Headed by a Snake



Something overlarge was thrashing about in the deep-- likely the massive sentience that Tycondrius sensed earlier. 

The notion made him wish he hadn't looked down into the abyss. 

It was a disheartening experience, having something look back. 

Nonetheless, Tycon steeled his resolve, willfully ignoring that which he did not know in favor of that which he did: 

Murdering creatures he did not like. 

The unwelcome invaders were humanoid, fish-eyed sentients. They continued to board the ship, wielding primitive weapons like broken-shell spears and coral-clad clubs. 

Tycon had encountered the creatures before... in a small coastal village called Thorne. The hatcheries were destroyed at that place, but obviously, there were others. 

And the combat effectiveness of those creatures overall... was unfortunately high. 

Unlike Lang Hai's Sea Wolves, Chantal's very human subordinates were largely disadvantaged by the enemy's physiques. The fish-mens' size and strength combined with their resilient skins resulted in over two dozen casualties in only a few minutes. 

And, worse still, a marked trait of the Tyrant God's armies was a blind and unwavering zeal. The enemy fought on, regardless of their injuries... similar but not quite to the same efficacy as the undead attachments of the Sleeping Country. 

That in mind, undead soldiers could only be fielded alongside the coordinated efforts of their military Necromancers. 

The enemy had a different stipulation. 

There was a malodorous stink of lizard magic in the air. 

It reeked of a Domination Spell called ⌈Unrelenting Zeal⌋, something applicable to only the most devoted of fanatics. 

It was not an enchantment, nor was it a curse. It was a Divine Blessing and, to Tycon's knowledge, could not be cleansed. 

If it was as he feared, the suicide squad could not be bargained with... nor could they be spared and rehabilitated. 

As the battle raged, those affected would only descend deeper into madness. 

Their only end would be death-- as was appropriate for the enemies of Sol Invictus. 

Wielding Chantal's nameless word, Tycon scanned the deck for where he could best be of assistance. As strong as he was, personally, the Warlord Class' most powerful options provided powerful support to his allies. 

He spotted a muscular, sea-weathered sailor holding his own, if barely. Two of the enemy laid at his feet, but his clothes were shredded by their claws, his blood spilling freely onto the deck. 

The strong man's sword arm did not waver. 

He would do. 

"Fight on, Darktide!" Tycon said with a smirk. 

Looking forward to see the slaughter that would follow, he snapped his fingers. 

The older sailor spun his head around to face him. 

"Don't you F*CKing snap at me, assh*le!!"

W... what?

Tycon had activated a Skill-- one highly beneficial to his allies. 

⟬ Conditions not met for ⌈Commander's Strike⌋. ⟭

⟬ ⌈Commander's Strike⌋ failed. ⟭

Before Tycon could fully understand the implications of the System message, he watched a thrown spear impale the sailor through his back. 

Moments later, a group of webfoots descended upon him, their claws finding his throat. 

Frustration and disappointment swelled in Tycon's heart as he made his way to the dying man. He cut down the three that felled him. 

But only after he gained a moment to think did he realize his fervor was useless. 

He was planning on using his healing Skill, ⌈Inspirational Surge⌋, to resuscitate the injured sailor. However, the prerequisite to do so successfully was the same as ⌈Commander's Strike⌋:

Trust.

If his targeted ally refused to accept his assistance, even subconsciously, the Skill might activate with severely reduced effects-- or not activate, at all. 

It was a rare issue in the context of an adventuring party, squad, or small guild. Tycon had even led multiple flights of the Sapphire Tower's Witches, using his billet as Commander. 

However, Chantal's sailors were different. Perhaps their judgment was clouded by fear. Perhaps the sailors stubbornly refused to acknowledge a Marine, despite them all belonging to the same, gods-damned Royal Navy. 

Tycon was tempted to force the matter-- to use his will to overwhelm the sailor's meager mental resistance. 

--but considering the amplified mana cost, the mental strain, the uncertain side-effects... and the fact that there were hundreds more sailors on the Kida Thatch...

Tycon did nothing.

Tycon did nothing but stare into the sailor's eyes, watching his blood drain onto the deck. Frothy pink bubbles of helplessness escaped from his torn windpipe as he pleaded for a boon none would grant. 

He prided himself in his abilities, inspiring his allies, inciting their battle lust, and pushing their abilities to their uppermost limits. 

But he could not do the impossible. He could not rekindle their hopes if there was none to begin with. 

It did not, however, mean he would stop trying. 

Sprinting across the deck, he leapt into a melee amidst a group of five of Chantal's senior sailors. He integrated himself naturally, likening the situation to a legionnaire taking his place in a shield wall. He stabbed at his front. He fended off attacks in defense of his left and right.

And he hoped to trust his battle brothers and sisters beside him with the same. 

"DARKTIDE!!" he screamed, "You MUST have FAITH!! We can win this!"

A bloodfilled scream erupted at his back. 

The woman on his right died with her face in terror, her dying breath gone unscreamed. 

The rest, too-- they fell. 

⟬ Conditions not met for ⌈Darktide Defense Formation⌋. ⟭

⟬ ⌈Darktide Defense Formation⌋ failed. ⟭

Tycon grit his teeth and vaulted over a pile of bodies before slashing the napes of two more webfoots. 

"You there!" he shouted, "Dodge!!" 

There was a sailor with a rifle. She had honed in on a target, her eye aligned to the ironsights. 

Did she not hear him? 

⟬ Conditions not met for ⌈Jumping Knee Counter⌋. ⟭

⟬ ⌈Jumping Knee Counter⌋ failed... ⟭ 

The blade of a coral hatchet cut deep into the barrel of her rifle. 

The webfoot grabbed hold of the woman and sank its teeth into her neck. 

There was no ⌈Silence⌋ Spell-- no Formation inhibiting his voice... Even if there was, Tycon could have found a way to activate his Skills. 

Tycon clenched his fist.

The Tyrant God... 

This was that creature's doing. 

Tycon was surrounded by fear and despair. 

But its source was not magic. 

The pure, unadulterated miasma of emotion... was borne from the hearts of mortal men. 

Tycon was confident in the water when he swam alongside Princess Iyuri. 

He was confident on the deck of the Elizabeth Dare, with the members of the Sea Wolf Sect. 

But... the crew of the Kida Thatch comprised regular human beings. 

--as was a large majority of the Wyrmslayer Alliance. 

And Tycon was witnessing the result of a battle between humans and the Tyrant God's servants. 

The enemy was outnumbered. They were armored in scraps and armed with unrefined weapons, dredged up from the sea floor. 

The enemy... was not immune to fear. 

But with the abhorrent gifts of their abominable god... they had naught to fear from the men and women of the Realm. 

And thus, those fearful mortals faltered. 

And... for just that unforgieable sin, they died en masse. 

"Chantal!" he shouted across the deck, "You orders!?"

"I am NOT one of your women, Tycondrius!" Chantal returned. 

The brazen woman pulled a repeating pistol from her holster, fired a round into a webfoot's crotch, and subsequently jammed the weapon barrel down its mouth before firing twice more. 

She then shot Tycon a furious glare, "You will REFER to me by my RANK!" 

That... was fair. 

A stunned Croesa stared at the blood spatter on her white robes before belatedly letting out a shriek. 

She was... not a fortunate child. 

Anyroad... 

Chantal, despite her high-ranked Class, did not have Tycon's half-step Adamantine physique. 

She was human, much like her crew.

Yet... she showed valor uncommon to her bloodline. 

The battle was not progressing favorably...

--but on his honor, Tycon would at least ensure her life... even if he had to break all her limbs in order to whisk her away. 

The end of the Realm notwithstanding, his pride would be greatly diminished if he could not raise his head in the presence of his friend, Langhai. 

Tycon threw the woman's sword with some force. Its point managed to pierce the abdomen of one of Chantal's assaulters. 

"My apologies, Grand-Capitaine!" he shouted-- though mere words could not convey how deep his regret ran. 

There was no hope for her ship... and even less for her crew. 

But if even the smallset chance appeared... he would take it. 

The Fleet Admiral clicked her tongue, holstered one of her pistols, and reclaimed her sword. 

Tycon took a haltered breath. 

...and he snapped his fingers. 

⟬ Conditions... ⟭

"GRAND-CAPITAINE!!!" he shouted, "BLOOD!! AND!!!!! THUNDERRRR!!!!!"

⟬ Conditions met. ⟭

⟬ ⌈Commander's Strike⌋ activated. ⟭

The burst of mana granted Chantal a superhuman burst of speed. Swinging her sword arm, she cleanly decapitated an enemy trying to flank her. 

She kicked her leg nearly straight up, swiftly bringing it down onto the shoulder of another webfoot. The domineering axe kick shattered its collarbone, dropping them to the deck. 

Finally free of the pressure, Chantal wordlessly unloaded a barrage of pistolfire into a swarth of five more oncomers. 

As the Fleet Admiral began to reload her repeating pistols, she shot Tycon an annoyed glare. 

And as her lips parted, she mouthed something he did not expect. 

'Victory at sea.'

...It seemed that hope was not yet lost for the Kida Thatch.