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OBD Convo #44: Happy New Year. Lets Start the year with a bang.

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Astaro

Astaro

Resplendent
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TrueG 37 said:
No brain in there, no wonder Goku said Kay-O-Ken :wow.

The model screw ups are hilarious to find :skully. Hopefully they iron it out.
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It’s hilarious how voicing the character for over two decades straight and Sean still can’t pronounce Kaio Ken properly



Another reason Peter Kelamis > that male primadonna
 
Masterblack06

Masterblack06

Man of Atom
Moderator
Astaro said:
It’s hilarious how voicing the character for over two decades straight and Sean still can’t pronounce Kaio Ken properly



Another reason Peter Kelamis > that male primadonna
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I still cannot find that one Spanish dub that has them call it Supremo Kaioken. I can only find this one
 
Top59

Top59

Exceptional
V.I.P. Member
Claudio Swiss said:
How strong is Chaos Horus and Big E @Top59 they Uni?
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I'm not sure I quantify everything correctly because of the conceptual fight, minimum Solar System+, Horus affected the reality of the solar system and beyond, "killed the time and space itself" of the Solar System.
Realspace fabric is eroding and collapsing at an exponential rate. Nineteen new forms of xeno-etheric energies have been identified. He wonders if there will be anything left at the end.
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The constant hum alters slightly. It is an infinitely tiny sub-harmonic shift that only he can detect. A minute variable. An error in a single unit of code.
Curious, he locates it, draws it to the surface of the data-sea for inspection, as one might select a single grain of sand from an ocean floor. It is a tiny aberration, one single proto-cell of data misaligned with the rest of the reality organism. At first, he cannot define the nature of its error. He adjusts his noospheric appraisal, and deploys higher levels of analytic scrutiny.
It is a tiny mote of discordia. A single packet of information return, one of a trillion received every second by the sensoria of Mars. It is out of step with all the others. It is not temporally synchronised with the rest, by a factor of one millionth of a second, even allowing for relative position. Its time is wrong. Kelbor-Hal presumes this to be a micro-discrepancy in imaging or auspex mesh, a tiny imperfection in the Mars arrays. Active, he tests this assumption, running diagnostic examinations of the Mechanicum systems to locate machine fault, technical malfunction, data-decay and storage/evaluation flaw. Concurrently, he instructs a full re-scan as a comparative.
It is mildly diverting. Faults occur in every system, no matter how immaculate, due to the holy laws of entropy. They are always a pleasure to correct, for the correction of a micro-error is the path to perfection. It is the first error he has detected in four months. It is something to do besides wait.
The diagnostics report no fault. The re-scan returns the same error. Alertly active now, the Fabricator General repeats the diagnostics and the re-scan. The diagnostics report no fault. The re-scan now returns two micro-errors. Two motes of discordia. Two temporal anomalies.
Kelbor-Hal diverts all primary magi to address the issue. By the time – four nanoseconds – they are in work, the error return is four. Then sixteen. Then two hundred and fifty-six.
He is watching a cascade failure. An expanding zone of temporal collapse. The epicentre is Terra, but the error-wave is accelerating outwards across the Solar Realm.
Time is broken. The four-dimensional structure of realspace is unravelling, dismantled by the exoplanar forces bulging through the rift-wound that the Warmaster has inflicted on Terra.
Time is broken. Kelbor-Hal pauses, and reframes his definition, realising that it is woefully imprecise. Time isn't broken. Time has ceased. It has stopped. It has frozen, suspended.
The constant low hum of Mars changes again. Cautionary sirens start to wail in the depths of the forge. Kelbor-Hal composes a priority signal to the Warmaster, and sends it on repeat. He watches as the wave of un-time, rolling out from Terra, begins to break across the Martian Zone. He watches as the harmonised chronometers of the forge suspend, or zero out.
He watches as the clocks stop.
He watches as the measureless data in the caverns of his domain begins to re-form and rewrite, recomposing into new units of information, each one identical, each one the same word, each one the same binharic expression of a name.
It is the name of the Omnissiah. The new Omnissiah. The true Omnissiah.
Kelbor-Hal begins to scream, which is quite unlike him.
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For the warp is inevitable. What it has transmuted outside the final fortress, it now transmutes within. The four sturdy dimensions of the world are maimed and mangled, and in their place other dimensions unfurl their properties, mocking sense and deriding logic with their alien breadths and endless measures. There is no limit to the number of these dimensions, for the immaterium has no definition that the human mind can comprehend.
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He is nothing like invincible and nowhere near invulnerable, as he is about to discover. The prophecy stands. The dreams were real. Your favourite brother should have heeded them. Fate is ordained, and it demands payment. Everyone pays, Sanguinius, some in a moment, some for the rest of their lives. There are no loopholes, no exceptions.
He thought he'd found a sub-clause in the logic of fate's contract that would allow him to live. The dreams told him, plainly, that he would die the day he faced you, but he convinced himself that this did not count as a day. It couldn't be a day, for time had ground to a halt, and thus the prophecy could not be fulfilled. This casuistry has worked for him before. He has used it to deny fate several times, perhaps more times than any other son. He thinks he can do it again.
Well, fate has grown tired of his prevarications. It is no longer charmed by his constant, clever escapes and dialectic evasions.
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The vast fleet is just a little crescent on the table, like a pale new moon. The remainder of the wide surface-plate shows a representation of the Solar Realm.
It is a dark blankness, without feature. There are no marker icons for the Throneworld, or Luna, or Mars, or even Sol. A few tags along the edge display spatial condition details obtained by scout drogues sent forward by the Solace of Iax, the grand battleship acting as advance picket at one tip of the armada's crescent. The data on these tags is already beginning to degrade, but what remains legible speaks only of the impossible. An abominable level of exotic energies and immaterial flux, many types of which have never previously been recorded or observed. A de-constitution of realspace. An absolute collapse of four-dimensional physics. Everything has corrupted, transfigured, or ceased.
There is no longer a causal flow of time in the Solar Realm.
It is a blackness, without feature or form, an imperfect sphere of neverness some four thousand light minutes in diameter. It is being referred to as 'the negation zone'. It is expanding slowly, beyond the heliopause of the Sol System, and is starting to envelop the Opik-Oort Cloud, and disturb its ice-dust and its nurseries of long-period comets.
Thiel knows that the area is big, inconceivably big, the entire span of a solar system. He also knows that however big he imagines it is, the true scale is beyond his comprehension.
…
It is not even possible to calculate a projection of Terra's location based on established astronomical data. The vast area of blackness, that four-thousand-light-minutes span as observed from the interstellar medium outside, is primarily composed of warpstuff, and thus may be vastly bigger inside.
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But there are statements that the damage that Horus caused to the reality, the universe tried to repair but could not.
Time's pulse begins to race, thready but alive. It may never return to full health. The interlocked and fused strands of the other three material dimensions, so inevitably and unnaturally spliced, do not revive so easily or so cleanly. When Horus dies, and the four false gods who sponsored him flee into the warp, the immaterial deluge recedes abruptly, sucking back into the empyrean like a swift-ebbing tide. This rapacious drawback leaves a vast area of the materium exposed and ruined, entirely jumbled and displaced by the immense etheric pressures that engulfed it. It is a catastrophic, maiming injury to realspace, and Terra is the entry wound.
The materium shudders in shock, released from the warp's grip. It goes into spasm around the eschatonic rupture, and tries to heal itself to close the wound. There is no surgeon to tend it, no ministering apothecary to set its bones and repair its organs. Seizing, and taut with traumatic pain, it repairs its own brutalised form in a clumsy paroxysm of utter despair.
Across the Solar Realm, and beyond, throughout the local galactic zone, the overlapped shells of realspace herniate and shear as the immaterial forces that bound them together, and into which they have congealed, drain away like fluid from a compound injury. It is a lengthy and calamitous process. The material universe quakes and flexes, protests and fractures, unevenly and indiscriminately resetting itself. The dwindling winds of neverness, excited into one last wild gale of abrasive fury, rip through it.
In the Solar Realm alone, another sixteen million people perish. Many are never seen again, not even as tattered corpses.
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His war-sword rises in His hand, and an asterism of white light flares like a rising sun behind His crowned head.
He moves towards His son with the lustral wrath of a supernova. Horus comes to meet Him with the atrocifying hunger of a black hole.
They clash, each landing blows simultaneously. The ignescent collision shakes the world. Chunks of black marble and broken buttress rain down from the quaked ceiling. Fractal surfaces break and shatter like porcelain. The high windows of the Court blow out in showers of coloured glassaic, letting in the red glow of the warp and permitting a giddying view of Terra, blistered and enflamed below.
The Old Four squeal in alarm, and then applaud. Father and son.
This is between them now.
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The infinite architecture of the first-found's temple of Ruin must have been shattered by the force of that initial, bomb-blast collision, or else Horus has allowed the black, fractal madness to de-manifest so he can concentrate all his power on the battle. Now revealed is the vast compartment of a once-regal warship. It is peeling and decayed. The pale deck of ouslite and flecked marble is pitted and scored. The brass walls and black pipework are rusted, and the riveted seams crusted with corrosion. There were banners hung on the walls, the standards of proud companies, Leetu imagines, but they have all burned away, leaving nothing but their scorched cross-spars and frames. Only one remains, the Eye of Terra, the rallying symbol of the Great Crusade, charred and threadbare.
Leetu wonders if the disappearance of the terrible, infinite architecture is a promise of hope. The Lupercal Court was an aspect, a palace of terror instantiated by the warp to terrify and intimidate the first-found's visitors. If Lupercal has suspended it to divert power to his limbs, it suggests that his power is finite. Perhaps he is not the limitless expression of Chaos that they feared. Perhaps he is being tested to his thresholds by the Emperor's strength.
Perhaps he is weakening.
It would explain why the combat is just that – single combat, man-to-man. Leetu can discern no trace of psychic conflict, other than the internalised force that drives their bodies and feeds their weapons. No immaterial duel rages between them, no blasts of psychic force, or bolts of lightning, or beams of gouging light.
Perhaps, for all their speed and strength, they are wearing each other down, burning each other out, so that sword and maul and claws and skill are the only weapons left with which this can be settled.
Leetu is forced to duck aside as they thunder past again, Horus driving the Emperor back into guardrails and a partition bulkhead that explode into fragments as they crash through them.
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He was considered to be reaching a level of power very close to a Chaos God.

The Emperor if he takes a lot of power from the Warp like a sponge he would become the 5th Chaos God, which would be far superior to the 4 combined and would destroy the universe.


The clash between Horus and the Emperor knocked the 4 Gods back, shaking their bones and flesh.

Their impacts created psychic shockwaves that shook the world (I think is Terra, considering they were in space is nice feat) and at the end of the fight they make it clear that they affected other realms/dimensions/small pocket universes.
The other invasive realms withdraw, resecting to their ordained latitudes of time and place in frightful conflagrations. The pancosmic psychic facets conjured by the duel between father and son burst like carbuncles or snap back to their own whens along the numberless angles of space with whiplash force. The skeletonised City of Dust splits free, and drifts like an iceberg into the exoplanar gulf. The Marcher Fortress burns on the fringe of nothing. Calastar shatters loose, its impossibly artificed towers swaying. The Desert of Gods, where no idol is permitted to stand, sags and pours away like sand down the throat of an hourglass. The unquiet realms of the dead and the damned, the lost and the psychic part ways at the crossroads of inertia in Uigebealach. Dolmen Gates shudder, troubled in their long slumber. The psychoplastic flues and conduits of the webway creak and vibrate.
Other realms do not survive the wrenching transition at all. Islets of exoplanar matter and archipelagoes of haunted warp stars combust or implode. The worm-eaten fens of desolate Shabek, grey and forlorn, dissolve in the mist. Rancid, superheated steam swallows the twilit glades and painforests of shunned Long Woe, reducing it, in moments, to putrescent mush that drips into the dark abyss. The dry bone-beds of fossil gods reduce to ash, and blow away as the anaemic un-light fades. Somnopolis, the Library of Lost and Mislaid Dreams, perishes in a raging inferno, and is never more remembered.
The Inevitable City itself, unseen by human sight for centuries, except to that of the saintly or the insane, shelves away, a tilting continent and, over a period of eight hours, slides back into the midnight of the empyrean like some spectral parody of old Atlantis. It leaves a few parts of itself behind, tucked into lost corners and hidden dim edges. Some will later be found, but the stories of those discoveries are the province of other histories.
This history is barely intact. Time bends and flaps, unmoored. Memory lapses, wiped by the trauma of the realm's disintegration, or blanked through acts of will by those who have seen too much.
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Also that their attacks affected higher and lower dimensions, damaged time, space, reality, created small supernovas (this last one seems to be a metaphor) etc.
And that combat can't and won't be just two men pitching sword and maul against each other. It will be physical, yes, but it will be more than physical at the same time. It will be a duel of flesh and bone, of iron and steel, yet also a duel of minds and wills, of souls, of magick, and of the sorceries of the immaterial. It will be a hundred duels, all fought at once, combats occurring simultaneously on the mortal plane and the empyric, in the realm of materia and the anti-realm of immateria. They will assail each other with every means available, and both of them will shield and defend themselves against every possible line of attack. One slip, one distraction, one angle left unguarded, is an opening the other can lethally exploit.
It is a total war, a single fight multiplied across infinite methods, all waged in perfect unison.
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No. Great gods, this is Cthonia. He hasn't just refashioned the psychoscape of your Court as a makeshift weapon. He has shifted you both across the three dimensions of physical locality, and the fourth of temporal placement.
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You make your riposte. The Himalazia. The roof of the world that was. A fierce blue sky and fiercer cold. He reels from this counter-attack, and you slide together down a steep slope of powder snow, exchanging blows at close quarters. You show Him you can fight as unscrupulously as Him. These are the soaring peaks that His pride will level. Let Him contemplate a lonely death here, unmourned and unmarked, surrounded by the snow-capped emblems of His titanic hubris.
He does not waver. He maintains His rate, not a hint of gapping in His guard, driving you down the blinding white flank of snow, ice crystals swirling around you like winter breath, His sword seeking your heart, His claws hunting your throat. You stop the blade with Worldbreaker's haft, lunge with your Talon–
He parries you with Isstvan V, still white-hot and smouldering from your victory. The air is dense with virus smog and organic ash, and the ground beneath your feet is a solid block of fused ceramite like a toppled frieze depicting battle-brothers at war. Perhaps He can illuminate you. How is this supposed to hurt? He did this, not you. This atrocity is His fault, and with your next blow, you show Him why–
Molech. Yes, Molech.
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You need room to move. You are not limited by the four dimensions of materia. You have the numberless angles of the empyrean at your command.
You concoct an occulting aegis, and dodge sideways along the Twelfth Intersection of the Immaterial, weaving between thorn trees in the malnourished light to outflank Him. He sees you coming in His peripheral mindsight, and takes guard with His sword across the Sixty-sixth Oblique where the skull-coloured moon never sets, while carving some radiant sigil on the air with His claws, and propelling it at you along the Vale of Creatures, where barking, demented things writhe around you. You smash the screaming sigil with your maul before it touches you. It shatters like dry clay, and you smell the stink of Sigillite magic. Such feeble technique – the damned Sigillites were only ever dabblers, their amateur warpcraft unfit for full manipulation of the etheric.
But it was a decoy.
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When the Emperor killed Horus, the 4 Gods who were sitting on Horus' ship watching the combat gave a cry of pain that destroyed all the stars on the galactic edge.
War is now only ever the sequel to war. War will beget war, and so down through time, generation after generation, and so on thereafter, into a far future where war becomes its own definition, and an end unto itself, where death becomes the reason for war, and war becomes the reason for death, worlds without end.
And in that future, the Old Four will come to delight, for the quick death and sudden end they strove for here, and were denied, will be drawn out forever instead across the infinite architecture of the galaxy in one eternal act of worship to the powers they represent.
For now, though, they scream. They gnash in anguish, thwarted and outplayed; they recoil in frustration, cheated and forsaken; they flail in pain, wounded and obstructed. Their screams of hurt and indignation are so shrill, that stars at the hem of the Milky Way gutter out like candles.
Their anchor is gone. The singular, perfect instrument they invested with their powers is destroyed. Horus is dead, and in the instant of his death, the grip of Chaos Incarnate is broken. The Old Four fall away, suddenly, hysterically, wailing in torment, dragging the warp with them.
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PS: Later edit the comment with the quotes.
 
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TrueG 37

TrueG 37

Acclaimed
King of war said:
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The ridiculous hype this series used to get is straight up hilarious now.

I genuinely don't see how anyone can defend that last chapter. Or any of the others. The time traveling ghost of a character that came out of nowhere with no real personality traits aside from being an All Might fan came to tell the MC what to do because he can't think on his own. Bakugou's first real fight isn't even really a fight because Afo decides that Bakugou is too irrelevant to fight against and just runs away. All his bullshit zenkai's apparently still don’t even make him stronger than Endeavor or even Tokoyami.



Looking back at it there was something else I forgot. So Izuku grapples with the idea of giving Shiggy Ofa but not because if he screws up or If this plan backfires he and everyone in Japan will die. He's hesitating simply because it was a gift from All Might and he's his favorite hero. This dude's priorities are truly astounding man :jordangif .
 
Claudio Swiss

Claudio Swiss

Luminous
V.I.P. Member
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