金瓶梅第2部

Tycondrius closed his eyes, emptying his mind of extraneous thoughts. At the same time, he began to mentally review the spell functions most appropriate for the results he wanted.

A lesser Formation Mage would have certainly balked at the pressure of the situation. If not that, then they would have despaired at the difficulty of adapting old, familiar functions to new, unfamiliar executions.

Tycon was confident in his skill.

That wasn't to say that the possibility of failure was nonexistent. Instead, if he *were* to fail, then the task was impossible to begin with.

There were no issues with his materials. They were, however, admittedly unorthodox.

Instead of residuum-based mana-ink, Tycon had the quickly-coagulating blood of a Second-Circle Caster.

Because of the volatile nature of the material, he had to focus the greater half of his attention on his work over the field of battle.

For the drawing implement, he had a blood-bloated leg, severed below the hip.

It was a rather efficient ink-delivery system. As such, Tycon was fairly certain he wasn't the originator of severed-body-part artistry.

It was a wonder, though, that he hadn't heard of a precedent.

The Thunder God coughed pitifully to himself before wiping his mouth... "Maedar... Only villains, most foul, employ the use of Blood Magic."

Tycon shut his eyes and raised his eyebrows...

"If I have inconvenienced the recently-departed by using her blood without her *express* approval... on my honor, Thunder God, I will apologize to the offended parties *forthwith.*"

"Dude," Krysaos held his hand out, "Let the LT do his thing. We'll talk about war crimes or whatever after."

"...Fair enough," The Thunder God relented.

"The ⌈Gate⌋ must be protected," Tycon groaned. "Thunder God, remain with me."

"Ho ho hoh. I'll handle the b*tch," Krysaos declared.

"Guess I'll help defend," Wroe shrugged.

Tycon narrowed his eyes, annoyed and moderately resentful, "Must your tone be so lackadaisical?"

"Yeah," Krysaos sneered. "Have a sense of urgency or some shite."

Wroe turned to the Captain, wearing his thin smile. "I'll die for you guys... primarily because if I don't, I'm pretty sure you'll kill me... or bring my sorry arse back to life so you--"

"Krys-A-Ossss!" Tycon raised his voice to the still-stationary Captain, "Go!"

"I'm goin'! I'm going!" Insisted the Captain.

"Should I go too?" Asked Wroe.

"No, you twit," Scolded the only logically-minded bipedal sentient in the gods-damned forest.

The Tree God's minions appeared to have fled the area, save for one.

...That was an ominous sign.

And upon analysis by Tycon's System...

⟬ Target's Class and Rank hidden by magical effect. ⟭

--the already dire situation had taken a turn for the worse.

"Be vigilant, Captain," Tycon warned. "The enemy is wearing Ophelia's Amulet of Obscuration."

"Got it," Krysaos nodded... "So, uh... what'sat mean?"

"It means: if you let your guard down, you will die."

...

And so the great Captain Krysaos, scourge of several seas, stepped forward to face the enemy.

The assumed source of the destructive golden-sphere magic was a well-dressed young woman, her height matching the Captain's.

She wore a black-fur overcoat, trimmed in red, as well as a furred cap. She belonged to the military forces of Nemaya Strana.

The Sleeping Country...

To memory, Tycon had no grievances with persons or institutions of that nation.

In the same vein, he also lacked connections that could possibly dissuade the mage from conflict.

The young woman's upper arms bore the symbol of a company unfamiliar to him. It was the same for the stack of medals pinned to her breast... save for two.

One was a badge for skilled horsemanship. The other was for expert marksmanship.

While the former was average for an Officer, Tycon found it laudable that the young woman valued the gun (or crossbow.) After all, the current generation romanticized swordsmen and the straight-bladed dueling sword.

"Mmmm," The young lady shifted her weight, leaning to the side with her hip forward. "Isn't your sword a little small considering your height, old man?"

"It ain't about the size of the boat, girlie," Krysaos laughed, irreverently patting the god-weapon hanging on his side, "What matters is the MOTION of the OCEAN!!"

He then began to gyrate his hips.

Tycon could only be impressed. If the Captain's goal was for his opponent to lose all respect for him, he had done so absolutely, succinctly, and in record time.

"Ugh," The mage groaned. "F*cking gross, old man."

"OH NOOO!!" Yelled Wroe, "EMOTIONAL DA-MAGE!!"

"What... the f*ck?" Krysaos furrowed his brows. "I'm not even old, though!"

"I turn 15 later this year," The mage crossed her arms-- "so even if we're goin' by the Fairytale Kingdom's laws, you're being suuuper creepy right now."

"Wait! The-- the f*ck?!" Krysaos shouted-- quite distressed.

Wroe held onto his belly, unable to stifle his laughter, "Ohhh, shite! You KILLED himmmm!!"

"Ahem," Tycon coughed into his closed fist and spoke in a hushed tone. "Please stop supporting the enemy, Mister Wroe. We're in a very precarious situation right now."

"Hah... R-right. Sorry, Boss."

"Sea God Krysaos," Tycon raised his voice, "Please engage the enemy in combat... and inquire about Ophelia's whereabouts, if reasonable."

"Aha... haha..." Krysaos grinned as he walked forward, "Too bad for you, girlie. Getting what I want out of women just so happens to be my specialty."

"...Did you hear that?" Tycon turned to the Thunder God, "You call *me* a villain for requisitioning assistance from an Archdemon, yet say nothing of that one."

"...That is *quite* different, Maedar," The Thunder God grumbled.

Wroe artfully stepped between the two of them, "You're being a little petty, Boss. And shouldn't you be... y'know?"

...The Hexblade was correct. Still, Tycon was in no mood to apologize. Instead, he refocused on his work, his face marked by a scowl.

The enemy mage began to unbutton her overcoat. As the field had become eerily empty, her actions were akin to a gladiator preparing for a match.

Was she trying to entertain whatever gods were observing the fight? Or did she need easier access to a hidden weapon or three underneath?

Whatever the reason, it granted Tycon time to review the logic of his Spell Circles...

"What the fuuuuuuck are you doing, girlie?!" Krysaos shouted.

The mage's face contorted as she gagged, "UuuuuUUUghhh!! Stop making this WEEEEird!!"

Tycon again paused his work.

Never before had he so difficult a time in scribing a formation... so... bothersome... were the sounds of disrespect produced by a single teenage girl.

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