Headed by a Snake

Tycondrius did not specify what exactly he wanted Wroe to explain.

Admittedly... he didn't expect an answer even remotely close to satisfactory.

Tarquin Wroe...

He had proven himself wanting when it came to completing moderately complex tasks.

Tycon once asked Wroe to make a pact with a goddess-- something that went along with the fellow's modus operandi.

He did... eventually. It took several bells, wasted doing... only the gods know what.

While Sol Invictus was questing in the eastern seas of the Kingdom, Tycon asked the man to requisition a ship.

That came about... but several moons late.

Also, the ship was in an even worse condition than the Neptune's Revenge... and the Jade Rabbit, for that matter.

...It looked like it got hit by a Leviathan.

Most recently, Tycon sent Wroe to the Free Nation to assist Dragan with an ogre rebellion or somesuch.

That... did not happen.

Tarquin Wroe was raised in a variety of different cultures, their languages, social norms, and-- sometimes, their values clashing from time to time.

During those formative years... no one liked him.

Thus, he learned to keep his thoughts to himself-- something not horribly peculiar.

However, despite the man's divine blessings... non-divine, common logic generally afforded to the mundane masses was not one of them.

'Alpha' leads to 'Beta', therefore 'Gamma.'

When presented with such an equation, Wroe would find the number seventeen.

On top of that... the Daeva often sought 'knowledge' or... 'guidance' from voices only he could hear.

Tycon was fairly certain that an outside-party could only *improve* Wroe's capriciousness... but hearing multiple voices when faced with various decisions was certain to cause confusion.

Anyroad...

Amongst all of Sol Invictus' members, Wroe's motivations and reasoning were the most difficult to follow.

The fact was extraordinary, considering that Sol Invictus employed women.

...After being given several breaths to think, the kneeling Wroe finally gave an answer.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Boss," He said, while staring at Tycon's boots, "I'm... just not good enough."

Tycon stared in disbelief.

"Ab... solutely..... incredible," He crossed his arms, slowly shaking his head in disappointment. "Your answer... has managed to be *ex po nen tially* more useless than I *ever* could have imagined..."

"It's... because I'm a failure," Wroe sniffed.

Tycon shut his eyes and raised his palm up, his voice even and calm, "Get up, Mister Wroe."

As soon as he sensed Wroe get to the standing... Tycon slapped the gentleman hard across the face.

**PAP**

The crisp slap echoed across the river waters, catching the attention of the ferrywoman and eliciting a light chuckle from a certain orc.

The swelling in Wroe's face had largely reduced thanks to his divine blessing.

Tycon's brutal slap ensured he would take some time longer to pass as a regular human.

"Tarquin Wroe! Show me your conviction with how you train from hereon," Tycon groaned, opening a single eye. "Weakness is temporary in *our* Sol Invictus."

"But... but Boss..." Wroe kept his head down, more interested in the blooded dirt than facing Tycon with dignity, "All this time... and you've gotten so strong. And what have I achieved?"

"F*ckin' nothin'?" Hades suggested.

"N-nothing..." Wroe frowned. "I've tried so hard... and... and--"

"Got so far?" Said the orc, "But in the end..."

"It doesn't really--"

"Stop there, if you would," Tycon massaged the bridge of his nose-- "both of you."

"Ehe," Hades smirked.

"...A-aye aye, Boss," Wroe whispered.

"Wroe..." Tycon sighed... "Your failures... are they an excuse to give anything less than your best?"

Along with his head, the Daeva lowered his body and drew in his shoulders.

Was it... guilt that he was feeling? Shame?

Good.

"Is your journey finished?" Tycon asked in a quiet voice.

"...It is not," Wroe muttered.

Tycon narrowed his eyes... "Will you keep your goddess waiting an eternity longer?"

"I just..." Wroe blinked a new round of tears out of his eyes... "Boss... it's that... I don't know... if I will ever... truly be worthy of her."

Tycon pursed his lips.

Wroe wished to be worthy of a goddess... of her blessings-- and from the way he spoke... perhaps even her romantic attention.

It was quite possibly a quest with no end... especially if his goal was the latter.

"Nevertheless, Brother... is that reason to stop trying?"

Wroe lifted his gaze.

"I will *never* stop loving her," He growled through his teeth.

Then, as if suddenly remembering that he was supposed to wallowing in self-pity, Wroe turned away.

He shook... as if he were possessed-- which, knowing the man, was quite possible.

"N... neverrrr," He whispered breathily.

...Tycon sighed, but nodded sternly.

Overall, the man's conviction was respectable... better proven by his actions rather than his mewling.

"That will be enough, Mister Wroe. Take a moment to compose yourself."

"A-aye, Boss," Wroe took in a deep breath as he wiped his face, "O-ouch. Th-thank you, Boss..."

As long as Wroe retained his drive... his potential remained.

Granted... it was deeply upsetting that, in the time Tycon progressed from Iron to Gold-Rank, Wroe had failed to improve in strength, skill, or magical prowess.

Even worse... the passive mana output of the previously Bronze-Rank Hexblade had fallen to the level of an ordinary, unranked human.

...As much as Tycon wished to complain or resume inflicting gratuitous violence on a man that was supposed to be his friend... that would lead him nowhere.

Thus, he immediately began devising a training regimen to rectify Wroe's strength. They had much to do, when they returned to the living Realm...

« System, inquiry: Wroe's power level. How weak has this fellow become? »

⟬ System response: Tarquin Wroe, Bronze-Rank Daeva Hexblade. ⟭

Tycon quickly glanced up, locking eyes with Wroe. The fellow was getting to his feet, again channeling mana into his eyes to accentuate their blue glow.

"Is... there somethin' wrong, Boss?" He asked.

...Tycon narrowed his eyes, "Perhaps."

« System, repeat last statement. »

⟬ Tarquin Wroe, Bronze-Rank Daeva Hexblade. ⟭

...Odd.

Tycon slapped the angel across the opposite cheek.

"Ow!" Wroe held his face, betrayal in his eyes, "Oh-- gods... Come onnnn, Boss?!! What was that for??"

Ignoring the fool's complaints, Tycon directed another message to his System.

« System, analyze him again. »

⟬ Tarquin Wroe, Iron-Rank Daeva Hexblade. ⟭

Tycon lifted his hand up, staring at it in wonder.

It was... the same hand he'd injured on Khalkyd's stupid face.

A realization struck him... one with terrifying potential.

Had... he gained a new ability? A blessing from the heavens?

",