Headed by a Snake

"That..." Pale frowned.

Tycondrius took a deep breath, shaking his head. The boy wasn't content with his previous answer... as true as it was.

The former leader of Sol Invictus was an Elven Pathfinder Ranger named Quies.

Such a name was far too magnificent for the likes of that fellow... He and the rest of the guild merely called him Quay.

The elf was a simple and generally carefree fellow. He didn't particularly care for the negative opinions of others.

He was competitive. He craved attention. He was prone to whining about insignificant things... often.

No matter the task, Quay performed it to the best of his ability... be it training, fighting... playing children's card games.

He was incapable of doing otherwise.

To speak well of him, he was optimistic and unfaltering, as well as clever when it came to combat and swordplay.

To speak more plainly, Quay was the most effective idiot he knew.

As for his son... Pale wanted to prove himself worthy of his father's recognition.

The difficulty of the task was laughably low. Quay was impressed by cicadas molting and slugs being able to climb vertically.

Conversely, Pale was an existence of awe-inspiring anomalies-- each proving him far more capable than a mundane insect or gastropod.

The boy had at least a Peak-Iron level of martial skill. He had a large repertoire of powerful skills: offensive, movement-type, and even healing-- all trained to Middle Completion. He had a high-tier Class and his reflexes and reaction speed were incredibly high.

Quay would be impressed by anything the boy did.

...He would also see his son as his greatest rival.

Tycon sighed... "That fellow told me... he'd be waiting."

"He... he said that?" Pale bit his upper lip, "Waiting... for me?"

Tycon furrowed his brows, glancing around the room. The two of them were its only inhabitants... "Yes."

Pale nodded solemnly... "Then... I have to get stronger."

"I advise you to win," Tycon smiled politely.

Winning the favor of a dead man was an honorable idealization. Attaining victory in a match was far more distinct of a goal. Tycon would guide his young companion towards smaller achievements. His overall growth would be inevitable.

The two of them turned just as the door at the end of the room swung open. A certain green-haired gentleman swaggered in, favoring his left leg and with one eye swollen shut.

"It'sh avout time," Other-Tycon slurred.

"Wh... what happened?" Pale asked, wide-eyed... "Uh... Sir?"

Other-Tycon narrowed the brow over his good eye, "Prince Droghan bent me over a table... and 'e tried ta f*ck me. Now're you two gonna move, or what?"

...

Tycon fell into quiet contemplation, waiting for the lift to rise to the arena floor.

He was worried... but not about the upcoming match. He was worried about the boy.

Pale stood by his side, hugging his spear and keeping to his own thoughts.

Whether he realized it or not, much was expected of him.

He had recently gained a new Class: Spear Hero.

As powerful as it was... it placed him in a troublesome position.

Hero-type Classes were the rarest in the Realm. They were created by fate... if that was to be believed. Or perhaps the gods made them-- as if the gods gave a shite about the livelihood of mortals.

Regardless of who or what was at fault, the creation of a Hero Class correlated with the birth of a threat capable of destroying the world.

When the threat appeared, the Hero was destined to sacrifice everything in order to... defeat it or... seal it-- something fantastical, for sure.

It was-- or would be a thankless endeavor.

Tycon wanted no part of it.

He hoped to train the boy for a bit and utilize him in subjugating Caeruleum. Then, he would dismiss him in time to do 'hero things' as he pleased.

However, as of late, Tycon was encountering... troublesome situations with alarming regularity.

In the Kingdom, he had uncovered an invasion plot by the Plane of Fire. When he punched the snake god in the face, he became privy to unrest amongst the divine pantheon. When he shared information with Ananta the Endless, he discovered that giant lizards were planning on existing, within his lifetime.

Each threat could feasibly destabilize and destroy the Realm.

A Hero would be appropriate to deal with any and all of them.

Tycon could reasonably assist that Hero... or... group of Heroes.

He didn't want to. It would be pointless.

Pale's training had been excellent. He learned and developed strength at unprecedented speed. He was honest and honorable... but was capable of ruthlessness, when necessary. He was agreeable and polite-- probably his most important traits.

The boy was, for all intents and purposes, an excellent Hero-in-training... but not yet a Hero proper.

Pale had been adventuring for less than two years. Regardless of his level of power and martial skill, he hadn't undergone enough hardships in that short amount of time.

He was an Officer in the Alizeaun military, leading troops into battle... but for not long enough.

He had killed great beasts, grown men, veterans of combat... but the numbers only ran in the dozens-- maybe hundreds.

He was still a boy. If they'd never met, he'd be a squire to some Knight or... performing low-rank quests for an Adventurer's Guild.

Tycon needed his power... so he treated him as an adult mercenary. The boy was shown how to arm and armor himself once, then left to his own designs. If he failed or spoke out of line, he would be punished. His training was adjusted for his size and strength... but was no easier than that of his adult peers.

It wasn't fair to him... to be forced to grow up so quickly.

The boy was untrained when Sol Invictus recovered him in the city of Nice. Perhaps Quay never intended for the boy to follow in his footsteps... instead, to get a basic education or enter a trade...

With that, he could support Sol Invictus, through profit and paperwork. Sorina Capulet and her ability to balance the guild's coffers was easily more effective at growing their brand than Tycon was, leading them into battle.

But in following the path of the mercenary... Pale became a Hero.

It left a sour taste in Tycon's mouth.

The unfortunate truth about Heroes... was that their success was not guaranteed.

No world lasted forever.

In theory, Tycon shouldn't have to care.

If the Realm was destroyed, he would die along with most everyone else. The heavens would fall. The hells would be torn... even more asunder. The particulars were unimportant. It would be unpleasant.

However... Tycon had a direct hand in the boy's growth.

That fact alone meant he carried some responsibility in whether or not the Realm would burn.

...Ultimately, nothing changed.

Hero or not, he would train the boy to the best of his ability.

Son of his good friend or not... the boy was accountable for his own actions.

It was just... that tiny errant thought existed in the back of Tycon's mind...

If his young friend challenged that which made the gods tremble in fear... and he faltered...

...would his final thought be... 'Tycon failed me'?

...

Pale wiped his sweaty palms on his skirt before gripping the haft of his wooden spear.

He'd gotten used to wearing trousers, so wearing a Holy Country battle-skirt felt weird. It was hot and sweaty in the underground corridors, though. Maybe that's why all the gladiators liked to wear skirts?

Why did they call it a battle-skirt? It was... still a skirt?

Were they different?

...If they were, he needed to request a set of battle-armor-- oh, and a battle-spear, too.

The elevator was slowly rising to the arena floor, slowly clanking away... but not nearly fast enough. Pale's heart was beating way faster, for sure.

Sir Tycon was wearing a mysterious-looking green-visored helmet, staring at the doors. Once it reached the top, they would open up... and Pale would have to fight the most important match in his life.

Boss didn't look nervous at all...

He was really strong! Invincible, for sure!

And besides that, they were in Sir Tycon's past-- he'd already lived through it, risking his life sun after sun in the arena. That's what all of Sol Invictus did...

It made Pale wish that he'd been a bit older, so he could have experienced it, too. But then again, he was experiencing it currently? Time travel was weird.

"Boss?"

"Mhm?"

"What... what would you do if Other-You didn't want to help?"

"I'd have killed him," Sir Tycon responded casually.

...That made sense. Pale felt dumb for asking. For whatever reason, he always forgot that murder was usually a very good way to solve problems.

It wasn't... usually a good answer? But then again, he couldn't think of an example where it wouldn't make everything easier.

Pale played with his cheeks, making popping noises... He was uncomfortable in the cramped elevator. Boss could probably tell how nervous he was. He wished he had a helmet that covered his eyes, too... The one he wore just covered his pointy ears.

Finally, the lift reached a halt. Pale held his breath... but the doors didn't open.

"Boss...?"

"Go ahead."

"Why didn't the doors open?"

Sir Tycon twisted his lips, "The previous match hasn't ended yet. We're in place to enter the arena immediately, so the crowd doesn't have to wait."

"Oh..." Pale fidgeted... "H...hey... Boss."

Tycon crossed his arms... "Is there an issue?"

"I... I have to pee."