[The biggest difference between this and what he did when he was a boy is that Dio is holding back.]

[When he was a boy, it was about being as quick and as vicious as possible. The speed was necessary to avoid being struck, and the viciousness was necessary to land the deciding blow as soon as possible. This, however, requires a touch of showmanship. Just enough to give the fight something akin to a narrative, and the illusion that it's not truly as imbalanced as it is.]

[Surprisingly, Dio doesn't mind quite so much holding back as he anticipated he would. Which isn't to say that it isn't completely without frustration; as far as Dio is concerned, The World is part of his natural strength and skill, but he understands by the rules of the ring laid here that using The World could very well rob him of his cash prize. Restriction of the world, aside, however, Dio has always found an exquisite sort of pleasure in toying with prey. In the ring, this means not taking his opponent down in a single blow, and occasionally allowing them to land a strike of their own. Though not too many. No, by now, he's built enough of a reputation that it's well-known the chances of him losing are next to none; he can afford to get his opponent riled up by their inability to hit him instead of providing the audience with the false hope that perhaps he's lost momentum finally.]

[And there is a certain amount of grace and style in the way Dio moves, be it an offensive or defensive movement. He reads his opponents perfectly to stretch the fight as long as he needs to go, and then with one final punch, they fall down.]

[Dio stands in stark contrast to his opponent. While they lay on the ground, dirty with blood and sweat, writhing about and moaning in pain, Dio stands perfectly still, untouched and pristine with the exception of a splatter of blood on his face. Dio reaches up with a thumb and wipes the other man's blood off his cheek as a pair of people move out from the crowd to collect the fallen fighter. Dio licks the pad of his thumb, surveying the crowd in a silent challenge for his next competitor.]

[In Cairo, Dio would stay awake right until the sky began to change colors. He would force himself to stay for as long as possible, but it was always within brief moments of the sun beginning to peak over the skyline that he was forced to retreat inside his coffin and plunge himself back into the safety of darkness.]

[He didn't do it out of some existential angst, mind you. He didn't long for the sun and he wasn't prone to wax poetic about the divides between himself and other creatures that occupied the waking hours. It was more of a test. Dio ruled over much, but not the sun. So, those mornings acted as his quiet rebellion and challenge to the power of the sun.]

[This morning in Verens, Dio walks outside when it is already mid-morning. He carries himself tall, walking with authority and the bearing someone who was born to aristocracy. Except that he has not entirely defeated the sun here. Oh no, above his head is a parasol that provides him with his own personal shade. After some experimentation, he found the direct sunlight to not be nearly as harmful as it once was, but still powerful enough to give him nasty burns and leave him feeling mildly exhausted. Dio doesn't carry his own parasol and maintain his own shade, however. He prefers keeping both of his hands free.]

[Instead, he has a little help from a rather large friend following close behind him.]

[So, really, it's generally recommended that others move out of their way as they approach, or else they'll find themselves being given a sharp, withering look that's more than capable of letting one's blood run cold as Dio waits to hear an apology or an excuse for not moving.]