金瓶梅第2部

Tycondrius held his adamantine scabbard poised to strike.

He placed his weight behind a forward swing, delivering a solid strike to Tarquin Wroe's outer thigh.

Precise.

Professional.

Without mercy.

The Daeva's pale face turned sheet white. He opened his mouth to scream, but the pain did not allow him the privilege. He crumpled to the ground, curling his body while cradling his injured leg.

He writhed in the dirt in pain, unable to vocalize the agony he was experiencing. Judging by the tears at the corners of his eyes and his rapidly contorting expressions, it was... excruciating.

Tycon granted him several moments.

--but several moments later... on the dirt, the wriggling Hexblade remained.

"Get up..." Tycon muttered underneath his breath... "Don't tell me this is the best you can do, Tarquin Wroe..."

⟬ Inspirational Surge conditions met-- Stand by... Inspirational Surge cannot be executed on the current target. ⟭

...Tycon scowled in disappointment.

His System's message came with a grave implication.

Wroe had lost the will to fight.

It was... the gravest of sins for a warrior to commit.

The Daeva slammed his palm into the dirt before clawing sand into a clenched fist. His face was filthy, covered in streaks of dirt sticking to his blood, sweat, and tears.

"H... how... ughhh," He groaned between pained sobs, "--did you see through... my sword techniques?"

"A fool question," Tycon rolled his eyes.

He considered finishing the whelp off, but a jolt of pain ran through his temples.

It was an impending threat... a minuscule taste of the pain incurred by breaking a magical contract.

Wroe was still technically a member of Sol Invictus... As such, Tycon could not intentionally kill him without grave repercussions.

Tycon sighed deeply as he stowed his heavy scabbard back into his spatial ring... "I learned the Sleeping Country's sword from you, Mister Wroe. You cannot hope to defeat me if your swordsmanship hasn't improved since our days in the arenas."

Though he didn't remember the particulars, he recognized the motions ingrained deep in his memory. It was as if a long time ago, they were practiced until they could not be forgotten.

The Zarovich Sword Style was an effective sword art... but with the gap between Unranked and Gold, Tycon could effortlessly see through all of Wroe's feints and maneuvers.

"So, ah, Tycon?" Hades waved. "Looks like you're done, huh?"

Tycon relished the thought... but shook his head, "Almost, old friend."

Wroe had furrowed his brows... perhaps desperately trying to remember, "Who... are... you?"

Tycon folded his hands in front of his chin... delving deep into his memories.

He silently praised his adopted Oracle daughter. It was Sasarame and her magic that he was gained a number of fragmented memories belonging to his previous self.

"I... am the man who first tested your sword skills, so many years ago..." Tycon said, "On my honor... I vouched for your ability and personally drafted your contract to Sol Invictus."

--the only thing that was keeping him safe from Tycon's extreme disappointment.

"You are..." Wroe's eyes widened... as if he'd found some sort of clarity-- "T... ty? Tyc...?"

Tycon took a deep, halting breath.

"I am a man... DISHONORED by your WEAKNESS!!"

No longer able to contain his emotions, Tycon's mana raged through his circuits. Without holding back his strength, he brought his heavy boot down onto Wroe's face... once... thrice... and a half-dozen times upon his head and chest area.

"If I could fire you-- or even KILL YOU, I would!" He roared. "But here is your chance, Prince of Arcanite! If you no longer wish to fight by my side, then LAY DOWN AND DIE!!!!"

Tycon. was. furious.

When sparring with Wroe, he avoided boosting his strength and agility with mana. Though he had at least two opportunities to do so, he also did not execute any of the Samurai techniques he'd painstakingly learned from his deceased Orcish mentor.

Worst of all... Tycon was absolutely not left-handed.

Wroe had failed his test... and was beyond redemption.

"GrahHH!!" With an aggravated roar, Tycon kicked the broken and weeping wretch's mana-sword away.

It disappeared as soon as it touched the water without even a satisfying splash.

"Warlocks..." Tycon sneered in contempt, "Easily the most unreliable of the Caster classes..."

"Heyyy!" Hades leaned forward on his tree stump, "My original Class was Warlock!"

"And it is your Class *no longer*," Tycon shot back.

"...Ehhhh, fair 'nough," The orc shrugged.

There was movement.

Tycon's eyes darted to the side, spotting Wroe, mana-sword again in hand.

The Daeva was fast.

...but he was still on the level of a human.

Tycon leapt forward, keeping low, planting his feet before stabbing the point of his left elbow into Wroe's solar plexus. He then grabbed onto the angel's right arm and executed a clean shoulder throw, again introducing the man to the rocky ground.

He wrenched Wroe's arm until he felt it dislocate... then he crushed the kicking and screaming fellow's wrist until he felt the bones fracture.

When the Daeva dropped his sword, Tycon kicked it into the waters once more.

"Odd..." Tycon frowned.

He was almost certain Wroe's leg had been broken.

...No matter.

Turning about, Tycon raised his voice, "Brother-Hades! Let us depart from this forsaken--"

Sensing the vibration of footsteps upon the sand, Tycon reflexively swayed his body, avoiding another swing from Wroe's sword.

"HOW many times can you summon that thing?" He shouted.

"Take... me... to... HER!!!" Wroe shrieked.

The Daeva pressed his advantage, slashing quickly with reckless abandon. Sloppy and savage as he was, Wroe moved forward just quickly enough to prevent Tycon from safely summoning a weapon.

...But he didn't care about holding back any longer.

"⌈Shadowfang.⌋"

Tycon activated a movement technique, leaping backward through magical shadows. Flicking his wrist, he summoned the Shatterspike longsword in hand.

He was going to kill Wroe.

It was a horribly foolish decision. In him breaking his magical contract, Tycon's mana circuits would overload and shatter.

With magical healing, he surmised he'd be debilitated for at least a moon-- if not longer, considering his Metal-Rank.

However... he no longer had the patience to allow Tarquin Wroe to live.