889: Worth of a Name

Worth of a Name

"A new god?" The angel growled. 

Elle felt the impact of a kick on her side. Seizing with pain, bile and blood rushing to her throat, she began to hack and cough. 

The angel placed the bottom of his filthy foot against her cheek, holding her down.

...Yet the killing blow did not come. 

  "No," He said... "There is still hope in your eyes. This... Tychon-- he is a man?"

'Tychon...' Elle begged in her heart, 'Save me...'

Gaheris was critically damaged. She was about to die... and Coraline was going to be next. 

But the person at the forefront of her mind... was her boyfriend. 

He would come. 

He had to come. 

He was a hero. He was *her* personal hero. 

What use are heroes if they don't save people? 

"You are wrong." 

She felt the angel mount her chest-- causing another jolt of pain to travel the length of her body. 

There were rib-bones broken... and a whole slew of other hurts from getting knocked around and torn out of Gaheris. 

She puked onto the sand. The base of her throat burned and the acrid taste clung to the inside of her mouth. 

"There is no hope," The angel declared. "You are alone."

He leaned in close, his silver eyes wide and watching... "No savior. Only me."

Elle could barely see through the tears. 

She was no longer in control of her fate. 

She felt like... she was someone else, staring through a looking glass at a different person's vomitus. 

The angel tore open that person's tunic, ripping the thick cloth. 

Elle was... somewhere else, far... far away. 

The angel began to roughly massage that person's breasts. 

Then... he began to scream. 

He began to scream... at the top of his lungs... like *he* was the one dying. 

And... and the heat-- the heat was almost unbearable. 

...

Pain. 

No. 

Not pain. 

Humiliation. 

Through sheer force of will, Vyzen closed his screaming mouth. 

He flexed his muscles... clenching his teeth... ignoring the feeling of his flesh boiling and charring. 

The girl... the prize he had fought and earned... she was wrapped in flames-- flames that scourged his flesh yet not hers. 

Vyzen crossed his arms in front of his chest, brimming with malcontent as he watched the protective runes inscribed on his flesh struggle to perform their duty. 

The healing factor... too slow. The magical fire... too strong. 

"⌈My Hatred Endures...⌋"

A surge of mana bristled in the air. The power of the heavens reminded the worldly flames of their place. In seconds, Vyzen's burnt, misshapen fingers were restored to their god-crafted perfection. 

⌈Fire Shield.⌋

It was a simple, protective spell... but impossibly enhanced beyond the scope of its original function. 

Third Circle.

Gold-Rank. 

Sol Invictus had but a single Gold-Rank combatant on Moon Crescent Isle... a single outlier that gave even the beautiful murderer that was his sister pause. 

His name... 

Vyzen finally made the connection. 

He... was the hope on the Tyrion woman's lips. 

"Tychon," Vyzen grimaced as he mentally translated his words into the 'common' tongue, "(I am surprised... but this changes nothing.)"

It was... infuriating that he made such a grave miscalculation. 

The woman Vyzen sought to conquer... a woman of... quality-- she was protected. 

All that time he spent... crushing her hopes, ripping and tearing them apart like her flimsy shell...  w a s t e d . 

A man stood where none stood before. 

The woman's eyes, she could not look away. In that gaze, Vyzen saw... relief... a forbidden yearning?

Her hope was returned to her. 

If it was a different woman... if Tychon, a different man, Vyzen would have sought to take away that hope once again. 

It was not so. 

Vyzen flexed his back, his wings nigh motionless as they held him aloft... and he gazed upon the enemy. 

Clad in pure white... an armored warrior. 

Not a clumsy, hulking behemoth...*he* was similar in height to himself, a beautiful, unblemished divinity.

Vyzen sensed it... even if the helmet revealed no face. 

The metal wrapped around him... it moved and shifted almost imperceptibly.  2

The material: mana... raw, volatile mana commanded by the will of the strong. 

Vyzen narrowed his eyes. 

The name 'Tychon' was without worth. 

The name 'Sol Invictus,' the opposite. 

It was an old, old name-- so old that it echoed not only in his memory... but in his very blood. 

Vyzen feared no man. But... in the current age, 'Sol Invictus' demanded a minimum level of respect. 

If that Tychon belonged to Sol Invictus' original guild... his combat experience spanned not only decades of conflict but hundreds of life-and-death skirmishes and battles. 

...And he was descendent of far greater. 

He wore enchanted armor... like primordial flame. 

His gaze... like that of a Solar looking down upon those beneath him. 

Tychon carried no blade, save for his aura. His killing intent was honed, not for use against mortal meat and twisted metal, but for courted angels and fledgling gods. 

If he was not one of Tyrion's Heroes... then the spoils of war won or stolen or pillaged over the decades rendered him infinitely close. 

Yet... Sol Invictus did not heedlessly charge into combat. 

His hesitation... was correct. 

Vyzen considered his own destructive capabilities. If the White-Armored man had anything near... then his woman would not survive a clash of power. 

Not even a corpse would remain. 

And with that man's weakness... Vyzen would seize the advantage. 

He shot his palms outward... reaching into the recesses of his bloodline memories to recall forms unused for many years. 

"⌈Blessing of the Six⌋, ⌈Rune of the All-Seeing⌋, ⌈Wings of the Cloud Goddess⌋..."

Three separate quick-cast incantations... and still Tychon did not act. 

He stood and stared... like all the magic in the Realm meant nothing to him. 

The icy grip of fear clutched onto Vyzen's heart... 

His advantages were too few. The coming battle... was too evenly matched. 

He wanted nothing more than to hide... to return to his sister's embrace. 

Fighting a Gold-Rank was... always uncertain. 

The only promise... was pain and suffering. 

If he were to lose, there were fates worse than death and dissolution. 

Even in victory... would the price be too great? 

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