Headed by a Snake



The intense highs and lows of the morning class sapped away Tycon's energy. 

The children asked questions. 

Their initial questions had simple answers. 

The number and nature of their enemies. Their equipment. Their formations. Characteristics of Drake Armors according to their model. 

The questions, subsequent, grew more difficult. 

How many casualties did our forces incur? How many casualties resulted in deaths? 

How much damage can a single ⌈Fireball⌋ do to a squad of regulars? 

What happens when our shield line fails to collapse, leaving a formation of archers exposed? 

How many seconds of concentrated lizard fire can a normal human withstand? 

And from there...

What is the difference between the death of one single, living, breathing sentient and one thousand? 

How can we ask so many Bronze and Elementary-Rank soldiers to raise their mundane shields against ⌈Lightning Bolts⌋ and ⌈Earth Spikes⌋? 

What happens to the soldiers who survive after watching their brothers and sisters in battle burnt to ash or drained into husks or carved into a half-dozen pieces? 

...Do the regular rank-and-file soldiers believe in dragons? 

Do they hate them? 

Is it right to hate an enemy for their creed or their banner? Without knowing who they are? Without the remote possibility of you ever learning who they are? 

...What is the difference between them and us? 

Is the Tyrant God our main enemy? Or is it his misguided followers? 

The children had lived a life harsher than those of most, their age. 

Yet, somehow... and against all odds, their innocence remained intact. 

There were... unfortunate truths that Tycon needed to drill into the Hero and his companions. 

That wasn't to say kindness and mercy had no place on the battlefield... 

He recalled advising Athena Vanzano on the matter, earlier in her career. 

Such notions were the right of the victor-- a right granted only to the strong. 

She had much to think about-- as did the other children. think about. 

The Realm that they represented was not naturally a kind and merciful place, making the minuscule bastions of which a rarity-- something to be cherished and protected. 

Tycon feared answering questions in the future. 

What is the protocol, if one of them were to be killed in action? 

Should their forces be pushed back, where will we hold our final stand? 

What would happen... if the avatar of the Tyrant God decided to leave the walls of Aerie Fortress? 

...Can anything survive, if the entirety of the Realm was reduced to ash and fire? 

He would answer their questions to the best of his ability.

That... was Tycon's role as their instructor. 

He would not lie to them.

He would try his best to be kind... to be merciful...

--but despite the cruel nature of the truth... they deserved to know. 

They might not understand. Tycon, himself, could not claim to to understand the complexities of morality when it came to war. 

But he was obligated to tell them how he saw the Realm... and how the common people of the Realm understood such things. 

People die. Yet still, we fight. 

It is easier to kill an enemy, should the tribe decide they are less than human. 

Our archers train by shooting at dark, human-shaped targets, so in battle, they don't realize they are responsible for extinguishing human life. 

The rational mind is riddled with weaknesses. 

The body, drilled sun after sun by the cold, uncaring scrutiny of their instructors... 

The body will remember. 

And also...

--their Home Realm had no future. 

The Tyrant God was inevitable. 

The song of which legends are sung ends with their entire Realm alight with ever-burning flame, all-consuming... bereft of kindness... bereft of mercy. 

The only thing... that kept Tycon going...

--was his iron-grilled pork sandwich. 

And other than that...

Perhaps... 

--his second iron-grilled pork sandwich. 

"Father, pass the peppers, please."

"Ah, of course."

Tycon slid the bowl of sliced peppers toward Sasarame. She had a low tolerance to the fresh, spicy peppers, but they were a bit more palatable after being roasted.

Also, their flavor profile was more complex with the light char. 

The heat was uncomfortable, but the flavor was lovely, and it made for a pleasant eating experience-- if eaten in moderation. 

"Father," she said, her tone oddly sharp. 

Tycon placed his sandwich down, returning his full attention to his daughter.

Besides food, the mere presence of Sasarame lifted his spirits. 

"I'm expecting worrisome news, Father," she said in her usual, quiet voice. "Though I can't be certain, we haven't heard from the eastern front in two suns."

"I see..."

That was, indeed, cause for concern. Natalya Crucis, Archbishop of the Holy Country was one of the Commanders fighting on the eastern front. As her forces had Colossal-Class Divine Armors like Troia's Dawnbringer, Natalya operated closest to the lizard armies' major holdings. 

The main body of Sol Invictus operated in that area, as well, though on a smaller scale. 

Tycon had many personages he cared for, there. 

Flaming Rage Knight, Seldin Korr... 

Financial Advisor, Sorina Capulet... 

Sergeant Salt and Lieutenant Clemont...

Zenon Skyreaper and Haelvia Leopardon...

Edge, who was dressed in his Guild Letalis armor, posing as the leader of Sol Invictus...

...Corporal Horse.

Or did he rate Sergeant? It had been awhile. 

"Sasha," Tycon said, "You're certain?"

"It's what I do," she said with a shrug. 

...

⟬ The Game Room of Hero's Hearth, some time later... ⟭ 

Noble Father did not understand him. 

--would not understand him. 

What use was honor?

Can you eat it? 

No, you cannot. 

But... honor was fulfillment. 

Noble Father had other matters of concern. 

For him, honor was a matter of course. 

Gobsuke of Sol Invictus forged his life assailed by steel. 

And his answer was the smoking barrel of a hextech rifle. 

His earnings provided for him, his mothers, and his siblings. No man, regardless of their creed or tribe would dare to question the honor that mercenary life brought him. 

Gobbuto, son of Gobsuke, grew up healthy and strong. 

As soon as he was able, he worked to provide for himself and the younger members of his family. 

He had coin. He had valuables. He had love. 

But Gobbuto was a selfish man. He yearned for more. 

The eternal pursuit of honor and the glories that came with it... that was his calling. 

Noble Father was deaf to it. 

For him, joining Sol Invictus was a practicality. 

Yes, he was chosen. Yes, he was worthy. 

But he was insistent that the only reason he associated with Princes and Demon Queens were to qualify for higher-paying mercenary contracts. 

The higher the pay, the longer he could spend with the people he loved and cherished... 

His weapons were not glorified instruments of his will. They were a means for survival. 

His companions were his trusted allies in battle... but they were not a replacement for his wives and children. 

...Noble Father asked to be buried, not with gold and gemstones. 

He asked for a simple stone cairn. He asked for a simple wreath of mountain laurels. 

He made it known... that it was forbidden to mourn him for more than three suns. 

But Gobbuto was different-- even compared to his siblings. 

He chose to answer a different call.

--to live a life, not only for himself and his family... but for others.

--to war, not on behalf of a single King or Queen... but for a symbol... for a cause. 

But, alas... he knew he was still young. 

His mothers still saw him as a child-- and that was despite being larger than the three of them, combined. 

They laughed at his dreams, wondering when he would 'grow up.'

Despite that, he respected them no less. 

Their laughter was kind. 

It was not wrong for a mother to pray for their child to live without steel and bloodshed. 

It was not wrong for a mother to grieve for their husband. 

...It was not wrong for a child to grieve for his father. 

Throughout his life, Gobbuto had sought recognition... seeking authenticity. 

--seeking honor... and with purpose. 

For his skills and knowledge, he had earned the respect of Queen Arendelle, Monarch of the Old Country. 

For his courage and loyalty, he even found favor with Tycondrius, the Ivory Prince of Charm and the leader of his father's old adventuring company. 

And... somehow... he had grown close to Pelor Invictus, the Hero of the Realm. 

"Do... you have... any... three's?"

Gobbuto double-checked the value on each of his cards. 

"No," he said as he held his hands forward, card-backs toward him, "You must fish, Elder Brother."

"Must I?" Pale pursed his lips, dejected. 

"Yeah, okay-- that's... weird and I don't like it," Ree huffed. 

[He's always been like that,] the Holy Princess signed. [I think it's cute.]

Cute? 

Him? 

Gobbuto held his cards up to hide his blushing face. He wanted to don his full helmet... but he was afraid the women would tease him. 

"It... is a little weird," Hero Pale said with a grin. "You don't have to act so formal with me, Gobbuto. You can just call me Pale, like everyone else does."

That...

"Yeah!" Ree agreed, "Quit it! Being formal is for hanging out with Boss-- not during our breaks!"

"I don't think Boss would like it, if he heard that," Pale frowned. 

It's not that Gobbuto was reluctant. In fact, he was overjoyed at the level of trust he had earned of his companions. 

--but he was unable to do that much. Acting so familiar with the Hero of the entire Realm was far too embarrassing. 

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