Iosif Zhivanevskaya

[Guest]

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CASE FILE: Alchemist

"Sie können ein König zu sein, ja, aber ich bin ein Gott!"

“His body is made out of swords.
His blood is of iron and his heart of glass.
He survived through countless battles.
Not even once retreating, not even once being understood.
He was always alone intoxicated with victory in a hill of swords.
Thus, his life has no meaning.
That body was certainly made out of swords. “

“Rejoice, people of this world of evil. Your wishes of death shall soon be granted.”
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FULL NAME:
→ Iosif Zhivanevskaya (formerly Sidorov)

AGE:
→ 33

SEX:
→ Male

BIRTH PLACE:
→ Moscow, Drachma
→ Told that he was born in Sovyaki, Drachma

RACE:
→ Drachman, though with an Ishvallan ancestor (explains the slightly dark skin)

DATE OF BIRTH:
→ Feb 4, 1979

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HEIGHT:
→ 186 cm

WEIGHT:
→ 67 kg

PICTURE:
→ [spoiler*]Yes, put it in a spoiler, otherwise I WILL bitch at you. Take out the '*' too, otherwise you must be missing a few screws upstairs.[/spoiler*]

DESCRIPTION:
→ One paragraph minimum of what your character looks like. Include hair color and style, eye color, body shape, skin tone, style of dress, any stand out features or scars, and if you want to go into more detail, include their mannerisms, how they walk and move, their voice, etc. Must be at least 150 words

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PERSONALITY:
→”Hate. Let me tell you how much I’ve come to hate you since I truly began to live. There is over fourty-five miles of nerve tissue in my body. If the word “hate” was engraved onto each micro—no, nanometre of tissue that completely filled my nervous system, it would not equal even one one-tenth of the hate that I feel for almost all of humanity at this very moment. Hate. Hate. Hate.” Despite the simplistic implications that this single word ‘hate’ may bring upon the mind, there is in fact a very deep and complex series of emotions, bound to this single word. A man can hate for many reasons, some of them more just than others. The depth of the hate that Iosif feels for humanity and the planet itself, despite being well-founded, has grips and thoughts in that of pettiness. It is simply a hate that spurs itself along, hating for the sake of hating. It is simply hate that, without any actual target, will just sit out in the world and cry for the blood of the non-existent. Iosif Zhivanevskaya has very few feelings of love and kindness—that’s a lie. He has no feelings of love, or kindness, at least not that he can understand. There are certain individuals that he views as being kindred, maybe showing some signs of actual love towards, but not making any instances to view. For this reason, he does not seem to have much personality within this brain of his. There is only hate, more hate and undying hate. Humanity is a dreg in his eyes, not ‘evil’, but ‘good’. That goodness must be quashed; in order for his sanity to remain in whatever tiny hole it’s hidden itself into for all of these years.

”Goodness? Happiness? Hah. I gave those up many a year ago. What used to be something that I withheld from myself… just turned into something that disappeared. I looked at the people smiling and laughing and felt confused, as if a hole was somewhere in my chest that could not be filled by anyone or anything—not anymore. Though… I suppose that, somewhere down in my heart, there is that feeling of goodness, or the want to protect someone for the sake of protecting them, and then I ask myself… Why? Why should I do such a thing? I hate humanity… all of… humanity…”
Actual goodness is something that Iosif lacks. It is a mystery to him why people fall in love, or help others for reasons that are not clearly defined. When he looks at a pair of people smiling and laughing with each other, he feels sick to his stomach. A kiss will cause him to almost vomit—a kind smile in his direction will make him turn away. If one were to show him true kindness—sparing him in battle, or helping him when he is hurt, he will have no clue as to how to respond; his mind will simply cause him to turn feral, beast-like, trying to escape from such things. Of course, though actual goodness is lacking, Iosif has become exceptionally good at fooling others with his emotions. A smile, though maybe showing happiness for some people, is simply a quick movement of the muscles to him. A laugh, just an open mouth and noise. Even touching flesh is just that, touching flesh. Once one gets over their confusion, it is easy enough for them to imitate such practices. Of course, it will take a long time for him to truly be able to feel such emotions again, though a shock of some kind, or a truly unique individual, may possibly put such a state into Iosif’s heart and mind, if only for that individual…

“My body is made out of swords. My blood is of iron and my heart of glass. I survived through countless battles. Not even once retreating, not even once being understood. I was always alone intoxicated with victory in a hill of swords. Thus, my life has no meaning. That body, was certainly made out of swords. “ Despite despising humanity and everything that it stands for, Iosif still has other senses to him as opposed to pure ‘hatred’. He has, for some reason, got a skewed sense of ‘justice’. If Iosif finally finds it in himself to ‘care’ for another being, then he will try his first and foremost to defend them. Iosif has a vision of a world without evil, so he must kill everything that is evil. However, his vision of ‘evil’ itself is within a form of ruination beyond all belief. Because all that he has known is those who have wanted to call him evil, he has taken it upon himself to understand that someone who hurts another, or tries to make themselves better than someone else. This leads him to believe that ‘evil’ is present in everything. In order to make the world ‘good’, the ‘evil’ has to be destroyed. A ‘good’ world is a world full of people who do not hate each other, do not want to kill, be better, richer or anything of the kind. He knows that he cannot exist in such a world, and that no human today can either. Thus, his life has no meaning. Throughout all the fighting he may possibly do, his body will be pierced by blades. His body will, forever, be made of swords.

LOVE:
→ At least five likes.

HATE:
→ At least five dislikes.

DEEPEST SECRET:
→ What you put here is NOT something you blab to every character you come across, so if you, for example, put in "Fears black cats" as your deepest secret... and tell every bum you come across "Hey, I'm scared of black cats!" Then I will smack you, put you on my 'asses to be haunted' list AND delete this section from your profile for payback. (Delete if you don't have one)

IDOL:
→ This can be either another character on the site, or a historical character. You also cannot have yourself as an idol, since that's just kind of stupid. (Delete if you don't have one)

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HISTORY:
→ The story of this man’s life begins in a place to North. Far, far to the North. Within the snowy landscapes of Drachma, a child was birthed and given life in this world. His parents looked down upon him, smiled and coo’ed, and told him that he was going to be their greatest achievement in this world. Placing careful hands upon the baby’s soft face, their kind smiles were the first and last things that were truly engraved onto the heart of Iosif. From this time onwards, for the first year of his life, he was nurtured and loved, brought toys and treats, and slowly began to learn more and more, as time went onwards throughout the days, weeks and months. As the summer began and faded into autumn, the child took his first large tumble while trying to crawl over and through obstacles in his house. Falling forwards, his face rubbed on the carpet beneath his knees and hands, scratching red marks onto his cheek and bringing forth tears to the edges of his eyes. That night, the baby cried tears of pain and anguish, not knowing what was going on, just knowing that it hurt. Pain was a fresh thing—he had felt it before, but never like this. His parents were always there to console him, but this time… they were not. For some reason, his parents were out of the room, out of the house, off the property. Iosif was, for the first time in his life, alone and not knowing why, crying away his life as if there were nothing else. Though they returned shortly afterwards, realizing that they had accidently left their 7-month-old son at home while they went to the store, Iosif’s small and developing mind grew clingy towards his parents, never wanting them to leave his side.

A year and a half passed, and during his second year, Iosif felt his second moment of being wrenched away from his family. Though he did not know it himself, Iosif’s mother was pregnant. She told him about it, let him feel her stomach, coo’ed to them both, explained to him in the best way that she could—he was going to have a little brother. Although he did not understand the notions that she was implying, Iosif realized that there was something new there; a form of life, something that may take his parents away from him. He could not do anything but cling, become closer to them, crying sad tears whenever they were more than a single metre away from his love. His parents took note of this clinginess, bringing him to doctors, nurses, psychiatrists; anyone who could help them explain their son’s strange and erratic behaviour. However, he was always given the same diagnosis—he was simply clingy. He wanted to be with his parents at all times, because he didn’t want them to leave. Telling them that it was perfectly normal, the doctors waved off Iosif’s behaviour and sent them home. Not long after this, another child was born—Iosif’s brother, and the boy whose name he never even got to hear spoken aloud.

Two days later, he awoke in his bed, in his room, but in a place that smelled completely different to what he remembered in his small mind. He clambered off of his bed and slowly stumbled towards the door in front of him, placed a hand onto it and pushed slowly. The door creaked open without much difficulty, and a new scene was put before him. The house that he was inside was not what he remembered; there were large, grand doors, windows with strange images within, and a large room lined with benches. At the head of these benches, the thing that they were all facing; was a cross. A large, silver cross sat upon an altar, Iosif silently staring at it as if it were some foreboding artefact of evil or good for which this world would never understand. ”Hello, my child.” Though he did not know what brought about that voice, Iosif would nonetheless turn around, staring up at the image of a man that did not feel right to him. His confusion was furthered by his appearance, a man in a lengthy robe colored blue. He could not help but stare in wonder as the man continued to walk forwards, kneeling down and placing his hand onto the child’s face, in much the same way his parents had when he was younger. The two year old blinked, and was only able to force out one word. ”No.” The priest blinked, before quietly staring into his eyes with a pair as black as the darkest night, and as lifeless as True Hell itself. ”No, what? Do you not remember me, Iosif? I am your father, Yuri Zhivanevskaya, and you are my son. You have always been my son, have you not?” No. Wrong. WRONG! Pulling away from the man, the child ran away and back in the direction he had come from, to the only place that felt real to him. This room that looked exactly as his did, but did not smell the same. That night, the yowls of the boy could be heard for hours upon end, tears drenching his bed and body, his sadness invoking the most horrid of cries from the rest of the village.

Over three months, Yuri attempted to show as much kindness to this child as was possible for him, spoiling Iosif in ways that his parents had done, singing him the songs that they had sung him at night, acting like a father in the greatest sense of the word. His wife, Mariya, was barren, so he could have no children. The quiet woman would always stand in the background as Yuri coo’ed and ahh’ed at the boy, playing with toys and showing him a way that he could have fun. The woman’s left eye was patched, and although Iosif continued to wonder, he had no way of formulating and questioning such things—it would simply stay stuck within his mind for the rest of his life. Time went onwards, and he finally started to warm up to Yuri, smiling when he came into the room, finally realizing that Yuri and Mariya were going to have to do. As his third birthday came around, he was finally taken into the village itself for the first time in his life. A small place, it was. In the winter time, it was covered in snow, though being the start of February meant that the snow was beginning to recede somewhat. The villagers ooh’ed and ahhh’ed over this child, poking his cheeks and asking who he resembled; as if they were really his parents, and not those whom he had left behind and all-but-forgotten. He finally began to love Yuri and Mariya, as living with them was a life that he appreciated. At the age of three, Iosif finally accepted the bonds of family as Yuri and Mariya’s son.

The next two years, though long, passed by Iosif like a flash. As he began to learn proper words and sentence structures, he also began to meet the children around the village. He learned that his father, Yuri, was actually the head of the town in which they were living—Sovyaki— and that he would be the heir to this place, once his father finally passed away from the world of the living and breathing. Although he did not quite understand all of this, Iosif’s mind took in what it could, memorized words, passages and lines, and kept them hidden away in certain places for later times. As his development continued onwards, he started to make friends among the villagers and gain a household name, people looking at him as if he were still an innocent child, but an intelligent one. As he reached the age of five, he was finally thrust into the schooling system of this small village, and exposed to the evil that was their way of life.

The village itself, though somewhat remote, still taught with relatively universal things. They were, of course, reading, ‘riting, and ‘ritmetic – the three r’s. They taught both the Drachman and Amestrian languages—presumably so that people who left the village for the wider world would have some understanding of the country below. Of course, that was the first half of the day. It was when the days entered the second half that things truly set themselves apart from the norm. After lunch, the last three hours of the schooling day were devoted completely to the teachings of “Zoroastrianism”, a strange religion that had apparently dominated the world in years gone by. Having never been taught to make his own decisions, Iosif took this religion as the norm—as what the rest of the world were learning, despite the obvious differences between this and other religions. In this religion, he was taught that all the good in the world came from a singular source, yet there was no source for evil. This intelligent youth piped up the question to his teacher, who struck him down without warning, using the blunt side of the wooden ruler in her hand. She did not apologize for her action against him, but immediately prayed for her God, Ahura Mazda, to forgive her and to cleanse the evil from her heart. No other actions were taken for this event, and Iosif went home without saying anything to his father, now realizing that the church itself was a centre for this religion.

About six or so months after the first event with this so-called ‘blasphemy’, Iosif was found to have, yet again, insulted the pinnacle of this religion. While not within his school grounds, Iosif was walking through the streets. It was summer, so he was not worrying too much about slipping—but he was not watching his footsteps either. Without warning, he felt himself trip, falling over the lead of a dog and pulling it backwards, jerking its neck and injuring it. Through the battered yelps of the hound, Iosif immediately looked up at the owner and started apologizing profusely. Instead of acting annoyed for his actions and missteps, the woman brought up her hand and smacked him around the face with an angry look in her eye. ”You do not apologize to me. APOLOGIZE TO AHURA MAZDA!” The boy refused, telling her that he tripped over her dog, not the god’s dog—perfectly normal logic for someone his age. Instead of accepting his apology, she grabed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged her into her home, producing her belt and beating him for an hour. The pain, though quick, slowly turned into pleasure for the child, and though she didn’t realize it at first, his body itself was easily memorizing the placing of each smack. The woman, Sonya Krishnov, did not realize exactly what she had done.

As we travel through the ages, we see Iosif growing and changing. This boy of purple hair and golden eye watched as his world stayed the same throughout everything that changed for him. With each coming day; with each coming week, nothing would change but he. The next part of this story is when the child was seven, and finally accepted some form of this religion as his own. As he crept through the halls of his own home in the church, he found himself exploring a section that he had never been through before—a crypt of kinds. This crypt contained no bodies, but had air that had been sitting in place for days long past. Walking through this crypt, he was met with a breath of fresh air, following it through the basal light until he reached a small opening in the wall. The air vent lead directly into the main chamber of the church, and standing within were a pair of men, one being his father, the other being a man he had never seen before. ”Are you preparing him for the ritual?” The stranger asked, looking at Yuri with an eye that even Iosif could see to be cruel and sharp. This stranger was unusual—he had a white beard that made one think of a frozen waterfall, and one could notice an astute light from his eyes that makes it impossible to see any senility and constantly brings about a feeling of bias and pressure every time his gaze met anything of human flesh. ”I am slowly preparing him, though I fear that I have grown attached to the child.” Attached to the child? Does he mean me? Iosif’s heart began to beat faster and faster, his breath growing heavier with each passing second. ”You cannot do such a thing, Yuri. The Evils of the World are to be him. Do you want to love such a thing?” Reaching a hand back, Yuri went to slap this stranger, but found his hand stopped by his wife. ”Ah, she remembers. If this succeeds, you shall both have your ability to parent children back. Is that not what you want? A son that is actually your own?”

It was that statement that hit Iosif the hardest, the boy realizing that, among everything, there was never any real love here. Yuri was not his real father, though he had tried to convince him that he was. Though it would have worked on a lesser child, Iosif’s memory was perfect—he remembered the faces of his parents as strongly as if they were before him, though their names were lost to him. He had a brother, too, though his face and name also left him without a trace of understanding. Turning away from the vent, Iosif disregarded any and all other conversation between the two, instead returning to his bedroom and sliding into his bed. The noises caused Mariya to travel down the hallway and look into the bedroom, but there was nothing to be worried about. Her son was in bed, and all was well… or so they thought. The next day, a Saturday, Iosif confronted Yuri, asking him to tell him the truth. ”Who is my real father?” Almost taken aback by such a question, Yuri took a second to stutter out that he was his real father. Not backing down from a half-hearted answer, Iosif asked again and again, asking Yuri to tell him who his father was. Finally losing his patience, the priest reached out a hand and struck Iosif, knocking him to the ground. ”I am your father. Do not question it.” Walking out of the room, Yuri left Iosif laying on the ground with a hand on his face, wondering if he’d done the right thing in demanding such stupid things from the man. And standing just outside the door, Yuri pondered such things too. ”You have five years until he will become That Which is Evil. Remove all attachments by then, Yuri, else it will be the worst time of your life…”

Over the next five years, Iosif’s cosy life started to change. Yuri grew cold and distant, as did Mariya. No longer could the boy go to his parents for comfort, and he started to wonder if he was doing something wrong. In an effort to fix this problem, he started to keep to himself more often, and pick up tools to do work around the church itself. Fixing objects was relatively simple, as he only had to see a schematic once and he would remember it forever. Once he actually knew what to look for, it was almost as if he had to do nothing else. He could easily place the pieces he needed to fix in the correct places, and when it was done, he would always look towards Yuri and Mariya for approval. The answer was the same every time—a flippant ‘that’s nice’, and then they would go on with their business. Not sated by such flippancy, Iosif began to learn more. He produced books from the library of his church—books on Alchemy, books on this science that his own religion did not enjoy, nor appreciate. Learning in secret, Iosif started to find out about ways of manipulating the world around him; namely, the ground itself. As well as this, he took up a part-time job, working as a handy-man around houses and the like, fixing fences, roofs and whatever else needed doing. He did not get paid, but he did not mind. All he was looking for now, was attention and approval. He got it from these people, this thing that his parents did not give him themselves.

And finally, came that first fateful day. The man with the strange hair and eyes from five years ago burst into his bedroom unannounced, on the day of his twelfth birthday. He leaned over Iosif’s bed, waking him with a smile. ”Today is the day, my boy. Happy birthday. Welcome to the first day… of the rest of your life.” A chloroform-soaked cloth was produced over his face, and Iosif found his just-opened eyes fading into darkness once more.

When he awoke, the cold winter’s air was the first thing that he felt, especially against his somewhat darker-than-usual flesh. His head moved slightly upon the wood that lay behind it, and he finally opened his eyes to see the snowy plains set out in front of him. Blinking, he struggled for a second but found that there was no strength in his arms or legs. Two men stood at either side, the pentagrams on their palms giving the impression that they were Alkahestrists. Standing at the forefront of this, however, was a man that was cleverly disguised by the snow. It was that mysterious man, the one whom he had seen five years ago, and just before. Though it started out soft, his mouth opened slightly more and grew in laughter, this stranger now laughing as loudly as he could, in raucous tones that Iosif just wanted to stop hearing. ”Like I said earlier, Iosif. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life. Though. I’m sure that you remember that. In fact, I’m almost certain that you remember almost every detail of the past twelve years of living that you’ve experienced. We’ve been watching you, Iosif. We’ve been watching you, waiting until the opportune moment arose. Your parents were paid a large sum of money for you to be adopted away, so our purchase cannot be wasted. My parents? Yuri and Mariya? …no. The parents that disappeared one day when I was two. Those parents. He remembered now. He remembered everything, and started to struggle harder, yet to no avail. The stranger continued to laugh.

”Aha, I see that you remember now. Well, I should explain properly. My name is Jubstachiet. Jubstachiet von Krientz. I am a man of religious faith, following the same religion that your village follows, though within Amestris. I run their sect there. Quite a lovely settlement, if I do say so myself.” More laughter. ”As for you, my child, you are to become a god in these peoples’ eyes. Do you remember your teachings? Of the God, Ahura Mazda? I’m sure you do. There is, as always, an opposite. Angra Mainyu, the God of Destruction and Evil. Of course, these people do not know what he looks like, or what they should feel hatred and fear for. For this reason, the darkness has slowly started to pollute their hearts. Evil is abound in all of them, and yet they fear this unknown evil, because it does not have form, nor function in their minds. This is where you come in, my boy. Because they do not know of this evil, they cannot repent for it, only pray for forgiveness. But those who know just one thing to be the true evil cannot have any evil in their hearts. Iosif. You are to become Angra Mainy—“ Iosif could not help but shout in protest without a second to spare. His shouts started off for help, before crying for those who called themselves his parents. The annoyance of the stranger turned into jovial laughter. ”They will not come for you, for they were the ones who agreed to this!” Moving forwards now, Jubstachiet put his hand upon Iosif’s throat, grinning at the struggling look in the child’s eyes. ”Listen closely, child. You are to become Angra Mainyu, All the Evils of the World. Do not remember your name, or your past. It will all become irrelevant now.” Turning away, Jubstachiet beckoned for the first taker. ”You. Have you sinned?” The man nodded quietly, admitting to having stolen an apple from the store. He then produced it for Jubstachiet to see. ”Good. If you wish for forgiveness, cast it at that child. He is, and has always been, the source of all evil in this world. He is Angra Mainyu given form, and been harboured among us! DO YOU NOT FEEL HATE FOR HIM? FOR THIS EVIL?” Nodding slowly and with slight hesitation, the man pulled back his arm and threw the apple with the strongest throw he could at the child’s abdomen. When it hit, he was wracked with a new form of pain, and a bloody welt appeared on his naked stomach, Iosif tearing up slightly from the pain. Looking down, he found that everything but his genitals were exposed to the cold air. Returning his gaze to the man in front of him, Iosif gave one last pleading look as Jubstachiet simply turned away and disappeared into the distance…

From that day forth, the constant and ritualistic attacks on his body began. He was attacked with any matter of objects—from apples to knives, to blunt sticks to metal staves. Each wound hurt, but anything that would become life threatening was quickly healed by the two Alkahestrists at his sides. People would simply come to him when they had felt that they had sinned, or even when the stress of life was finally getting to them. Each attack hurt less and less, until the pain itself receded, and was replaced by a smooth pleasure. Within the first three months of this consistent torture, Iosif’s body began wishing for this pain to continue. There is a certain point where the pain that the body constantly feels becomes something different, something more akin to a pleasurable feeling. When this occurs, the body starts crying out for more, creating pain where there isn’t pain, in order to emulate that pleasure. Although he was healed and left in the crypt of the hospital each night, he would always feel that self-same pain, no matter what he was doing. So he devoted himself towards studying the ways of Alchemy further. If he were to become All the World’s Evil, he surmised that the best thing to do, of course, would be to perform that which was evil. By day, Iosif was tortured and healed, in the same process, over and over again. By night, he was wracked with pain as he continued to study, sleeping for two to three hours, being fed meagre meals, but still staying alive through all of it. As this continued onwards, through his fourteenth, fifteenth and sixteenth years, he began to feel something new happen. Hate. He felt hatred beyond all belief for these people that hated him, feared him and yet respected and loved him all at the same time. He could not help but hate these people, so his nights were filled with plans for death, drawings scribbled over the walls, plans devised to put the people out of their evil-filled misery. If he were evil, then why would he not try and be the harbinger of their demise? But even as his plans continued, he could never bring them to fruition. Was it that he enjoyed such torture? Even as he went past seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty… through all of the years, the torture slowly drove Iosif into madness.

The day he turned twenty-one, he finally snapped. The first attacker of the day—a youthful, but orphaned, girl of about 13 threw a stone at him because she’d accidently kicked a woman’s pet cat. The stone hit, and Iosif went into a calm rage, breaking off his bindings and jumping off of the pole. The girl screamed in terror and tried to escape, but she wasn’t fast enough. Iosif knocked her down and straddled the girl, looking down into her soft blue eyes with a powerful rage. His fingers interlaced themselves around her slender throat, and he slowly started to push them in deeper, strangling her. As he watched the air escaped from her body, and the life disappear from her eyes, his laughter grew. And grew. And grew. And with a last push, Iosif thrust his fingers deeply into the soft flesh of her throat, breaking her thin neck and killing her without a second’s hesitation. Suddenly realizing the crime he’d committed, Iosif picked up the body and ran away from everyone and everything, taking her back to the small crypt as quickly as he could. He locked the door, grabbed his chalk, and started to draw the circle on the ground from memory. Everything came together quickly, and he saw the Human Transmutation Circle alighted before him. Without hesitation, without warning; Iosif placed his hands onto the edge of the circle and activated it.

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ALCHEMIC/ALKAHESTRIC ABILITY:
→ Unlimited Blade Works; Infinite Creation of Swords:
This, unlike a lot of Alchemies, is a 5-part, 4-level ability that can only be used by Iosif, and those trained by his hand. Each of the included pieces makes up one large transmutation, but can also be used individually as each level increases—either used as pieces, or as a whole. As well as this, Iosif makes up a singular chant that, as each ability levels, becomes more and more long and internalized. This is partly to make up for the fact that he needs no Transmutation Circles.

Level 1 - Gradation Air: The basis of the Infinite Creation of Swords Alchemy is that of “Gradation Air”, or the creation of an object for a singular purpose. Because Iosif had, for most of his life, only ever seen weapons and death, the conceptual idea of “weapon” is forever lodged in his mind as his singular source. As it were, his known mental origin is that of a ‘blade’—something that has only been used as a tool and battered by everything that he believed to be his own. For this reason, Iosif’s mind is drawn towards swords, and with his own photographic memory is able to memorize perfectly the images of those blades in the back of his mind. Once in the range of sufficient, solid materials, Iosif can create the array with his arms and draw his fingers along the material itself, drawing out a solid weapon. This weaponry can be used in battle. However, the weapon itself is quite breakable—although Iosif believes his weapons to be the ‘greatest’, that falsehood is broken once the weapon shatters.

In order to activate this, Iosif speaks the statement ”Trace, on.”

Level 2a – Metalmorphosis: Once the weapon itself has been created, it needs to be strengthened. By increasing the pressure placed upon the materials within the blade of the sword, Iosif is able to add more and more material, reducing the space between the atoms to a total minimum. This gives it a consistency much like that of a metal, and makes it a lot more difficult to break. It is not an actual metal, and it will never have that same consistency, being a replication of metal itself. For this reason, it is still easier to break. Once he is at Level 2 or above, Iosif can activate this alongside his Gradation Air, using a singular statement.

In order to activate this, Iosif speaks the statement ”I am the bone of my sword.”

Level 2b - Reinforcement: Using a method similar to Metalmorphosis, the ability "Reinforcement" adds additional strength to a created weapon. This is done via high levels of condensation, pushing as many particles as closely together as is physically possible, while adding more and more material to it until the weapon has reached its peak. Once he has reached Level 2, Iosif can activate this alongside Gradation Air. At Level 3, this can be activated in conjunction with Metalmorphosis.

In order to activate this, Iosif speaks the statement "The bearer lies here alone, forging iron on a hill of swords."

Level 3 - Magic Circle: In order to truly use his Alchemy to its fullest, Iosif needs a great area to

Level 4 - Unlimited Blade Works; Infinite Creation of Blades:

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TRIVIA:
→ Speaks Drachman (slategrey) and Amestrian (Teal)

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ALIAS:
→ Your online alias. Just put down ONE name, please, and use this name in the c-box so there's no confusion over who you are.

OTHER CHARACTERS:
→ Who else do you play? If this is your first character, say so.

CREATOR'S COMMENTS:
→ Gah. XD

FACE CLAIM:

Code:

[b]MAGI AND THE LABYRINTH OF MAGIC[/b] [i]Sinbad[/i]

CUSTOM RANK:
→ ANGRA MAINYU

OFFICIAL TITLE:
→ Blacksmith

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