entering, there is an intimate yet lively atmosphere. The bar itself, made of rich mahogany, stretches across one side of the tavern. Behind it, rows of intricate glass shelves house an extensive collection of rare spirits and liquors from across the land. Bartenders, dressed in traditional attire. Tucked discreetly behind the bar, a grand wooden staircase leads to the second floor, where The inn awaits. As you ascend the stairs, the ornate railings are studded. The staircase itself is softly lit by flames hidden within the wooden steps, creating an ambiance. Upon reaching the second floor, you're greeted by a spacious landing adorned with traditional rugs and silk tapestries. The inn consists of several meticulously designed rooms. A bed for sleep, a window for viewing the cold landscape of Naraya, a chair and table for contemplation and a fireplace that could stay seldom lit because the landscape remained so cold.

Sitting there, he felt the weight of his past and the uncertainty of his future, something he couldn't ignore. They were entangled in something beyond their comprehension, something that would demand all of their strength and cunning to unravel. But for now, waiting sat as the only option, his senses on high alert, as he sought refuge in the shadows of the dimly lit tavern, away from the prying eyes and ears of the other patrons. The man found himself in the same worn-out seat, a silent observer in a dimly lit corner of the smoky tavern. The room remained alive with the clinking of glasses, bursts of raucous laughter, and the low hum of conversations that

blended into an indistinguishable buzz, a place of escape for many, a respite from the mundane troubles of the day to day. But for the man, a battlefield within. As the man watched Narakas sip their drink and engage in animated conversations, an unsettling sensation gnawed at him from the inside. A shadow loomed, threatening to engulf his thoughts and actions. An impression he had tried so hard to suppress, to keep hidden from the world, and most importantly, from himself. He clenched his jaw, gripping the edges of his chair, and tried to divert his attention to the swaying sign outside the window. Anything to keep from releasing that malevolent entity dwelling deep within him. But the more he resisted, the stronger it grew, like a beast hungry for freedom.

The man knew he had to do something to quell this rising darkness, to maintain the fragile balance he had struggled to uphold for years. His mind raced through the familiar arsenal of coping mechanisms he had developed. But tonight, those tactics were futile, laughable even, in the face of the emotional tempest that raged within. His fingers tapped restlessly on the chair's armrest, his nails making an almost inaudible staccato. He watched the Naraka, whose infectious laughter reached a crescendo as he regaled the bartender with yet another anecdote. The laughs from the Naraka felt like a dagger slicing through the man’s consciousness. The man knew the crossroads facing this moment, a moment of reckoning. He had to find a way to squash the malevolence within him before it consumed him whole. A Herculean task, one that no prior task had adequately prepared him for and a mental battle that grew into an internal clash of cosmic forces. Closing his eyes, pushing back the darkness inch by inch. Naraka's laughter persisted, a stark reminder of the past the man ran from, but couldn't run anymore without risking the last of what he held dear being destroyed. He focused on the light within him, strengthening it with every heartbeat, every breath.

The man couldn't erase the evil that dwelled within him, but he could keep it at bay. He could make choices that aligned with his values, with the person he aspired to be. In the quiet depths of inner struggle, he found a kind of strength, a different sort of resolve. Opening his eyes, the man realized that Naraka's laughter could no longer fill him with dread unless he chose. Instead, it served as a reminder of the path he had chosen – a path of restraint and self-control. He could be better than the darkness that sought to claim him.

He sighed, a heavy but relieving exhale, and finally allowed himself a small smile. The battle within wasn’t close to being over, but in this moment, he had emerged victorious. Sitting there, the temperature in the room started to drop, as if an icy hand had swept through the air, sending a shiver through those present. It felt like the dead of winter, and the fireplace in the old bar struggled to keep its patrons warm. People in the room could view their breath, tiny clouds of mist forming with each exhale. Amidst the eerie chill, a Narakan woman with fire in her eyes engaged in conversation with a Narakan man across from her. The words flowed freely from her mouth, but she couldn't

help but notice the frosty plumes of her breath as she spoke. Her eyes flickered towards the man, whose eyelids were growing heavy, a clear sign that the cold deeply affected him as well. In the dimly lit corner of the bar, away from the fireplace's meager warmth, a semi-drunken man stumbled towards the table where the drowsy man sat. Belligerent, his voice slurred as he addressed the man

"YoU aRE In mY SeAt!"

The man, drowsy, paid him no mind - instead focusing on his inner struggle to generate warmth in the freezing atmosphere. Frustrated by the lack of response, the drunken man banged his cup on the table, trying to shake the man from his almost meditative state.

"HeY!" the drunken man persisted, growing more agitated.

His actions only succeeded in making the drowsy man sweat more profusely, drops of perspiration rolling down his forehead and onto the table. The tension in the room grew again. The man stared at the cup on the table, his eyes fixed upon it, almost as if he were summoning his strength from the depths of his soul. The patrons of the bar held their collective breath, their eyes locked on the unfolding drama in the corner. Slowly, the drowsy man turned his head, his gaze meeting the bloodshot eyes of the drunken man. A chilling moment of connection had raised an indirect and loud question, and the entire bar sat at attention, the hum of conversation silenced by the impending showdown. Sensing the imminent clash, the woman sitting across from the drowsy man realized the gravity of the situation. Swift, she rose from her seat and rushed over to intervene before matters escalated further. Her footsteps echoed in the hushed room as she approached the two men, her eyes scolding the drunken man for his recklessness.

"You fool!" the now drowsy man muttered, his voice dripping with aggression.

His body twitched as if he were possessed by something otherworldly, a surge of energy coursing through him. The confrontation had awakened a dormant beast within him. The woman reached the scene in time, her resolve stealing her for the task at hand.

She turned to face the bar, her voice booming with authority, "All of you, get out of here!

Now!"

Her command cut through the tension, a thunderous decree that brooked no argument. The patrons, aware of the brewing storm, quickly complied, leaving their drinks behind as they exited the bar, eager to avoid becoming collateral damage in the impending clash. The drunken man stumbled backward, his bravado evaporating in the face of the woman's fierce resolve and the mysterious aura surrounding the drowsy man. He turned and staggered his way out of the bar, his parting words a meek apology. As the door swung shut behind the retreating man, the room began to warm once more, and the tension that had gripped the bar began to dissipate. The woman turned back to the drowsy man, her eyes filled with a mixture of relief and concern, knowing what had transpired. In that dimly lit corner, where the temperature had dropped and emotions had flared, the woman and the drowsy man were left with a shared sense of astonishment, knowing about the strange and enigmatic force that had come to life within him. In his mind as he tried to escape his own thoughts. It had been a long day for the man. His past had caught up with him, and his desire for a quiet, anonymous existence that had come to pass slipped through his fingers like grains of sand. The scars of his former trauma, once carefully hidden, had been uncovered. He had hoped to live without the weight of his reputation, to let his past remain dormant in the annals of history. But rarely are such wishes granted.

As the man sat there, brooding in the corner, a raucous laughter pierced the air, causing him to flinch. The laughter took place not from the usual joviality of anything living; it felt harsh and grating, filled with an inebriated arrogance that grated on the man's nerves. He turned his gaze toward the source of the commotion, his piercing eyes cutting through the dimness. There, stumbling towards him with all the grace of a wounded beast, a Narakan, inebriated. That much was evident, but it wasn't his drunken state that roused the man's inner turmoil; the words he slurred out as he pointed a shaky finger in the man's direction completed the process.

"Hey man! In the corner, I recognize you, you are Imago of the Demonic Chest!”

Narakan bellowed, his voice carrying through the tavern like a thunderclap. The remaining heads in the bar turned, and a hushed silence descended, as if the air had been sucked from the room.

Imago felt a cold chill, and he clenched his fists beneath the table. The name, 'Imago of the Demonic Chest,' had meant to be buried deep within the recesses of his soul. A name that had inspired fear, a name associated with deeds he daily wished to

forget. Imago had tried to distance himself from his reputation. The drunken Narakan staggered closer, swaying on unsteady legs, completely oblivious to the tension in the room. A burden that costs him friendships, family, and even his own sense of self. The memories surged within him, like a tempest threatening to consume him whole. He had spent years, a slave to what lies within, summoning creatures of darkness from the depths of the abyss, and wielding power that would rend the fabric of reality itself. But it had come at a cost, a price that had left him scarred in more ways than one. Imago's eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched as he watched the Narakan draw nearer but couldn’t form words to warn it. The inner demon he had fought so hard to suppress began to stir within him, a maelstrom of emotions, a thirst for power and vengeance. The staff of the tavern, sensing the impending storm, edged away from the confrontation, their expressions a mix of fear and curiosity.

As the Narakan stumbled to within arm's reach, Imago made a choice. He wouldn't allow his past to define him any longer. With a swift, decisive motion, he pushed back his chair and stood, his movements smooth and fluid, belying the turmoil within. In that moment, Imago made a silent vow to confront his past and reclaim himself. The darkness that had once consumed him would no longer control his fate. The time had come to unleash the full extent of his powers, not as a master of the demonic, but as a man searching for redemption. The battle with his inner demons had begun, and the tavern would bear witness to the transformation of Imago, the man with a name he could no longer deny. Imago, present, felt an uncontrollable vibration coursing through his body, as if a seismic tremor had taken residence within him. A sensation both foreign and electrifying. A surge of energy, raw and untamed, began its ascent, snaking its way down his back. At the same time, another unbidden vibration pulsed within his trembling hands. An odd symphony, a convergence of two distinct energies that soon found each other at a crossroads. These vibrating forces collided within him, converging at the apex of his being--his head. The fusion of these energies created an unsettling chill that overcame him. The chill manifested in the form of tears that welled up in his tightly shut eyes. His essence had awakened to an innate power, one that he had never known he possessed.

Amidst this internal tempest, a menacing laughter echoed through the desolate bar from the mouth of the man. The demon, its grotesque form exaggerated by its malicious grin, reflected in the face of Imago. The bone structure of Imago returns to his human form as his mouth continues to taunt everyone in the room but physically it’s felt that this entity moved from the face down to the chest of Imago. A symbol once covered in shame by Imago announces itself without welcome, staring at it long enough in fear the woman watches it move on its own like an animated tattoo. The raindrop shaped symbol expanded and took the shape of a circle, almost looking like a portal. The now abandoned bar around them had better days. Once a lively haunt for the locals,

it now stood as a decaying relic of its former self. Broken glass littered the floor, dust hung thick in the air, and the faint whistle of the wind that seeped through the cracks in the windows. Imago had never paid much attention to the mark on his chest, doing his best to dismiss it as much as he could. But as he stared at it now, he could tap into the perception of the strange presence emanating from it. A familiar sensation.

The demon burst from his chest, blood spraying everywhere, killing him and painting the room red. Fading into a memory from his youth. He lies on his back in a dense forest, the towering trees whispering secrets to the wind. As a teenager, he sat up and gazed into the distance. Like a spark his village goes up in flames, its houses reduced to smoldering ruins. The sense of helplessness washed over him, the same emotion he harbored now. Imago shot up and ran through the forest towards the smoke signals. Back in the Nayara realm one of the patrons who remained hidden behind the bar, shrieked in terror as she glanced upon the dead corpse of Imago. His arms spread out over and face implanted face down into the table. Veering her eyes to the opposite corner of the bar where the candle light had gone out. She witnesses the grotesque entity that remained harbored inside of Imago, so eager to escape. A blood curdling scream can’t help but leave her mouth.

“SHUT UP!” Tara commands through a quiet whisper but the woman couldn’t hear, ensnared in fear. Tara fades away into thin air to conceal herself.

Stomping across the room through the darkness, the demon emerges from the darkness and grabs the female Naraka and swallows her whole. The demon turns its attention toward the rest of the room and glances at Imago’s dead body. Imago lies lifeless, but in his subconscious the posturing voice of a man rings in his ears telling him to wake up. The familiar voice triggers his blood sprawled across the room, it returns to him, converging back within the scar etched upon his chest. His wound seals shut and he returns from unconsciousness. Returning to life he gets up to Gaki's displeasure. Imago usually remains incapacitated for an extended duration, allowing Gaki ample time to destroy. The room began to change. Imago's feet no longer felt gravity and the chair he sat gently floated. A glass of whiskey hung suspended in the air. Panic welled up inside Imago, he reached out to grab onto the bar, but his hands grasped at nothing. As he looked down at himself, Imago looked down and saw himself hovering a few inches above the grimy floor. Fear coursed through him, but he couldn't move. He felt trapped in this surreal, weightless state.

**A low, guttural growl filled the air, a sound that sent a chill through Imago's soul. He turned his head, scanning the room for the source of the noise which he found and ultimately he saw the creature that emerged hands first from the moving mark on his chest. Her fiery red hair cascaded down to her shoulders, and her emerald-green skin glowed with an otherworldly light. She had an out of place saggy belly with her otherwise slender form, and her arms and legs were impossibly skinny. Her eyes, a fiery shade of crimson, bore into Imago with a mixture of malevolence and curiosity. Alluring and terrifying described the demon’s presence. It had taken the most unsettling aspects of Imago’s inner-self and combined them into a form that defied nature itself. Abruptly he loses his weightlessness and returns to the floor but the objects around him remain trapped. Imago speaks**

**The demon's lips curled into a wicked grin, revealing sharp, needle-like teeth. "And you, dear Imago, have unwittingly unleashed me from the darkness in your soul." she hissed, her voice a sultry, seductive whisper that resonated with Imago.**

**Imago's mind raced as he tried to make sense of the situation. "What do you want from me?"**

**Gaki floated closer to him, her presence causing the temperature in the room to plummet. "I want what all demons crave," it purred. "Power, chaos, and the sweet taste of your despair."**

**Imago's heart pounded in his chest as he realized the gravity of the situation. He had unwittingly unleashed a demon from the mark on his chest, and now faced with a choice: succumb to the darkness that threatened to consume him and let the demon run rampant or fight back with every ounce of his being. As Gaki drew nearer, her eyes burning with a hunger for his soul, Imago knew that his journey had taken a dark and perilous turn. With a deep breath, he steeled himself for the battle ahead, determined to protect his world from the malevolent force that had been unleashed from within him.**

**“Tara! Have you not learned yet? I will continue our rampage!” The demon's back curved inward as it puffed its chest outward, preparing to unleash its nefarious power upon Tara.**

**Tara stood at the threshold of the abandoned bar, revealing herself once upon knowing Imago returned. her heart pounding like the drums of a forgotten ritual. The looming presence of the Demon Gaki, a creature born of nightmares and dark desires, filled the dimly lit space. This time, Tara didn’t fear the lower form demon and gravitated towards facing it. Without a moment's hesitation, she unleashed a torrent of flames that danced around her head, forming a fiery halo. The flames were alive, interconnected by small, fiery links that created a mesmerizing stream. Her ebony skin turned a deep shade of red as the flames roared, enveloping her in their searing embrace. In each hand, a flame blazed brightly, yet they did not harm her. The flames were an extension of herself, a testament to her mastery over the elemental forces that coursed through her veins. One of the flames jumped over to the other in a straight line and took shape, gradually solidifying into the form of a dagger. Tara's eyes locked onto Imago, as she tried to hand him the weapon. The dagger glowed with an ethereal light, its edges sharp and deadly.**

**"You!" the demon hissed, its voice a guttural rasp, "how did you hide the Kila Sword from the Naraya realm? It should have been beyond your grasp."**

**Tara's eyes blazed with intensity as she faced the demon. "Some secrets are not meant to be revealed, and some powers are not meant to be controlled by the likes of you, Demon Gaki. A part of you that reflects Imago’s ignorance."**

**“Wait a minute!” Imago interjects.**

**“It’s true! But judging by your reaction to my words, you are ready to take the Kila**

**Sword. Take it Imago, please. Do not let these demons rampage any longer.”**

**“I am not worthy of wielding such an elegant weapon” Imago counters depressingly.**

**“YES you-I journeyed to the darkest corners of the realms to find the Kila Sword, this blade has the power to sever the essence of your demons.” Tara stops herself from being forceful.**

**Imago's eyes were fixed on Tara's trembling hand, holding the Kila Sword, its ancient blade glinting menacingly under the flicker of the candle light. He knew the power it held, the destiny it could shape, but he refused to take it. He couldn't bear the weight of such a burden, not after all that had transpired. Before he could voice his hesitation, a deafening explosion shook the bar. Fiery projectiles erupted from the corner, and the scent of burning wood and scorched air filled the room. The Demon Gaki had found them, and pursued them relentlessly. Tara and Imago instinctively dove for cover, tumbling behind overturned tables and shattered furniture as the explosive fireballs rained down upon them. The blazing infernos disintegrated everything they touched, leaving nothing but smoldering ashes in their wake. The old, weathered bar rapidly became a furnace of destruction. Imago's heart raced as he sought refuge, narrowly escaping a fiery explosion that charred the floor where he had stood moments before. As he huddled behind a shattered wooden beam, his mind began to wander, perhaps influenced by the chaos unfolding around him.**

**In the midst of the inferno Tara's voice broke through, sharp and urgent, "Imago!"**

**He snapped out of the reverie, back into the fiery nightmare of the bar. Tara's worried face loomed before him, replacing the haunting memories. His vision disappeared, replaced once more by the real danger they faced.**

**The Demon Gaki mocking laughter cut through the fiery chaos, its voice a menacing taunt. "No place to run, no place to hide. I'll enjoy turning you both into cinders."**

**Imago inched his way towards Tara. His eyes never left the Kila Sword, its blade whispering promises of power. He couldn't refuse it any longer, not when their lives hung in the balance. With trembling hands, he reached out and gently touched Tara's arm. "Give me the sword," he whispered, his voice determined despite his earlier reluctance.**

**Tara hesitated for a moment, her gaze locked with Imago's. She saw something in his eyes, something that had been absent before. Slowly, she handed him the weapon, their fingers briefly brushing against each other. The sword felt cold and heavy in his grasp, and as he held it, he could sense its latent power waiting to be unleashed. Imago turned to face the advancing demon, his grip on the Kila Sword firm.**

**"We'll find a way out of this, we’ll complete Samsara..." he declared, his voice unwavering "...together."**

**Tara nodded. Imago grasped it firmly, his eyes reflecting a fearlessness. With the dagger in hand, Imago stepped forward, ready to engage in combat with the menacing Demon Gaki. The demon, its grotesque form twisted and warped, gawked in astonishment at the sight before it. Tara, her flames burning brightly, looked like a celestial being, a force of nature incarnate. Imago lunged at the demon, his fiery dagger slashing through the air like a comet streaking across the night sky. The demon met his attack with equal ferocity, the clash of their forces creating a cacophony of sparks and flames. Tara watched as her friend and the demon engaged in battle. The flames around Tara's head continued to burn brightly, casting a fiery glow that illuminated the bar's desolate interior. Her ebony skin remained flushed with the power of her inner fire. In the heart of the battle, amidst the clash of steel and fire, Tara knew that she had found her purpose, and she would stop at nothing to protect the realms from the malevolent forces that sought to plunge them into eternal darkness.**

**Its malevolent intent oozed from its every pore, a palpable miasma that hung in the air like a looming storm. But the man, seemingly vulnerable with his folded legs and closed eyes, far from defenseless. As his still body surrendered to the demon's impending assault, an enigmatic aura began to emanate from him. An ethereal presence, a manifestation of his inner turmoil. This "aura" coiled and swirled around him like a serpent, its movements guided by the man's sheer willpower. With a swift and decisive motion, the man unleashes the sword, sending it hurtling through the air like a razor-sharp projectile. It moved with a grace and precision that defied the chaotic nature of the bar turned battlefield, slicing through the demon's limbs as if they were nothing more than paper the demon’s arm falls to the ground. The demon let out a**

**blood-curdling shriek, a sound of agony and despair that filled the air and reverberated through the surrounding desolation. Broken bottles and shattered furniture littered the dimly lit room, and the air dampened heavy with the scent of decay and despair. Imago stood at one end of the room, his grip firm on the Kila Sword, a weapon with a history as old as time itself.**

**On the other side of the room stood the Demon Gaki. Its grotesque form sent shivers down Imago's spine. Its skin resembled molten lava, shifting and morphing, and its eyes glowed with malevolent hunger. With a swift and determined motion, Imago charged at the demon, his Kila Sword gleaming with anticipation. The room erupted into chaos as their battle began, the clash of metal against demon flesh echoing through the abandoned bar. Imago's strikes were precise and deadly, each swing of the Kila Sword aimed at a vital point on the demon's body. He knew that one wrong move could cost him everything, but he weighed the risk and ending the demon's reign of terror took priority. The Demon Gaki, however, proved to be a formidable foe. It twisted and contorted its body, dodging Imago's attacks with unnatural speed and grace. Its laughter, a chilling and guttural sound, filled the air as it taunted Imago.**

**"You can’t defeat me with that pitiful sword, human!" the demon sneered, its voice dripping with malice. "Tara went to great lengths to acquire it, only to hand it to you but do you even know how to use it?"**

**Imago gritted his teeth, his frustration mounting. He had spent years hearing legends surrounding the Kila Sword, that it was capable of slaying demons but he had never actually wielded it in battle. With a burst of energy, Imago lunged at the demon once more, his strikes becoming more frenzied. He aimed for the demon's limbs, hoping to dismember it and render it powerless. His strikes were true, and he managed to sever one of the demon's arms. But to his horror, the severed limb writhed and contorted on the floor, as if it had a life-force of its own. Slowly, it began to crawl back towards the demon's body, reattaching itself with sickening squelches. The demon grinned, its eyes filled with sadistic pleasure.**

**"It wouldn’t be that easy, Imago!" the demon taunted and laughed. “That weapon alone will not destroy me! I live with you Imago, I am you IMAGO. The Kila Sword may have power, but you lack the knowledge to harness it fully. You are but a vessel for my destruction..."**

**Imago's heart sank as he realized the truth of the demon's words. He had the sword, but he didn't truly understand its capabilities. He needed to find a way to tap into its ancient power and defeat the Demon Gaki once and for all. As the battle raged on, Imago knew that he had to dig deep within himself to unlock the true potential of the Kila Sword. With each strike and parry, he searched for the connection between himself and the ancient weapon, determined to prove the demon wrong and save his inner-world from the darkness that had consumed it for so long. The once vibrant bar had now become a desolate wasteland, its walls charred and its windows shattered. In the midst of this eerie silence, Imago faced his most formidable adversary yet – the fire-breathing demon Gaki. With two arms and two legs, it towered over him, its infernal flames casting eerie shadows on the scorched floor. Imago danced through the air with uncanny agility, narrowly avoiding the searing waves of fire that erupted from Gaki's maw. His eyes, gleaming, never left the demon's fiery gaze. He knew one misstep could turn him into a charred corpse.**

**Tara, his faithful companion, felt the tension in the air and transformed into one of her twenty-one forms. Her skin turned a deep shade of red, and her arms split into two, forming a protective forcefield around her. She had honed this form to perfection, allowing her to support Imago without exposing herself to the demon's wrath.**

**As the battle raged on, Imago’s frustration grew, each strike had no effect on Gaki. He turned to Tara, his voice strained with desperation. "Why isn't it working? The Kila sword should be able to vanquish this demon!"**

**Tara's eyes bore into Imago's as she explained, "The Kila sword responds to the healed life path of the individual. It reflects the purity and righteousness of its wielder. Perhaps there's something blocking its power within you."**

**Imago closed his eyes, focusing his thoughts. He channeled his inner self, seeking to purify his own life path. Slowly, the blade of the Kila sword began to transform, shimmering with an otherworldly light capable of piercing Gaki's infernal hide. But in the passion of the battle, Imago's grip on the sword faltered, and it slipped from his fingers. Gaki, sensing an opportunity, lunged forward, its massive arms closing around Imago's body. The demon prepared to unleash its fiery breath upon him. With a desperate resolve, Imago reached deep within himself, his mind connecting with the Kila sword. Through sheer force of will, he controlled the blade, commanding it to fly through**

**the air. The sword transformed into its first form, a gleaming arc of pure energy, and it sliced through Gaki's neck with a flash of blinding light.**

**Time gave the idea of slowness as Gaki's head toppled from its shoulders, flames extinguished, and its lifeless body crumpled to the floor. Imago's heart pounded in his chest as he landed gracefully, his body unscathed by the demon's wrath. Tara's forcefield shimmered and faded, and her eyes returned to their normal color. The battle in the destroyed bar had been intense and mind-bending, but in the end, Imago's minimal knowledge of the Kila sword had triumphed over the fire-breathing demon Gaki. As they stood amidst the wreckage, catching their breath, Imago couldn't help but notice a newfound sense of purpose and strength, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. The man's eyes slowly opened, revealing an intensity that pierced through time and space. He had tapped into a power he could barely comprehend, a force that had saved him from the clutches of the demon's icy grip. As he stood there, his body still vibrating with residual energy, he realized that he had unlocked a potential within himself that went far beyond his wildest imagination. The destroyed bar remains silent, the echoes of battle replaced by an eerie calm. The man knew that he participated in the extraordinary. He had become a harbinger of change, a guardian of the mysteries that lay hidden within him, and a beacon of hope in a world besieged by darkness.**

**Imago's battle with the demon Gaki had left him utterly drained, his once formidable strength reduced to mere whispers of its former self. The abandoned bar, now a smoldering ruin, bore witness to the fierce clash between the forces of darkness and a lone warrior's unyielding spirit. The acrid scent of burning wood and the echoes of their struggle hung heavy in the air. Tara, with her eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and relief, approached Imago cautiously. The Kila Sword lay on the ground nearby, its blade scorched and battered from the relentless onslaught it had endured. Tara picked up the sword, her fingers trembling as she carefully examined it. This weapon had been offered as Imago's faithful companion throughout countless battles, and she understood the significance it held for him including the times he denied it.**

**With the sword in her possession, Tara's attention turned back to Imago, who struggled to remain upright. He had given everything he had to defeat Gaki, and now his body rebelled against his will. Tara knew that they couldn't stay here any longer; the fire that raged around them threatened to consume them both. She gently slipped her arm beneath Imago's, allowing him to lean on her for support. His weight fell heavy, a testament to the toll the battle had taken on him. Tara's strength, however, is unwavering. With a firm resolve, she helped Imago rise to his feet, their connection unspoken but deeply understood. Both Imago and Tara, bound by a common purpose and a shared history of battles won and lost, began their slow and arduous journey out of the destroyed bar. The floor, strewn with debris, and the walls were charred black from the flames that had danced in their midst. The crackling embers served as a**

**reminder of the inferno that had raged moments before.**

**Tara could sense Imago's labored breathing against her shoulder, but she**

**remained steadfast, refusing to let him falter. They navigated the treacherous terrain, every step a struggle against their own exhaustion and the devastation that surrounded them. The world outside is shown as less forgiving, with the aftermath of their battle spilling out into the once-quiet streets. Their path is illuminated by the flickering flames of the bar's remnants, casting eerie shadows on the ground. Imago's thoughts were a tumultuous whirlwind of emotions and questions about the future. Tara, ever perceptive, sensed his inner turmoil and offered a reassuring squeeze of her arm around his waist. As they emerged from the fiery wreckage, their figures silhouetted against the backdrop of chaos, Imago and Tara continued on their journey. They didn't speak a word, for their bond became forged not in conversation, but in the crucible of their shared experiences. Each step forward testified to their forming bond capable of facing whatever challenges lay ahead, together.**

**In the midst of the destruction, their unyielding resolve burned brighter than any fire, lighting the way for their next task, their next battle. Remaining unspoken, their next stop persisted and etched in every line of their weary faces and echoed in every step they took.**