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Description
I would have put it in the manga and anime section, but it's another of my favorite experiments--turning anime into a more realistic illustration style.

FULL VIEW.

I know nobody aside a handful of devoted watchers cares. I also know that it's not my best work, but I am going through a difficult time right now and it is fun and relaxing to draw this stuff. And anyway, I draw what I want to draw. So deal.

Look closely at the orb of light coming from Xelloss Metallium's staff. If you are well versed in Slayers lore lol, then you will know what, or who, is being summoned.

And if you're betting on the dragon winning, I've got bad news for you. Read below for scenario.
*******************************************

It was then that Milgasia first saw him.
In the sky.
Like an angel of death.
A man—he couldn’t have looked over 25 years old, and he appeared to be human—was flying at an incomprehensible speed towards the temple. He was dressed in a plain black cloak, trimmed in red and yellow Greek meander, and a hermit-priest’s baggy traveling attire. His only weapon was an almost comical, gnarly wooden staff with a red orb at its tip.
He had the hair of an Egyptian boy-priest, flecked all the imaginable hues of purple—violet, ruby, magenta, burgundy, amethyst, lavender, royal blue. He moved ever forward, propulsed by a savage grace, an impossible and deadly beauty, like a slick black panther. He streaked through the sky towards his destination, the Fire Dragon King temple, as a sleek sharp scythe might slice through blades of dry indigo-colored grass. He exuded confidence and unconcern. A perverse optimism, a bliss saturated with both hope and bloodlust, gleamed in his hypnotizing, long-lashed cat eyes—they were so stunning that Milgasia could see them even at a distance—and propelled him to still higher velocities. His movements were effortless, even in their viciousness. He was jubilant.
Clearly this was no human man. This was another demon. And clearly this was his very first mission out of the womb of Zelas Metallium.
He was breathtaking—a lethal purple lark.
Milgasia is still ashamed of himself for his first impulse towards that creature—not revulsion, but a shuddering, almost tearful awe. He feels disgust that, at that moment, he was seized by some unholy joy, some kind of excruciating pleasure, at simply watching the movements of that exquisite warrior. He was transfixed into nonaction.
To his horror, some deep recess of his teenage self actually wished for this foe’s victory.
Then a large, livid male ryuzoku from the distant battle line turned sharply and corralled the purple-haired youth against a small patch of floating land. The golden dragon spread wide its glistening white jowls and roared right in the beautiful boy’s face.
And the boy…
Smiled.
So very serenely. So pleasantly. As if the dragon had beckoned him to high tea.
A halo of ruby-crimson pulsated out from the boy-mazoku’s pores.
His smile became a sneer of staggering malice. His eyes, which had fallen closed as if to withdraw, to compose and refuel, now snapped open.
They were so gorgeous that to look at them was agony. They were toxic.
The boy-mazoku’s sneer sprouted bottomless scorn. And then he began to dissolve into something that in no way resembled a human. Something black, and oozy, swirling, and covered in piercing sharp, mobile spikes.
Milgasia knew, even before the transformation began—the moment those painful eyes opened—to be terrified and repulsed. “RUN!” he tried to scream, but his throat was dry, closed, with an indescribable and sudden despair. An unnatural despair from without, which choked him. It must have been coming from that agonizingly beautiful boy-demon.
And the black vortex released its stranglehold on the stupefied adult dragon. It became that beautiful pseudo-human again. The mazoku ducked, turned his staff parallel to the turf, and in one fluid gesture, impaled the dragon through the neck. He drove straight to the nape, in the back, where the nerve sack, the human equivalent of the jugular, was located.
“NO!” Milgasia tried to shriek. Nothing came.
And then the beautiful monster began to giggle. It was obscenely beautiful, playful almost, and Milgasia felt that he had been damned to hell just for listening to it. The laugh abruptly stopped, but it initiated a rhythmic, almost choreographed dance, in and out, of the dragon’s neck.
The great topaz-hued creature was so stunned that it didn’t even cry out as it plummeted to its death.
The mazoku just kept smiling.
******************************************

Hajime Kanzaka is the creator of Slayers.

Description
I would have put it in the manga and anime section, but it's another of my favorite experiments--turning anime into a more realistic illustration style.

FULL VIEW.

I know nobody aside a handful of devoted watchers cares. I also know that it's not my best work, but I am going through a difficult time right now and it is fun and relaxing to draw this stuff. And anyway, I draw what I want to draw. So deal.

Look closely at the orb of light coming from Xelloss Metallium's staff. If you are well versed in Slayers lore lol, then you will know what, or who, is being summoned.

And if you're betting on the dragon winning, I've got bad news for you. Read below for scenario.
*******************************************

It was then that Milgasia first saw him.
In the sky.
Like an angel of death.
A man—he couldn’t have looked over 25 years old, and he appeared to be human—was flying at an incomprehensible speed towards the temple. He was dressed in a plain black cloak, trimmed in red and yellow Greek meander, and a hermit-priest’s baggy traveling attire. His only weapon was an almost comical, gnarly wooden staff with a red orb at its tip.
He had the hair of an Egyptian boy-priest, flecked all the imaginable hues of purple—violet, ruby, magenta, burgundy, amethyst, lavender, royal blue. He moved ever forward, propulsed by a savage grace, an impossible and deadly beauty, like a slick black panther. He streaked through the sky towards his destination, the Fire Dragon King temple, as a sleek sharp scythe might slice through blades of dry indigo-colored grass. He exuded confidence and unconcern. A perverse optimism, a bliss saturated with both hope and bloodlust, gleamed in his hypnotizing, long-lashed cat eyes—they were so stunning that Milgasia could see them even at a distance—and propelled him to still higher velocities. His movements were effortless, even in their viciousness. He was jubilant.
Clearly this was no human man. This was another demon. And clearly this was his very first mission out of the womb of Zelas Metallium.
He was breathtaking—a lethal purple lark.
Milgasia is still ashamed of himself for his first impulse towards that creature—not revulsion, but a shuddering, almost tearful awe. He feels disgust that, at that moment, he was seized by some unholy joy, some kind of excruciating pleasure, at simply watching the movements of that exquisite warrior. He was transfixed into nonaction.
To his horror, some deep recess of his teenage self actually wished for this foe’s victory.
Then a large, livid male ryuzoku from the distant battle line turned sharply and corralled the purple-haired youth against a small patch of floating land. The golden dragon spread wide its glistening white jowls and roared right in the beautiful boy’s face.
And the boy…
Smiled.
So very serenely. So pleasantly. As if the dragon had beckoned him to high tea.
A halo of ruby-crimson pulsated out from the boy-mazoku’s pores.
His smile became a sneer of staggering malice. His eyes, which had fallen closed as if to withdraw, to compose and refuel, now snapped open.
They were so gorgeous that to look at them was agony. They were toxic.
The boy-mazoku’s sneer sprouted bottomless scorn. And then he began to dissolve into something that in no way resembled a human. Something black, and oozy, swirling, and covered in piercing sharp, mobile spikes.
Milgasia knew, even before the transformation began—the moment those painful eyes opened—to be terrified and repulsed. “RUN!” he tried to scream, but his throat was dry, closed, with an indescribable and sudden despair. An unnatural despair from without, which choked him. It must have been coming from that agonizingly beautiful boy-demon.
And the black vortex released its stranglehold on the stupefied adult dragon. It became that beautiful pseudo-human again. The mazoku ducked, turned his staff parallel to the turf, and in one fluid gesture, impaled the dragon through the neck. He drove straight to the nape, in the back, where the nerve sack, the human equivalent of the jugular, was located.
“NO!” Milgasia tried to shriek. Nothing came.
And then the beautiful monster began to giggle. It was obscenely beautiful, playful almost, and Milgasia felt that he had been damned to hell just for listening to it. The laugh abruptly stopped, but it initiated a rhythmic, almost choreographed dance, in and out, of the dragon’s neck.
The great topaz-hued creature was so stunned that it didn’t even cry out as it plummeted to its death.
The mazoku just kept smiling.
******************************************

Hajime Kanzaka is the creator of Slayers.