Headed by a Snake

Sol Invictus member, Tarquin Wroe, had a mortal fiancee.

Her name was Ophelia, the eldest daughter of House Moonwell. She was a well-respected artificer and a genius in the field of enchantment. She also happened to be Whitehearth's top expert on all technologies pertaining to Divine Armors and Armaments.

From what Tycondrius had gathered of his piecemeal memories, the only person in Ophelia's heart was her husband-to-be.

This remained true, even after Wroe had left the city... in what was essentially a promise to never return.

This did not sit well with Tycon, especially since he had found an ideal partner of his own.

He would not betray Elle's trust, such was the value he placed in their relationship.

Tycon believed his devotion to her led to self-introspection, tolerance, and a newfound level of patience.

Wroe's devotion... led him to one of the seven hells-- where Tycon discovered him by pure coincidence.

Without the intervention of fate, the daeva would have been lost, roaming Letherna until his spirit withered away into nothingness.

"Grant, Brother-Tarquin," Tycon pursed his lips, "that I do not challenge your faith-- only your perspective."

"I... I don't--" Wroe gulped, "Y-you're right. Of course. But..."

"The issue is complex. Think over where your loyalties lie," Tycon clapped his hand on Wroe's back, "You'll be better off for it."

"Y... yeah," Wroe nodded slowly, "Maybe."

Wroe's quest for power was honorable and just. Class-changing into a Hexblade was a natural culmination of his effort. Divine power catalyzed his mana, turning him from a mediocre swordsman to a zealous, Iron-Rank murderer.

However, remaining faithful to his goddess and living by her tenets did not mean he had to discard his pre-existing relationships.

It was, by no means, necessary to betray Ophelia's unceasing (if undeserved) faith.

Ultimately, though... that would be Wroe's decision to make.

Tycon's gaze drifted over the side of the beached ship.

The name inscribed near the railing was... the obscenely crass Sugar-Titted Siren.

Leaping up, he carefully gripped onto a handhold... and relying solely on the muscles in his arms and back, he climbed onto the deck.

"Yo."

Captain Krysaos opened his palm, waving lazily.

He was seated on a corpse.

"Brother-Captain," Tycon acknowledged the man before turning to assist Wroe.

"Sorry I... urgh-- can't do much more than wave, LT," Krysaos groaned. "Body... kinda hurts all over."

Tycon approached the corpse and Captain... as well as the unique-looking trident adjacent.

"...Is that who I think it is?" He grimaced.

"Ayep," Krysaos grinned. "Ow..."

It was... as Tycon feared.

The sea god's corpse was completely bereft of divine power.

"Krysaos... it baffles me that your body is intact."

"Well, LT... if I'm bein' honest... feels like I only got a few minutes before I go boom..."

Wroe crossed his arms, "Have you tried... turning all that god-energy into a sword?"

Tycon shut his eyes. That was a foolish suggestion. Krysaos was not a Hexblade.

Wroe's heart, however, was in the right place. He assumed that Captain Krysaos was suffering Mana Overload, in which case releasing excess mana would prevent his violent death.

« System, analyze. »

⟬ System response: Krysaos, Sky-Rank Aquatic-Human Dread Captain. ⟭

Sky-Rank... and from the quality of the man's mana, he was a half-step away from God-Rank.

...and his Class had changed.

Through however many twists of fate... Krysaos had absorbed the sea god's divine portfolio.

Thus, he had become... the new sea god.

...and his tenure would have been doomed to be short-lived, had Tycon not already a contingency plan for the Captain's stupidity.

Flicking his wrist, Tycon summoned a spell scroll-- the ink upon it not even fully dried.

"I'm going to strike you, Krysaos. Please accept it."

Krysaos bit his upper lip. He looked like he was about to argue... then his gaze drifted to Wroe's pitiful face.

"LT...? Can... you go easier on me than on that guy?"

"Very well."

Before Krysaos could change his mind, Tycon planted an open palm into Krysaos' abdomen. Simultaneously, he activated the scroll in his off-hand.

With a small poof... the paper burst apart and dissipated into mana dust.

The force knocked Krysaos off of his 'seat' and onto the deck.

Slowly, the man opened his eyes... "Was... was that it?"

"That was it," Tycon answered.

"Boss, that wasn't fair," Wroe whined. "How come you beat me up so bad?"

"You know *damn* well why, Mister Wroe," Tycon growled under his breath.

Adjusting his posture, Tycon rendered Krysaos a salute.

"Lieutenant Tycon, reporting."

Captain Krysaos stood up to return the salute. His knees buckled slightly, but he no longer appeared to be in great pain.

The ritual scroll seemed to have worked.

"Ah, huh... at ease. How... the hells did you fix me, LT?"

"To answer that..." Tycon took a breath, "this is Mister Tarquin Wroe, another member of Sol Invictus."

"Hi," The daeva waved.

"One of Wroe's... specialties," Tycon groaned... "is the ability to suppress his mana. Using the same concepts and under his guidance... I've applied a temporary limiter-seal on your mana core."

Krysaos blinked, "A... what? To my what?"

"Brother-Captain..." Tycon sucked in air through his teeth, "Circulate your mana... slowly."

Krysaos looked confused, but nodded. He widened his stance and closed his eyes... concentrating and controlling his breathing, "What am I looking for?"

"A blockage," Tycon answered. "You'll find it below your stomach-- a point where the mana moves slower than through the rest of your body."

"Y... yeah, I see it-- err... I sense it? It feels like... I can--"

"Do NOT... break that," Tycon scolded. "I say again, the seal is temporary. It will dissolve once your body can process the god-mana naturally-- without *forcing* it through your circuits."

Krysaos exhaled as he relaxed... but shook his head, "It sounds like I'm a walkin' disaster, waitin' to explode."

Tycon gave a nod, "The analogy is apt."

"No pressure, huh?" Krysaos rolled his eyes.

That... was probably sarcasm.

"Ahem," Tycon cleared his throat, "Wroe, this is Captain Krysaos, a privateer contracted to The Kingdom. I am currently serving as his Lieutenant."

"Makes sense," Wroe saluted.

"Hold on, hold on," Krysaos waved with his open palms. "Shouldn't we be-- y'know, more concerned?"

Tycon pursed his lips, "If you cannot control your mana, Captain Krysaos, the three of us will die instantaneously-- without warning and without pain. I can do no more to alleviate your condition, nor can Mister Wroe."

"So you're saying..."

"This..." Tycon shrugged, "is *your* problem-- not ours."