Headed by a Snake



⟬ 31 bells, 57 minutes, 15 seconds remaining... ⟭ 

Tycondrius placed his hand on the thick bark. 

The magic fortifying the walls had suddenly weakened-- their thrice-damned regeneration, stagnated. 

...but by what means? 

Tycon's paranoia suggested it was a trap-- one to lull him and his forces into a false sense of security. 

Or was it an effect of their efforts? The Demon Insects had chewed through enough of the exterior to potentially disrupt its defensive Spell Formations... 

"Orders, Boss?" Pale asked. 

Tycon rolled his eyes. Deliberating wasted time... and that, he did not have the luxury. 

"Franz, touch the boy."

"With... all due respect, my liege, I'm not that kind of d--"

Tycon cut him off with a glare. 

"If you're going to disobey my orders, Franz, I'll have my enchanted sash returned."

It was a death threat. The runed sash prevented the Ice Devil from literally melting into oblivion. 

Without another word of complaint, Franz placed a clawed hand on Pale's shoulder. 

"Pale, break the wall," Tycon commanded as he walked away. 

"Aye aye, Sir!" the boy responded. 

Tycon carefully mounted his noble steed, a Winged Arrow Devil. It was one of Jægerin's subordinates, a hellborne insect longer than a typical carriage, with bulbous eyes the size of a man's head. 

It was only vaguely shaped like an arrow. 

...but it was, at least, more arrow-like than its kin. That would do. 

Pale flourished his spear as he charged his mana. His aura was not of his usual fire and lightning, but one influenced by Franz and his icy nature. 

"⌈Glacier CRASH⌋!!!"

The boy's improvised Skill froze a section of wall. Then, after spinning his spear around his body, he struck the wall once more with its base. 

It left a promising web of cracks, pieces of wood falling out in glimmering chunks. 

Tycon lifted his hand over his head, then swiped it down, "Repeat!"

"AYE AYE!!" Pale shouted. 

Another strike, strong and certain, demolished the wall and sent a crash of icy debris into the chamber. 

"Move!!" 

The Arrow Devil buzzed forward at a dizzying speed. Tycon was barely able to grab onto Pale's hand, bringing them both into the chamber. 

"DEATH!!" Tycon shouted, "to the ENEMIES OF SOL INVICTUS!!" 

He had yet to observe the room, but he trusted Pale to acquire a target quickly enough. 

⟬ ⌈Lamb to the Slaughter⌋ activated. ⟭

The boy dropped down immediately, executing a five-strike ⌈Spiral Pierce⌋. 

The exits were sealed. 

There was a single enemy... a swordsman wearing a ram skull. 

--and there was a suspicious, illuminated rift near the chamber's center. 

It seemed that the whelpling, Kimura Taree, was injured. Thankfully, with the arrival of their demon, devil, and giant-insect army, she could potentially be saved. 

Tycon dismounted the Devil Arrow just as Pale used ⌈Magnum Break⌋ to force the enemy back. 

Stabilized in the kneeling, he pointed his Nemayan pistol, steadying his breathing and firing a series of quick, accurate shots. 

The enemy swordsman was able to deflect one or two rounds with his sword... but, thankfully, that fellow did not have the reflexes of Pale.

Likely no sentient in the Realms had the boy's reflexes. 

On the opposite side of the chamber, five dark hydra heads rushed toward the enemy, courtesy of Ishmael. 

The shadowy constructs rushed through the swordsman, who responded by swinging at them in reckless abandon. 

Tycon saw an opportunity. He shot the swordsman in one knee, then the other. 

Both shots hit. Both shots drew blood. 

But it wasn't enough. 

That person still stood. 

He could still move. 

The crushing maws of the hydra heads could not restrain him-- and they were proving scarcely a challenge. 

As a show of prodigious strength, the swordsman swung one of the shadowy heads away, the force enough to separate it from its smoking neck. 

Tycon grit his teeth, wishing he wasn't so surprised. 

But thankfully, he made it a point to overprepare. 

He thrust his hand out, reactivating his Skill. 

"And now, the rest of you, OBEY MY WILL!!"

⟬ System response: Warning. Activating this Skill before completion of its cooldown-- ⟭ 

Tycon felt his eye twitch. 

« System, force activation. »

He needed to finish the battle before it began in earnest. 

⟬ Activating... ⟭

⟬ ⌈Lamb to the Slaughter⌋ activated. ⟭

⟬ Death to the enemies of Sol Invictus. ⟭

"Infernus Invictus!! Sons and daughters of the Eternal Battlefield!" Tycon screamed. 

...He took a breath before continuing. 

  "Break him."

A swarm of hellborne came for the swordsman, demons and devils of a thousand grotesque shapes and sins. 

They stabbed his body with blades. Clacking maws sought to tear apart his armor and flesh. 

"Troia, daughter of Tyrion," Tycon whispered. "Restrain that creature."

Dawnbringer landed behind the swordsman. A reinforced Arcanite hand grabbed onto his head. As she pulled back, the joints of her Divine Armor groaned and creaked. 

But finally, their neck was revealed. 

Tycon drew Mercy from his sheathe and began walking toward the single enemy. 

"Lucifer of Pride," he growled, "to me. Now."

...

The world was bright yet nigh-colorless. A sky of stark white shone upon black ink, absent of reflection. 

That person was kneeling, the dark water mired up to his thighs. The unmistakable red of his life essence seeped into the ink from the open wounds in his knees and the stab wounds on his arms, legs, and torso. 

From his appearance, the Flamebriar Monarch was merely an elf hiding behind a one-horned ram skull. 

Perhaps his appearance within Lulu's ⌈Domain⌋ differed from his form, outside of it. 

Tycondrius wondered that was the appearance he preferred. 

The so-called Monarch had a Spell Formation carved into his naked chest, riddled with lizard script. 

Tycon did not care to decipher it. 

It changed nothing. 

The magic pulsed, sending invisible ripples across the black-ink ocean. 

The Formation outlined itself with a dim glow. 

A dull song seeped into the impossible chamber, muted by the far, white walls. 

The Monarch's-- no... the Tyrant God's magic was trying to take control, despite the state of its host. 

Tycon would not let that happen. 

"YouUu called, BosSss?" 

The enchanting voice belonged to Lulu, one of the original members of his Sol Invictus. 

The platinum-blonde demon woman was wearing a white robe, twirling a red parasol resting on her shoulder. 

She stood atop the ink on a pair of lifted wooden clogs. 

Of course, she would. 

It was her ⌈Domain⌋, after all. 

"What took you so long?" Tycon asked. 

"Had to run away from some very mean people~" Lulu answered with a sly smirk. 

Tycon chose to ignore the statement. He hoped it was hyperbole. 

"Oh!" the demon woman gasped, "Don't~ be~ jealous, Boss. I came, didn't I? I love when you make me come."

...Right. 

"I'm going to murder that person," Tycon said. "Assist me."

Lulu placed a dainty hand on her mouth, giggling softly. 

Black chains, spears at their end rose out of the ink. They pierced through the nameless swordsman's wound-riddled flesh, wrapping around his legs and forearms. 

Tycon walked through the ink, each step making a dull, mournful splash. 

It felt like it took a long time. 

Something in the atmosphere bid him to slow his gait... and each successive step seemed to take more effort than the last. 

But... the notion was asinine. A step was a step. And even if the ⌈Domain⌋ had some kind of unorthodox restriction in place, its maker was his stalwart ally. 

As Tycon continued, he lost his ability to breathe. 

So, he stopped breathing.

He found it odd... but bearable. 

He stopped being able to feel. He didn't mind that. 

He lost his sight and vision-- neither important. 

He lost other senses, too.

Not ideal. 

--but he had more. 

It felt like it took a bloody epoch, but finally, Tycon stood in front of that person. 

He looked into its eyes... or rather, he emulated doing so with what faculties he had remaining. 

[Any last words?]

That person opened his mouth... "I... can still... hear it."

[The song?] Tycon suggested.

"--of which... legends... are sung."

That infuriating person dared to smile. 

...That's what it felt like, anyroad. 

Tycon hacked Mercy into that creature's neck. 

It wasn't enough.

--which. was. most... peculiar... 

Was it his strength? It might have been his sloppy stance. His senses were shot and his body wasn't listening to him nearly as well as he would have liked. 

Tycon struck again. He sensed his weapon hacking into some resistance. 

Whether it was fleshy or magical or...imaginary, he could not discern. 

Still, he felt like he was winning. He took solace in the potential self-deception. 

"⌈Iron Warlord Rend⌋."

He used a Skill. 

That felt promising. 

He was physically and mentally exhausted, but more than that, he was annoyed. 

Everything hurt. That was nothing new. 

He wanted to lie down and sleep-- or maybe use his sword on his own throat. None of those feelings were unfamiliar to him. 

He was hungry. 

Literally. 

He was so hungry that even a meal at Olea Garden sounded promising. 

But why did he think of Olea Garden? 

He didn't even like Olea Garden... 

Against his better judgment, Tycon searched his bloodline memories for a more powerful martial Skill. 

He found one. 

"⌈Adamant Rend.⌋"

He was fairly certain he didn't have the qualifications to use it. 

He was going to suffer, afterward. 

But... it worked.

Tycon successfully severed that person's head. 

He took hold of it, took a moment to feel proud... then, he threw it on the ground, sending up a wave of ink. 

And finally, he crushed it beneath his sandaled foot, bones and all.