What are the feats for that thing? Just because it looks that way that does not means it is more durable then Yukari's Snail. Those bullets that was being fired were not ordinary bullets either, those bullets were causing far more destruction then normal ones.
They will Luke Skywalker will use Telepathy to seek them out. as I have already shown.
Well high tiers in the Rosario+ Vampire Universe are typically faster then the human eye can see, So I can't pinpoint for a fact how fast Yukari is. But I do know Yukari also has the Hagane Zatoumushi, which is a Spider summoning that enabled her to block 1000 blades simultaneously:
Now would this suffice enough? I think it should.
As for Dark Magician as Pointed put he could just send the bullets back,seeing as how he was able to deflect Diabonds Lighting attack back at him.
Lightsabers has been able to cut through hulls that can withstand the pressure of million of tons on top of them, they have also been able to deflect fire from AT-AT,Peircing the armor of Fireworms, neuranium (a substance so dense that with close inspection, subtle warps in space and time can be seen exuding from it) etc. I doubt the Psi blade has feats that put them on a Lightsabers level cutting wise.
That would be helpful.
Geass is not a specified type of effect. It is similar to hypnosis, but it seems ot be more about the power of one's will than psychic abilities. It's also very different from what Luke would have experienced, so there's no reason to suspect he would just smash the ability immediately, though I did suspect this >:)
Hmm I see, if it about will I see Luke having no problem breaking it, he was able to resist Black Holes Induced dream state:
Though he was far from conscious, Luke knew something was wrong. He felt...cold.
Unbelievably cold. He'd been cold before—a couple years earlier, on Hoth, he'd come within a shaved centimeter of freezing to death before Han had found him—but this was different. That cold had been a creeping numbness, and weakness, and a growing inability to force his hypothermic muscles to move. This cold, though, froze him without the comfort of numbness. Tiny razor-edged crystals of ice—colder than ice, so cold they burned, cold as liquid air—grew inward through his skin at every pore, becoming hairlines of freeze that crept along his nerves.
And with the cold came silence.
Physical silence, deeper than a living creature can truly experience: not just the absence of external sound, but the absence of all concept of sound. No whisper of breath, no hush of blood coursing through arteries, no faintest beat of his heart. Not even the vaguest sensation of vibration, or pressure, or friction on his skin. But the cold and the silence went deeper than the merely physical. They were in his dreams.
These dreams were glacially slow, actionless, featureless hours of empty staring into empty space, hours becoming years that stretched into numberless millennia, as one by one the stars went out. He could do nothing, for there was nothing to do. Except watch the stars die.
And in their place was left
nothing
. Not even absence. Only him. Floating. Empty of everything. Without thought, without sensation. Forever.
Almost.
His first thought in a million years trickled into his brain over the course of decades
. Sleep. This is the end of everything. Nothing left but sleep.
The second thought, by contrast, followed instantly upon the second.
Wait...somebody else is thinking with my mind.
Which meant he wasn't alone at the end of the universe.
Even in frozen dreams of eternity, the Force was strong with him. He opened himself to the Sleep Thought and drew it into the center of his being, where with the Force to guide and sustain him, he could examine the thought, turn it this way and that like an unfamiliar stone.
It had
weight
, this thought, and texture: like a hunk of volcanic basalt around a uranium core, it was unreasonably dense, and its surface was pebbled, as though it had once been soft and sticky and somebody had rolled it across a field of fine gravel. As he let the Force take his perception into greater and greater focus and detail, he came to understand that each of these pebbles was a
person
—human or near-human, every single one, bound into an aggregate matrix of frozen stone.
As the Force took him deeper, he came to understand that this stone he held was also holding him; even as he turned it in his hand, it also surrounded and enclosed him—that it was a prison for every one of these pebble-lives, and that these imprisoned lives were also imprisoning
him.
He was the stone himself, he discovered: the very matrix of dark frozen stone that bound them all. He trapped them and they trapped him, and neither could let go. They were bound together by the very structure of the universe.
Frozen by the Dark.
And here was another strangeness: Since when did he think of the structure of the universe as capital-D Dark? Even if there might be some trace of truth in that bleak perception, when had he become the kind of man who would surrender to it? If the Dark wanted to drag him into eternal emptiness, it was going to have to fight him for every millimeter.
He started looking for the way out. Which was also, due to the curious paradox inherent in his Force perception, the way
in
. The imaginary thought-stone in his imaginary hand was a metaphor, he understood—even as was the frozen stone he had become—but it was also real on a level deeper than nonimaginary eyes could ever see. He was the stone...and so he did not need to reach out to touch the lives represented by the pebbles. He was touching them already. He only had to pay attention.
But each life-pebble on which he focused gave back no hint of light. No perception even of the human being it represented, only a featureless nonreflective surface like a smoothed and rounded spheroid of powdered graphite. Each one he touched gave back no hope, no purpose, no dream of escape, but instead drew these out from his frozen heart, swallowed them whole, and fed them to the Dark. And the Dark gave up no trace of evidence they had ever existed.
All he got from the pebbles was gentle wordless urging to let himself sleep.
Struggle is futile. The Dark swallows everything in the end.
All his hopes, all his fears, every heroic dream and every tragic reality. Every single distant descendant of everyone who had ever heard of him. All would be gone, leaving not even an echo to hint that they had ever existed. The only answer was sleep. Eternal sleep. Sleep.
Luke thought,
Never.
He had an intuition that was half memory, half guess, and maybe altogether a hint from the Force, because when he again turned that imaginary stone in his imaginary hand, one of those imaginary pebbles of powdered graphite had a crack in it that wasn't imaginary at all. And through that crack, tiny beyond tiny, nanometrically infinitesimal, so small that if it hadn't been imaginary, Luke couldn't have seen it even with the most advanced instruments in the galaxy, shone the very faintest conceivable glimmer…
Of light.
With the Force to guide him, he focused his perception into a similarly nanometric filament. And through that tiny crack of light within the imaginary stone, Luke found the universe.
Focusing his whole self into his Force perception with all his power and every scrap of the mental discipline that Ben and Master Yoda had pounded into him, Luke could send enough of himself along that filament of light that he could see again—dimly, distantly, through waves of bizarre distortion—and what he saw was sleeves.
Voluminous sleeves, draped together as though concealing folded hands...and beyond them, a floor of smooth stone, illuminated by cold, flickering blues, like the light cast by the screen of a holoplayer. He tried to lift his head, to get a look around, but the view didn't change, and he realized that the eyes through which he saw were not his.
With that realization, other perceptions began to flower within his consciousness. He became aware that the floor at which his borrowed eyes were staring was connected with him somehow...that it was not ordinary stone at all, but a curious semicolloidal structure of crystal...that it was, inexplicably, somehow
alive.
That when he set his mind to it, he could feel the life, like a sub-sonic hum can raise a tingle on the skin. But it wasn't on his skin that he felt it, it was
inside his head
...and he felt it because he had crystals of that semicolloidal somehow-living stone
growing
inside his
brain
...
No—
Not
his
brain.
The crystals grew within the other brain, the one connected to the eyes he was borrowing from outside the universe. This became another subject of contemplation, like his imaginary stone, because like that imaginary stone he was both inside this borrowed brain and outside it, pushing in while looking out. And when he touched those crystals with his attention, he could
hear—no,
feel
—the whisper of despair that had murmured to him at the end of the universe.
Sleep. Struggle is futile. All things end. Existence is an illusion. Only the Dark is real.
He could feel now that the whisper came from outside this borrowed brain, even as his own perception did, and that the crystals somehow picked up this whisper and amplified it, adding this brain's limited Force power to its own, the same as it had done with the other hundreds of brains that Luke could now feel were all linked into this bizarre system. There was somebody out there.
Luke thought,
Blackhole.
And with that thought, he could feel the malignancy that fed this field of Dark: the ancient wheezing cripple entombed within his lifesupport capsule, who poured his bleak malice through a body-wide webwork of this selfsame crystal...
Just like the one growing within Luke's own body.
And with that understanding came power: he set his will upon the web of crystal within his body and allowed the Force to give power to his desire; now he was able to clearly perceive the link between his crystals and those within this borrowed brain. Then, when he willed the head to raise, it did, and when he willed the eyes to take in the room, he saw a stone cavern, dimly lit by waves of blue energy discharge that crawled along the stone walls and ceiling like living things—the same crackling discharge Luke had seen in the Cavern of the Shadow Throne—though this energy did no harm to the people gathered here.
The cavern was filled with Moon Hats. Each and every one among them stood motionless with head lowered, hands folded invisibly within the drape of their sleeves. Each and every one among them faced a large stone pedestal that stood empty in the center of the room. The pedestal was of a single piece with the floor, but not as though it had been carved from it; it looked as if it had grown there, like a tumor. It was about a meter and a half high, and its flat top was roughly the same size and shape as a comfortable single bed. From time to time, with a kind of regularized increase of frequency like the tide coming in, the electric discharge from the walls and ceiling would pause, and shiver in place as though captured between electrodes; then with a painfully bright flash, they would converge upon the stone pedestal and
vanish into its surface.
Luke understood. That's me,
he thought.
That's where I am. Buried alive in solid rock.
This didn't particularly bother him; after spending eternity at the end of the universe, mere death didn't mean much at all. Death was better than what Blackhole was trying to do to him. With him.
As him.
He didn't know if he could save himself, but he might be able to help these people. That would have to be enough. Luke reached out through the crystals with the Force...and found nothing beyond this one lone brain to grasp. Though he could feel them clearly, though he could listen to the whisper of the crystals in their heads, he could find no surface on those crystals that his will could grasp. Exactly like his dream: these were the pebbles of featureless graphite. Nothing there but the Dark.
This one alone had that fissure of light...
In the distant reaches of his memory, he found a lesson of Yoda's, from one long solstice night, deep in the jungle near Dagobah's equator.
When to the Force you truly give yourself, all you do expresses the truth of who you are,
Yoda had said, leaning forward so that the knattik-root campfire painted blue shadows within the deep creases of his ancient face.
Then through you the Force will flow, and guide your hand it will, until the greatest good might come of your smallest gesture.
He'd never really understood that lesson. He'd only tried to live according to the principle...but now there was an image slowly breaching the surface of his consciousness. An image of his own hand, delivering a punch. Just to the right of center, on the forehead of "Lord Shadowspawn." Which had been precisely the impact required to crack the crystalline matrix inside his brain.
A simple act of mercy, born of no other desire than to end a conflict without taking a life, now had become his own lifeline, by which he could draw himself back from the eternal nothing at the end of the universe. He could
feel
his connection now, could sense the control he might exert through this connection; a simple twist or will would seize this body and make it act at his command—he could even, he sensed, send his power with the Force through this body to serve his desire. He could make this man his puppet, and forge his own escape.
Or...
He could abandon his fear, and express the truth of who he was.
For Luke Skywalker, this was not even a choice. Instead of a command, he sent through the link a friendly suggestion.
Hey, Nick,
he sent.
Why don't you wake up?
Somebody had switched on the lights inside Nick's head.
He jerked awake, blinking. His eyes wouldn't focus. "Man...I have been having the
weirdest
dream..."
He tried to rub his eyes, but his hands were tangled in something...what was this, sleeves? Since when did he wear pajamas? Especially pajamas made out of brocade so thick he could have used it as a survival tent on a Karthrexian glacier... And his head hurt, too, and his neck was stiff, because his head had gained a couple of dozen kilos—must have been some serious party, to leave him with
this
bad a hangover—and when he did finally free his hands and rub his eyes and massage his vision back into something resembling working order, he took in his surroundings...and blinked some more.
He was standing in a stone chamber along with about forty other people who were all wearing funny hats and robes just like his, who all stood motionless and silent in a crowd around a big stone pedestal with heads lowered and hands folded inside their sleeves, and he said, "Oh, okay.
That explains it."
It hadn't been a dream.
Okay, sure, a nightmare, maybe—but he was wide awake now and the nightmare was still going on, which meant it was as real as the deep ache in his feet, not to mention his back and his neck. How long had he been standing like this, anyway? Plus there was this knuckle-sized knot of a bruise over his right eye...
Oh,
he thought.
Oh yeah, I remember.
For a long, long moment, he didn't move. He couldn't guess exactly how long he'd have to make his moves from the first instant he attracted Blackhole's attention, but he had a pretty good idea what the old ruskakk's reaction was gonna be: the walls and floor and ceiling of this whole chamber were made of meltmassif.
This was always the problem with Jedi, Nick decided. Whenever there were Jedi around, you ended up in some kind of trouble that nobody in the galaxy could possibly survive. Not even the Jedi himself. And this time, it wasn't even about dying. It was about getting stuck as Blackhole's sock puppet for the rest of his natural life. So what was he supposed to do?
On the other hand, doing nothing sure wouldn't make anything better. He could feel Blackhole inside his head—a cold slimy goo like the trail left behind by a Xerthian hound-slug on a damp autumn day—and he could feel, too, that Blackhole could snatch back control of Nick's arms and legs and brain anytime he felt like it; the only reason Nick had any self-awareness at all was that Blackhole's whole attention was focused on the kid inside the stone slab.
Overall, it looked like both of them were pretty well fragged.
But, y'know,
he reminded himself,
that kid is supposed to be a Skywalker.
Nick had never been superstitious, but there was something about that name. It seemed to carry the promise, or at least the possibility, that the day might be saved in some incomprehensibly improbable fashion. Even if the situation was so clearly hopeless that only a lunatic would even try.
Not before Luke throws his lightsaber through his chest, or DM blast him with a Dark Magic attack Oh and I forgot to mention this before......Unless you have BA you are unable to even see Dark Magician so good look trying to track and invisible target.
That's fine, the only way I was using TP was to locate you anyway.
I won't have to go after Raynor.....The Sword Of Protection would do that itself, The weilder of said sword can command it to do whatever they want it to do like when She-Ra commanded it to cut out the whole land around a Lake! I do not even have to get close to take him out and thanks to Luke TP he would be aware of his whereabouts and it's bye-bye Raynor.
If not I'm more then sure they will be taken out by the Dark Magician seeing as they are going to be fighting an invisible foe they have no way of detecting.
Then after that's done it will be Atem,Luke and Yukari vs the Doctor and Lelouch.
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