Headed by a Snake

For Tycondrius to get to Wroe, he needed a suitable distraction.

Glancing away, he identified a group of over 100 in a reasonably compact area.

For them, he burnt his most powerful large-scale Spell scroll.

"Dark Angel of the Four Winds," Tycon chanted, "Send thy ⌈Abyssal Rains⌋."

"...I beseech thee," He added.

In response, a loud... 'evil' voice resounded painfully in Tycon's head.

⊰ HE  ⊱

⊰ WHO BEARS ⊱

⊰ THE MARK ⊱

⊰ OF PRIDE? ⊱

How, in particular, it sounded evil... he could not explain.

But it was.

⊰ WHO ⊱

⊰ THE FUCK ⊱

⊰ ARE YOU ⊱

⊰ TO SUMMON ⊱

⊰ M E ? ? ! ! ! ? ? ⊱

"A friend of Hades," Tycon groaned. "And apparently, the enemy of a god with the domains nature and birth."

⊰ OH . . . ⊱

⊰ VERY . . . ⊱

⊰ WELL . . . ⊱

And with that, the angry, evil voice was mollified.

If only Human and Elven interactions were so simple...

The image of six pairs of wings fluttered above the area of Tycondrius' designation. There, thirteen interconnected magic circles formed out of violent, blood-red mana. Abyssal script appeared in the sky, each symbol accompanied by a rumble of earth and the wet, grisly sound of a bursting sausage.

Burning rain spilled forth from the temporary ⌈Gate⌋, as well as winged, nightmarish insects, each larger than Tycon's head.

And... though slightly delayed, crimson bolts of lightning followed suit.

Many of Sol Invictus' enemies died, their flesh melted or rent apart by insect-like mandibles.

Those more connected to the spiritual planes rather than the material, ghosts and wisps and such-- they suffered a worse fate.

The Six Wings of Pazrael...  magic cast by such existences could not be comprehended without ⌈True Sight⌋.

"MAEDARRRR!!!" Screamed the Thunder God, "Did you just summon an ARCHDEVIL??! I did NOT grant you that Spell!!!"

--but without ⌈True Sight⌋, a proper god was able to comprehend it well enough.

Anyroad...

The Thunder God was only partially responsible for the summoning. He had supplied the mana to activate the basic Spells Tycon scribed... but Tycon had the right to modify those Spells as he saw fit.

And so, he summoned a Demon Lord. (Which... was not an Archdevil, but the difference was negligible, considering the circumstances.)

Ignoring the Thunder God and the entire west side of the battlefield, Tycon slaughtered his way towards Wroe and his sanctuary tree. Using his ⌈Shadowfang⌋ movement technique, he swiftly scaled the gnarled bark and arrived at his side.

"Your plan of action, old friend?"

"Meh," Wroe shrugged as he triple-cast his ⌈Eldritch Bolt⌋ spell and sent it off. "I'm waiting..."

Tycon leaned to the side to see where Wroe's spells had gone. A trio of seven-fulm tall, boar-headed Flame Ganns were struck.

They fell to their knees, squealing praise to the heavens. They did so for several seconds before their ribcages splayed open, spilling their bubbling insides.

Without lungs, their praise grew silent... but the creatures-- not-quite-dead, clearly-not-alive, did not cease their frenzied motions.

Tycon cleared his throat, "Waiting for what, pray tell?"

Wroe pursed his lips, "Waiting for something I want to..."

Something caught the Hexblade's attention.

A smile stretched his face taut, his eyes narrowing to thin curves.

"There she is," He pointed. "She's... b e a u t i f u l . "

Tycon leaned to the side once more. Wroe was pointing at a six-legged creature, its rippling muscles threatening to burst out of its dark-blue fur. Its body had two segments, much like an insect... and flailing, spined tentacles sprouted from its back.

⟬ Cat-thing, Gold-Rank Magical Beast. ⟭

"Mister Wroe," Tycon frowned... "No flirting while on the job."

...He was fairly certain he'd given the same advice in a previous battle.

If not, the order should be added to every pre-battle brief in which Wroe was involved.

The Hexblade laughed unabashedly. Tycon could hear a faint jingle of angelic bells in it.

How brazen...

"No worries, Boss," Wroe winked. "Me and her are jus' gonna have a little... *talk.*"

With a sloppy salute, he stepped backward and off the tree branch-- "⌈Misty Step.⌋"

He disappeared. Where he went, Tycon did not see.

...It was somewhat worrisome.

He had tried to kill Wroe multiple times in the past week, but it would be bothersome if he died on the field.

Tycon measured the enemy's strength to be at the peak of Gold-Rank.

...That fellow *did* seem quite confident, though...

...Tycon took a deep breath and shrugged.

Wroe was a Hexblade-type Warlock of the Lunar Sword Goddess.

He was not a man to be understood.

Tycon steepled his fingers in thought.

His own Class was Iron-Scale Warlord.

He also had Samurai as a Subclass... but due to a Reality Marble mishap, the level of his Subclass nearly surpassed that of his Main.

Also, he had several pieces of parchment paper that temporarily made him a Sixth-Circle Mage.

...And if 'patron' was considered, Tycon was technically blessed by a higher-existence that went by the name, Lucifer of Pride.

...Was he always so complicated?

He had magic power in his eyes... and in his finger-snapping.

Due to borrowed blood essences, he could materialize his shadow... and breathe water.

Was he... perhaps... the *monster* in his Sol Invictus?

...Tycon allowed several moments to pass before discarding his useless thoughts.

It wasn't something to worry about. He knew of several beings that were far stronger.

...They were gods and angels, but still.

With his existential crisis over, Tycon refocused on the task at hand.

He activated his final 6th-Circle Spell scroll, "⌈Crown of the Boundless Emperor!⌋"

In the distance, he spotted pinkish-red mana auras sheathed his companions. The mana-image of a golden, many-pointed crown hovered above their heads.

It was a simple Spell, but quite effective-- boosting the overall attributes of his party twofold.

Of course... Support Spells were only truly understood and appreciated by... other Support Classes.

The Thunder God was one such simpleton. Each swing of his Storm Axe released noticeably empowered lightning-projectiles.

Deer-people. Spider Breeders. A Forest Shark. He stood atop a mound comprising tens-- maybe hundreds of corpses.

If anything had changed in his demeanor-- then it was merely that the volume of his shouting had risen.

Still, it was not enough for the Thunder God to defeat his enemies by ones and threes.

With Tycon's assistance, that fellow, too, would be a venerable slaughterer of sentient beings.