金瓶梅第2部

A blazing white light took away Tycondrius' vision.

...not that vision-blindness affected him so terribly.

He loosed a deep sigh-- one saturated with annoyance.

"You smug bastard," He muttered... "Who prayed for *your* intervention? ...It wasn't me, that's for damn certain."

Quietly... calmly... but with rage barely contained, Tycon checked his personal effects.

Weaponry. Magic jewelry. Articles of clothing. All was as it should be.

"Hero... the thought's as appealing as a steaming pile of shite... as if I'd accept something like that."

He sensed that the Dark Iron Wolf-Hammer, Tres Leches, was nearby.

He retrieved it and returned it to his spatial ring.

"...What fool would accept you as a friend-- and after all that?"

Ophelia Moonwell lied on the grass. She was unconscious, her expression pained. However, her breathing was steady. The trails of tears outlined in ash had dried.

They would begin again anew, once she woke... but uncovering the reason for those tears would be something for the future.

He picked her up and slung her across his back.

Arcanite Princess, get. Mission complete.

It was then that the Captain's voice interrupted his errant thoughts.

"Yo, LT... You uh... there?"

Krysaos was blinking like a fool, his body lowered and his palms held outward.

"Yes," Tycon answered.

"Are we... dead?"

"No."

"Did we make it to heaven, or what?"

Tycon furrowed his brows. That was a stupid question.

"Ab-sol-ute-ly not... I *highly* doubt any of the eleven heavens will accept people like us."

"LT..." Krysaos whispered, "I... I can't see."

"Neither can I," Tycon shrugged. "Get over it."

"A... alright."

Krysaos righted his posture, trying to feign confidence.

...To allay the Captain's confusion, Tycon decided to share what he knew.

"⌈Lightning Teleport.⌋"

"H... huh?"

"It's the name of the spell cast by our *loyal* companion. You may recall it. At that time, the caster was not under duress."

"If that's the case..." Krysaos grit his teeth, "That... that *guy* overtuned the f*ck out of the lightning!"

"Hm. An interesting opinion."

The completion of a high-leveled, multi-array, lightning-type spell under extreme duress was an extraordinary feat.

That Krysaos expected two or three frivolous layers for his own personal comfort was unreasonable.

The unreasonable Sea God cleared his throat.

"So... since we're alive and I don't hear any woodland creatures trying to f*ck me in the arse... can I assume we made it outta the forest?"

"Indeed," Tycon nodded-- not that his companion could see him do so.

"Alright, at least that..." Krysaos grumbled. "But still-- LT, I'mma need you to guide me towards that guy, so I can kick him in the face."

...How difficult.

"I can't do that, Captain."

It was, after all, an impossible command.

"Eh?" Krysaos cranked his head towards Tycon, "And wHYYYyy the f*ck not?"

The Captain's argumentative tone was irksome... but Tycon was not in the mood for a verbal spar.

Carefully balancing Ophelia over his shoulders, he spun on his heel and began to walk away. If they were near Whitehearth, they needed to go uphill.

"Follow my voice, Krysaos. We're following this road... to what I hope is toward civilization. Ophelia is stable for now, but she will need--"

"Heading back? The f*ck we are!" Krysaos griped, "Where's-- where's the..."

The Captain took a few troubled steps before stopping... "Hey... don't say it, LT."

Tycon stopped as well.

"What I have to say, you likely already know," He said in a soft voice. "The Thunder God barely had the mana to walk straight, much less enough to cast a Sixth-Circle Spell without grave repercussions."

"Then..." Krysaos hesitated... "then where is he now?"

"I don't know," Tycon took a breath... "but it isn't here."

Tycon steadied himself once more, walking forward... one foot in front of the other.

Time passed in quietude, Krysaos following along-- almost miraculously, without complaint.

Eventually, Tycon's vision began to return.

The sun was beginning its descent in the west. As it continued, it would nestle down into the walls of City-State Whitehearth, visible in the distance.

"Hey... yo, LT..." Krysaos muttered.

Tycon did not realize when he had... but he'd stopped to stare at their destination.

Captain Krysaos stood by his side.

"We... we didn't even ask for that guy's name," He said, his tone almost... reverent.

Tycon raised his eyebrows.

"His name was ※※※※※."

"Huh..." The Captain twisted his mouth to the side... "How'd you know?"

"Revered in the Eastern States. Thunder. Lightning. Wields a Storm Axe," Devoid of emotion, Tycon listed the traits of one of his most loyal friends... "Only one god applied to the criteria."

Krysaos stared off towards the sunset.

"...It's a stupid name," He concluded.

"It... does sound awkward if compared to modern human names," Tycon shrugged. "Nevertheless... that fellow's legacy lies in more than just that."

"...Yeah," Krysaos nodded. "He was... a good guy."

"Indeed," Tycon said... "Indeed..."

...

⟬ At a mediocre breakfast diner, in the mediocre City-State, Whitehearth... the morning after. ⟭

Recent events had affected Tycon to an unacceptable degree.

He had difficulty tasting his breakfast.

It was... a bitter struggle, him fighting against his psyche.

It took until the third plate for him to regain his senses enough to be satisfied.

"We uh... we're not doin' the 20-plate thing like last time, are we?" Krysaos asked.

"I'll be content after this," Tycon grimaced.

Krysaos took a deep breath.

It seemed like he was hesitating, so Tycon sat back and motioned for him to speak.

"Sssso," Krysaos began... deliberately stretching out the word, as if he was biding his time... "how is... Ophelia doing?"

Tycon leaned back to quietly scrutinize his conversational partner.

Krysaos looked miserable-- more human than god.

Unlike his usual charming grin, he wore a deep frown.

Tiredness had sunk into his eyes.

He looked... old.

His military coat was neither clean nor pressed-- though had both the magical power and ingenuity to do so.

He did, however, shave... so Tycon had one less thing to admonish him for.

--not that he was in the mood to do so.

"Ophelia Moonwell yet lives," He said. "Sindal's people will ensure that fact remains constant."

"That's... some kind of a win," Said Krysaos with an awkward smile.

"Something like that."

As Tycon returned his attention to his fifth plate, the Captain went through similar motions.

There was a certain inelegance to how the man cut his (terribly mediocre) steak.

...The scraping of metal against ceramics tried Tycon's patience.

But... near everything he was experiencing, as of recent, had annoyed him to some degree.

"So LT... You uh... you get any sleep?" The Captain asked.

Tycon shook his head and clicked his tongue, "I don't deserve such a luxury."

"So that's a no, huh?" Krysaos smirked.

Tycon responded with a slow shrug, "I doubt I could, even if I tried."

"Well... whatever," Krysaos sighed. "Maybe we should get a cup o' brew before we go on with our sun, huh?"

Tycon raised an eyebrow, "Does this place serve alcohol before noon?"

Krysaos chuckled awkwardly, "I was thinkin' more like... coffee."

"...Very well."

Thus, the man ordered coffee.

A waitress delivered the hot drinks.

Her speech was curt; her eyes, ever-shifting; and her brow was marked with a light sheen of perspiration.

As for the reason?

The drinks... as one might expect, were poisoned.

",