The rain is harsh against his skin, falling so heavily that nothing can be made out save for a small figure in black on the ground far below. Despite exhaustion and pain, his arm is held high, and it thrums with enough energy that his teeth hurt.
This is a moment of triumph, of conclusion. Everything has led up to these seconds. Nothing else matters.
"The name of this technique is 'Kirin'," a voice says. It must be his own. (He can't make out the face of the Other through the gloom, but he fancies - he hopes - it looks afraid.) The buzzing along his arm is reaching a plateau; it feels like his arm is about to explode. He grits his teeth, uses that feeling, sends it winging into the thunderclouds gathered above them, "Come!"
An unimaginably loud roar, as something huge and crackling with power rushes through the sky. (There is definite fear in the Other now, he can almost taste it.) Everything seems to have stopped. He can't remember if he's breathed yet, so he takes in a long, ragged draw of charged air as his muscles tense for this last, decisive action.
"Disappear with the roar of the thunder."
His arm snaps down, and everything vanishes in an explosion of white light.