Headed by a Snake

40 thousand sentients.

It was a sizeable amount... so much that Tycondrius knew he couldn't properly fathom the number.

Still, he appreciated his grisly work being quantified.

The Sapphire Tower and their allied mercenary companies numbered 5000 at the most.

His forces attained an overwhelming victory despite an eight-fold disadvantage.

...He wondered if he was the first Commander in the Realm to claim such an achievement.

However, the expression that Bella wore was not one of pride-- it was of steel.

"May the gods have mercy on your soul."

Before Tycon could respond, he slipped his head down and left.

Bella had launched a mana-empowered right straight, which he dodged on instinct.

She lowered her body, tucking her left fist by her ribcage.

A ⌈Thunderous Uppercut⌋?

Tycon clenched his own fist, hammering it down on Bella's hand to interrupt her Spell.

The force propelled outward, splattering much of the blood on the floor to the walls and breaking the wooden boards covering the windows.

"Tycon," Bella said, her tone quite serious.

"Yes?"

"Did you literally just Spellbreak a high-completion insta-cast Spell?"

"...That appears to be the case, yes."

"Are you aware that the Sapphire Tower's best Spellbreaker is a hundred years too young to do even that?"

Spellbreaker?

Was Bella referring to... Ashni Yates? Tycon would be impressed if that child could ⌈Spellbreak⌋ out of her own ⌈Mana Ward⌋.

"Bella," Tycon said, "I'm not following your logic."

Was she upset that he was so skilled? It should have been a good thing. They were allies!

...Or maybe she wanted him as a teaching advisor? He thought of himself as an excellent instructor, but... there wasn't much point to long-term endeavors, considering the current climate of the Realm.

And trying to teach something to that Yates girl? He had better things to do.

Bella pushed forward with both hands.

Tycon did not move. He was larger and heavier than... every Witch he knew, save one.

Bella slid backward, a thin film of frozen blood over the stone flooring. Then, she spun in place... and as her skirt whirled, six red-ice creations emerged from the floor.

They took the form of... thick grimoires, bound and buckled?

Tycon crossed his arms, waiting expectantly-- if somewhat nervous. He did not think he was in the wrong, but if Bella was able to use her magic books to cite a Law or obscure rule...

The grimoires snapped wide-open, dozens and hundreds of icy pages shooting out at him.

Oh. He was under attack.

Tycon immediately began jogging backward, then turned to sprint in earnest.

He activated his ⌈Tumble⌋ Skill, flipping in the air to change direction. Then, he used a corpse as a bloody, improvised sled before leaping behind a clump of armored bodies, hoping for the best.

The magical paper trail kept chase.

Finally, Tycon was forced to summon his curved blade from his spatial ring and... swipe away like a madman.

He took several dozen cuts in the process. And, despite his armor, he suffered a deep laceration on his upper right thigh.

He quickly recovered a shirt from one of the fallen lizard-worshippers, snapping off the shirt-buttons, and tying the cloth around his leg.

"Interesting," said the corpse-- albeit with Bella's voice.

Tycon blinked several times.

The corpse was no longer a corpse, but a faceless doll.

The temple was no longer of rough wood and unworked stone.

Instead, Tycon was was inside a Kingdom mansion, the walls covered in floral designs and the hallways illuminated by artificial sunlight.

Tycon was trapped inside Bella's ⌈Domain⌋.

"You're strong," the faceless doll said, "Like-- way beyond what I expected."

Tycon bashed the doll's face with the hilt of his curved blade, roughly decapitating it.

Several other... beings crossed the herringbone wood tile toward him. Some took the form of leathery dolls, dragging limbs attached by crimson threads. Others were pieces of furniture: broken and twisted reclining chairs and coffee tables.

They twirled and warped and splashed along to mournful music, played by a quartet of string instruments.

The location of those instruments, Tycon could not discern. He was assuming they had no actual form and the piece being played was a memory Bella had refined.

If so, he appreciated her tastes.

He would have liked to learn more-- but he had to first survive her mood.

Tycon kept moving, barely two steps ahead of an angry mob.

The faceless creatures were quick and their sharpened appendages were reasonably dangerous. However, even despite his leg injury, he was still faster than Bella's constructs (or illusions... or whatever they were.)

An animated stuffed Gann, still attached to its pedestal, bounded dangerously close. Tycon cut it down.

A bronze candelabra made a desperate lunge to... burn his hair? He grabbed its haft and threw it back, dealing severe structural damage to an ornery dressing table.

A standing clock cast a series of ⌈Magic Missiles⌋.

--the last of which was grossly offset in juxtaposition to the music.

It annoyed him greatly... but the tactic was sound. If Tycon had allowed himself to be swept up by the rhythm, he would have taken injury.

He groaned as he erected a ⌈Mana Ward⌋ to protect himself. Then, he threw his curved blade out of exasperation.

The grand, standing clock met its righteous end.

With no end to the enemies in sight, Tycon began snaking his way up a support pillar.

"You're holding back," he muttered.

"What gave you *that* idea?" said the wooden pillar.

Tycon turned to face the pillar he was climbing. At its top, connected to the ceiling, a carved image of Bella's face was glaring at him.

He adjusted himself, steadying himself with the strength of his legs-- which made his injured leg throb hot with pain.

He would have been more physically comfortable grabbing onto Bella's 'hair'... but it felt disrespectful to do so.

"You just cast a First-Circle Spell through a polymorphed avatar, through a Domain, while magically imposing your image on this wooden pillar," Tycon explained, "And all this, I assume, you're doing from the safety of a suit of Divine Armor-- Bella, fact check."

"False," replied Bella's image, "Why'd you do it, Tycon?"

Tycon looked down. Bella's frenzied monsters waited for him at the pillar's base, making the retrieval of his curved blade an unsavory option.

"Because I... sometimes have my moments of... sheer stupidity," he admitted.

"45 thousand lives, Tycon," Bella said in a stern voice. "And you used *my* Witches to do it."

Oh.

Tycon furrowed his brows.

"Speed and efficiency," he said. "That is my reasoning."

"You weren't killing dragons, Tycon," the Witch chided, "They were people... 45 thousand, gods-fearing sentients."

"Yes, I understand that," Tycon pursed his lips. "But separating groups of people into 'save' or 'imprison' or 'special-case-scenario' would be painstakingly slow and cumbersome, no?"

"We *cannot* fight the literal god of tyranny by being *more* evil and *more* tyrannical!" the wooden pillar strongly insisted.

"You've a valid point," Tycon replied, "though, please understand that it is not my intent to appear as... a villain from some *bardic tale.*"

"You basically are."

"You are *grossly* oversimplifying the situation."

"You. are. *better* than this!" Pillar-Bella screamed.

Her wooden hair flared outward, forming several pointed stakes that stabbed at Tycon's chest.

Admittedly, that should not have surprised him as much as it did.

Thanks to his physique, none of Bella's attacks drew blood, but he still lost his grip and began sliding down.

Trying to salvage the situation, he released his legs, and his back found... a cushioned sofa?

Unfortunately, as Tycon wondered at his fortune, Bella's remaining animates fell upon him with their blunted appendages, beating him mercilessly.

It took him several moments to recover, but finally, after utilizing a severed doll-arm and a table leg as improvised weapons, he emerged from the wooden scrap heap, victorious.

So Bella expected better...

"I... I agree. This... this isn't the best I can do," he said, wiping blood from his mouth, "But I reserve the right... to act otherwise."

⟬ ⌈Inspirational Surge⌋ conditions... partially met. Activate? Y/N? ⟭

Partial? Bah.

« Seven hells, yes, System. Please do so. »

⟬ Activating... ⟭

Tycon took several breaths, harsh and deep, allowing his System's magical healing to wash over him.

However, Bella was keen on allowing him to rest overlong.

With a gust of wind, a shower of pink petals, and the scent of pan-fried garlic, she appeared before him.

The Witch wore a flowing purple dress along with her iconic, oversized hat and rounded spectacles. She also kept her expression, a disappointed grimace, though she hid it behind a white paper fan.

"Why?" she asked.

Tycon tossed his weapons away. Despite having activated his Healing Skill, his fatigue made him want to collapse onto one of the broken pieces of furniture.

...But if they were illusory, they were corpses, and it would not be comfortable.

--And if Bella was wasting an exorbitant amount of mana to animate and transmute the corpses' forms into the twisted animates they were... he risked suffering a few more nasty scratches.

Looking around, he spotted the profane (and cracked) lizard altar. Whatever dumb lizard script covered it seemed to exclude it from Bella's transformative ⌈Domain⌋.

--but Tycon refused to sit on something like that.

"I'm tired, Bella," he said-- "tired of this game."

"This is *not* a game, Tycon."

"I speak of this... farcical war."

"We have tens of thousands fighting on our side alone," Bella countered, "Those people believe in you-- they believe in Sol Invictus, the Unconquered Sun."

Tycon narrowed his eyes, "And you, Bella?"

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