Headed by a Snake

⟬ Several minutes earlier. ⟭

The young mage that fought against Tarquin Wroe was rather talented.

Tycondrius did not think highly of her swordsmanship, but she had demonstrated technical mastery in a number of other aspects.

Her aptitude with augment-type magic and offensive evocations marked her as a young genius.

Further, her impressive tenacity put her on a similar level as Spear Hero Pale.

The child was forced well beyond her limits, continuing to fight despite suffering clear and obvious effects from mana *exhaustion.*

Despite her extraordinarily resilient physique, she had sustained multiple debilitating injuries caused by explosive debris.

And still... she defeated Tarquin Wroe soundly and succinctly.

The child-mage was nothing short of monstrous.

"My name... is Valeria of the Romanov Duchy..."

Romanov... that was a name Tycon recognized. He committed few Nemayan noble names to memory, so she must have been rather important.

"--servant of the Hex God, Kyrj Kira'ak..."

Tycon found that name unfamiliar. It did, however, *sound* rather unpleasant.

"...and the heir of ash and fire."

Ah.

Tycon shook his head in disappointment. It was unfortunate. Before she uttered that particularly odious phrase, he had considered the girl a potential replacement for his own Hexblade.

If Wroe could not recover from injuries incurred, his adventuring career was over.

Tycon placed his hand on the spell circle he'd carved into the vehicle he traveled upon... increasing its forward velocity.

The body of the compacted block of ice was formed by Krysaos and enchanted by the Thunder God: an electrified, 3-tonze airborne projectile.

Krysaos dubbed it ⌈Lightning Glacier⌋... despite it having neither the qualities of lightning nor those of a proper glacier.

Still, the so-called 'glacier' of 'lightning' collided with Valeria, and thereafter, slid in the dirt several yalms.

Tycon hopped off, sighing in exasperation as he turned to look back at his companions.

The view through Alana's ⌈Gate⌋ grew noticeably sharper for a brief moment, as if the Spell was struggling to restore itself on its own.

Then... after Krysaos cursed loud enough for the entire forest to hear, the ⌈Gate⌋ flickered out of existence.

Tycon had established a Spell Formation for the Gate's stabilization. Its functions were complete and the theory behind it was sound.

Unfortunately, for a high-level Spell capable of crossing distances in excess of a thousand malms, the utilization of redundancy layers and sophisticated formulae was unavoidable.

It was a formation that only he, as its creator, could sustain with certainty.

Tycon had abandoned it, in favor of a surprise offensive.

He tasked Krysaos to do what he could.

There was... an infinitesimal chance that the Captain would comprehend concepts that likened the discourse of the Realm's top percentile of Formation Mages to lodging sticks in their arses and slinging fecal material at passersby.

That serendipity... escaped the Captain.

And thus, the incremental damage to the ⌈Gate⌋ culminated in its dissolution.

It was... a grim development-- but an expected inevitability.

With Wroe's defeat, Tycon's plans had gone painfully awry.

His options had become as limited as they were on the first sun he'd awoken in the Realm.

Without allies and his resources dangerously low... he could only react to situations as they arose.

"--which is a really shite way to go about doing things," He muttered to himself.

"SH*T!!" Krysaos shouted, "F*CK! GODS-F*CKING D*MN IT!!! What the f*CK do we DO NOW?!?"

Tycon cupped his hand to yell, "Drink potions! --one more than you think your body can safely take!"

Incurring potion sickness came with moderate discomfort and risk for worse, long-lasting side effects. However, as long as his allies could keep pace as they traveled, the small percentage of mana recovered would increase their overall probability of survival.

Of course, the probability was overwhelmingly in favor of them all suffering violent deaths in the Tree God's Forest.

At the very least, the potions would enable them to die while returning a percentage of that violence.

It would be an... 'honorable' end for his companions-- not that Tycon was at all thrilled with the notion.

According to his depressed, reptilian brain, he reasoned that as long as they did not surrender, their impending deaths would be swift and relatively painless.

With a mana-empowered right kick, Tycon shattered the ⌈Lightning Glacier⌋... and beheld what was left of Valeria Ashenspire.

She still breathed-- yet another irrefutable testament to her fortitude.

That breathing, of course, was rightfully shallow and wracked with pain. Her eyes had rolled back. Her body still convulsed, either with death throes or a lingering effect from lightning mana. Both of her legs were rendered useless, the bones crushed into pulp. Her left arm was twisted several times over and scarcely attached.

She was a perfect example of why Metal-Rankers were treated with awe and respect. A Gold-Rank could survive a direct cannon blast to the chest. A woman of Valeria's caliber had survived a direct strike from a siege projectile enchanted by two literal gods.

Tycon knelt down beside her and adopted his best, professional smile.

"Good evening, Duchess. I'm going to kill you now. Judging by your state, I'd imagine this is acceptable?"

He did not ask for permission. The young woman did not have the right to deny him.

Valeria blinked her eyes several times. Her pupils did not-- or could not focus. Tears streamed down her soot-and-blood-covered face. Her mouth opened and closed as she fought for each breath.

Tycon remained patient.

Finally... Valeria managed to form words.

"What... is... your name?"

"My name is..."

It was a simple question...  but Tycon hesitated to answer.

He had... many names.

Tycon. Tyrael. Boss. Leader.

Baron. Lieutenant.

Commander.

Ivory Prince.

...Sol Invictus.

He was all those things... but, since he was certain of his death in the next few bells, he'd grown detached to the thought of any and all of them.

"To be quite honest, young lady..." He confided... "I don't really know."

Bowing his head, he whispered in the Holy Country's language.

"*Mihi ignosce, puella.*" He said, "*Mea maximum culpa.*"

He drew his short sword from its sheath and delivered a final prayer.

"*Requiescere in pacem.*"

He grabbed onto Valeria's hair.

Light began to fill her eyes and she tried to speak. However, the shadowy hand of Tycon's ⌈Venomous Shadow⌋ covered her mouth, interrupting whatever spell she was trying to cast.

And thus... Tycon severed Valeria's head from her body.

The scales on her neck that once rejected the deity-blessed swords of Krysaos and Wroe proved inadequate against Mercy.

Tycon then chopped open her chest and splayed her ribs outward before extracting her heart.

He found a mana stone inside the palpitating flesh. Tossing it to Ishmael, the shadow crushed it into mana dust.

Special measures had to be taken against high-level Warlocks to ensure their complete deaths.

He was loathe to use his companions' mana to incinerate the Duchess' body... or the time to write yet another Spell Formation to do so himself. But... as fate decreed, her essence had been condensed into a single stone.

Valeria Ashenspire was not merely a monstrous talent. After throwing in her lot with the lizard god, she had become a monster.

"As for you," Tycon turned. "Get up, Mister Wroe. Death did not inconvenience you in the past. I don't see why it would, now..."

",