Chapter 927 Mouth Of The Bleeding Hells (Part One)

Upon entering the ⌈Gate⌋, Tycondrius was assaulted by a deep, gargling battlecry.

"ENEMIES OF THE TREE GODDDDD!!!!!"

It was loud. It shook the earth, as well as his bones.

It also sounded terribly cliche and likely held little to no valuable information.

"HEEEEERE, YOU SHALL MEEEET YOUR--"

So, Tycon threw out his Spell scroll.

"⌈Thousand Strikes of the Storm Eel.⌋"

There was much arrogance in shouting while striking a pose. The enemy went as far as channeling mana into their voice... which was mana unavailable for a defensive Skill.

As Tycon's eyes adjusted to the light of Alana's ⌈Gate⌋ behind him, he observed the yellowed parchment burning away.

The inked Spell Circle remained, then instantly expanded fivefold. From the rotating satellite arrays at its 8 points, 96 bolts of wiggling lightning surged forward towards the... battlecrier.

That fellow, Tycon identified to be... a... War Troll.

The dark green shade of his skin implied an advanced age and suggested the development of one or more bloodline abilities... as well as the intellect to use it.

His battle-scarred armor, fit to his large, inhuman frame, suggested he was a seasoned battle veteran.

"BWEIIIIGHHHHHH!!!!! BWEEEEEE!!! BWEHHH BWEEEeeeeeeEEEE!!!!"

His... pig-like screams as the dozens and dozens of lightning bolts struck him without pause... suggested he was in a great deal of pain.

As trolls were a sentient species, the fellow might have been saying something intelligible.

Perhaps he was trying to describe the agony he was experiencing.

Perhaps... he was trying and failing to beg for mercy.

It was unfortunate for the troll, but the heavy-handed display of force was as much to damage the enemy's spirits as it was to defeat a high-profile, Metal-Rank.

Tycon considered using his mana to reduce its strength to widen its influence, or... lengthen the time between strikes to extend its duration. However, he chose to prioritize mana-forming hearing protection to mute the cracks of thunder emanating from a mere yalm away.

The empowered Fifth-Circle offensive Spell he had cast was not quiet.

And... as it had yet to fill its 'thousand strike' quota, the screaming would continue for some time.

Oddly enough, as fantastical the Spell and as terrible the screaming, the denizens of the Tree God's forest did not slow their charge towards their position.

Angry furred creatures of unusual size. Vicious, oversized avian-creatures. Fae-blooded bipeds and quadrupeds with primitive bows and stone weaponry.

...Et cetera.

All of them appeared to be very upset, snarling, cursing, red-eyed... some frothing at the mouth.

Was it zeal? Did each individual believe in something greater than themselves... enough to risk their lives with such reckless abandon?

Did they stand together, overcoming their fears with pride in the community? Or for the promise of glory on the battlefield?

Tycon was not so optimistic.

Even a single Third-Circle lightning bolt could give a human century pause.

And humans were battle-crazed idiots.

Thus far, Tycon had sent... thirty or so.

The enemies of the forest were afflicted by a madness-- likely one magically induced.

So surrounded by tooth, claw, and... miscellaneous appendage, there was no room for diplomacy.

In order for Tycon to save a single Elven woman, he would slaughter all who dared stand in his way.

"MAEDAR!!" Screamed the Thunder God.

A trio of red-capped gnomes came for the two of them, each with an elongated war-scythe in hand.

Tycon sheathed his right hand with mana, plunging it through the first gnome's chest. He kicked the second gnome away and the third, he struck in the neck with the hard-metal sheath of his curved blade.

"Go," Tycon ordered as he flung away his first kill.

The bits and bone shrapnel from a Second-Circle ⌈Shocking Corpse Bomb⌋ provided his companion with the cover he needed.

"My thanks, friend!" The Thunder God shouted as he took to higher ground.

Swinging his Storm Axe, he sent a thirty-fulm wide crescent wave of crackling lightning-mana towards a herd of spear-wielding deer-centaur.

While impressive... his perspiration and heavy breathing made it obvious that he was pushing himself.

"Conserve your mana, Thunder God-- and let your consistency be your strength. We shall spearhead the offensive... and I may call upon you to finish it."

"Tch," The Thunder God clicked his tongue. "I hear you, Commander."

As for the others...

Tycon narrowed his eyes.

Krysaos was swinging on some sort of thick, braided vine. At its end was a weighted rock, wrapped in thorny brambles-- likely poisonous, by the color.

At the zenith of his momentum, the good Captain cut the vine with his rapier and simultaneously... punched the poison-barbed-rock with his bare fist.

"⌈Crashing Wave!!⌋"

The sizeable projectile then hurtled towards... the... burnt and blackened War Troll.

The War Troll was struck in the abdomen, whereupon he fell forward and moved no longer.

"YEAHH!!" The Captain roared, "I am the gods-damned MASTER of the TRAP PATH!!"

...So their location was, indeed, part of the Trap Path.

Yet... Krysaos was advantaged? It was an amusing thought.

Tycon lightly jogged over to the fledgling god's side, activating a ⌈Seven-Colored Lightning Bolt⌋ scroll layered with an ⌈Electrified Bullet Curtain⌋ as he went.

"Brother-Captain," He grimaced, "That was highly unnecessary. Trolls are typically gentle creatures."

"The f*ck?" Krysaos squinched his eyes, "Well, that's f*ckin' rich comin' from a mass-f*cking-murderer like you. But go ahead. Tell me how I'm wrong."

"Trolls, good Captain," Tycon explained-- "only fight back when threatened. Or... hungry, I suppose."

"Don't they hunt and eat humans for sport?"

Tycon hesitated... "I'll admit that the palate of a typical troll is... abnormal amongst forest-dwelling folk."

"So they eat humans for pleasure?" Krysaos snorted, "I'm killin' every f*ckin' troll we see here."

"...Carry on, then."

There was just the one, though.

Anyroad...

After sharing a nod with the Captain, the two rushed in opposite directions.

Unsheathing the Sword of Venom, Tycon cut down an oncoming quadruped-- a hideous dog-thing with a goblinoid face. Then, he lopped off the head of a water nymph.

Oh, that one had a familiar face. That was a shame.

After another three exchanges, Tycon discovered the last member of his party.

Tarquin Wroe was standing on a tall tree branch, quietly observing. Blood wet his sword and stained his clothing, so he wasn't lazing about... but him not actively participating was a cause for concern.