In the depths of a palace adorned with gold, a man sat in silence.
This was no palace. It was the inner workings of a mountain, one carved out with irregular, reflective surfaces that looked as though a man had continuously punched his way downward to reach this point.
And that man was sitting on a pedestal made from his own bruised and bloody knuckles.
It was hard to tell if that man was truly a man at all. His shoulders and chest were broad beyond reason, his hair—a stark, almost blinding white—shining more like light itself rather than filaments of fine hair.
There wasn't a speck of this hair on his face, and yet his sideburns raged with this fiery white light, his arms, back, and almost all but the core center of his chest and torso covered in the same.
Even with his mouth closed, canines poked at his lower lip, and when his eyes opened, they radiated a ruby red.
