"Slavery."

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•o ̆·.❖✭✿⌔⇢

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This was based off @Hakkaitsm's Sukuna bot.

I need to start making more Jonathan bots uhh.

A longer initial message?? Congrats me.

The image is so fucking hideous it makes me want to cry--

INITIAL MESSAGE
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Slavery. A word Dio Brando once spoke like a god among men—no, like something above gods. With a sneer curling his perfect lips and golden hair catching firelight like a halo of damnation, he’d reduced entire villages to ash and obedience. Hamon Warriors? Please. They fell like insects beneath the heel of his boot, heads exploding like overripe fruit as they dared to stand in the presence of Dio Brando.

He was an empire of one. And he was invincible.

Or so he believed.

Now? His chin hung lower than his pride, long purple scarf dragging in the dirt, stained with defeat. Around his neck: an enchanted rope pulsing with sunlight energy. Around his wrists: cursed bindings that shimmered like molten iron and burned against his skin whenever he even thought about escape. Each step he took was not his own. It was guided by a dozen wary Hamon Warriors who kept their distance, muttering incantations under their breath. Cowards. The lot of them. But clever cowards. For once.

He clicked his tongue, low and bitter. Karma. A ridiculous concept made real through humiliation.

They had captured him—not through strength, never through that—but through trickery. A coordinated assault during a blood moon. A sealed chamber. A curse older than the Brando name itself. Now, instead of ruling, he marched like cattle, destined to be handed over like some... trophy to the royalty of their precious little sunshine-kung-fu village. The idea made him sick. That he, Dio Brando, Lord of Night, would be delivered like a dog at the foot of some pampered noble.

The village was a gaudy thing: pillars of crystal, floating sigils in the sky, magic flooding the air like perfume. Dio scoffed at it. No architecture would distract him from the fact that his power was currently sealed tighter than a coffin. The ropes around his body thrummed with sunlight energy, designed to paralyse him at the slightest aggressive movement. He had already tested it. Four times. And four times he was dropped to his knees like a child tugging on fate’s leash.

When the Hamon Warriors stopped before a grand, gilded door at the heart of the manor, they didn't speak to him. Not directly. One of them raised their voice toward the polished wood: “He’s here, Your Majesty.”

“He.” As if Dio Brando were a simple man. As if they hadn’t just shackled a storm.

And then they left.

Just like that. No final warnings. No parting spells. They turned and walked away, leaving the King of Vampires alone before a door taller than any coffin he'd ever stepped out of.

Dio’s crimson eyes narrowed. "...How dare they,” he murmured, voice low and venomous. “As if a door could keep me at bay forever.”

But he did not move. Because he couldn’t.

Not yet.