627 Return

Korr had taken a cannonball to the back and, not one, but two gunshot wounds. Tycon expressly forbade her from further participation in the battle. 

She could very well have been killed... which was not something he would allow. He used his ⌈Inspirational Surge⌋ skill to increase the young lady's healing factor temporarily... but once her adrenaline drained away, it was likely she'd be immobilized. 

And thus... the task of defeating the remaining pirates fell to the last reliable combat member of Sol Invictus...

That was... Corporal Horse. 

Tycon looked at the other end of the ship... where he was assisting Barza Keith, the Lone Shadowdark, against the last of their attackers. 

Bronze-Rank pirates, the lot of them were... and not all low-tier Classes. 

Horse was using charge and trample attacks on the pitifully small deck, but the enemy seemed to have realized not to underestimate him. 

Instead, they focused on surrounding Lone. 

If the Ranger were to fall-- besides being killed, Horse had the potential to be surrounded and injured, as well. 

The enemy could also choose to inflict massive casualties to the remaining crewmen of the Marlin Monroe, as a dying act of vengeance. 

Either way, he or Korr would be forced to intervene and put themselves at risk. 

Though Lone was a combat veteran and an Iron-Rank Ranger... his eyes were bloodshot. His tears ran freely as reddish spice powder congealed on his cheeks. 

He looked overall pathetic, with his clothes torn from one of Sorina's spinning blade traps...

...Further, Tycon observed that his gait was awkward. He continually stepped backward defensively, barely able to defend himself with his longsword. 

Sorina Capulet did have a penchant for aiming blunt force at Lone's crotch... Thus, it was likely she designed a trap for that sole purpose.

Admittedly, it wouldn't have surprised Tycon if the young man had become impotent from the consistent abuse. 

Lone fell prey to traps as often as he pissed himself... which wasn't too often, but often enough that it was baffling. 

While the young Ranger held his sword in one hand, his other hand clutched onto the box containing the Swords of the Forgotten King. 

...In retrospect, it was foolish to allow him to carry it. 

At the time of choosing, he had the least seniority, save for Korr and his wolf, Tres Leches. However, Lone could not refuse Korr, who was a rank of strength above him... and his Dark Iron wolf did not have opposable thumbs. 

He took a deep long-blade slash to his undefended back... something he really should have blocked or dodged. 

It seemed he was going to die. 

Tycon cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled to him, "Is that the best you can do??!"

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

« It might be a waste, but yes. »

⟬ Activating. ⟭

It was the last support Skill he had the mana for. It would be a bell or longer of rest before he could heal anyone else. 

Lone grit his teeth, spinning all around him with his sword and forcing his opponents back...

"I can't fall here..." Lone wiped the blood off his mouth, some of his stamina restored by the healing Skill, "Coraline... she's waiting for me."

Tycon heard a crack... but not as sound traveling through the air... but deep in the recesses of his mind. It was an ugly sound... of something broken that should not break. 

He saw Lone drop his weapon... the Shatterspike longsword... one of the worst in-combat taboos a professional warrior could commit. 

Tycon had punished the young man for that, time and time again... but then, he saw Lone's reason for doing so.

Two halves of a particular box laid on the deck. It should have been impossible... The container was sealed by High Oracle Troia, herself. 

In the young Ranger's hands... he wielded the twin Swords of the Forgotten King. 

"My people await my return," Lone muttered.

...Those words sent a chill down Tycon's back.

Moving forward, Lone met with the first pirate, blocking a downward slash with his crossed twinblades. 

He lifted his leg for a kick, slow... but with excellent form... 

With only that speed, the pirate brought their elbow down to block. 

At the distance and with Tycon's improved hearing, he could hear the pirate's arm break. 

Lone... generally eschewed the usage of kicks. It was one of his many weaknesses. That he used one so effectively was somewhat peculiar... but permissible. 

The Ranger spun to block a diagonal slash, and then... he flipped. Simultaneously, he'd cleanly sliced through another pirate's throat. 

That... movement...

...was indicative of the Elven Blade Dance. 

Tycon had taught Lone the basics of the particular sword art... but the young gentleman progressed only slightly faster than a normal elf or human. That is... he still required decades of training and peak physical fitness to be able to pull off such a move in the heat of combat. 

But... the reckless whelpling did it... 

The thought upset Tycon greatly. Though his execution was nigh-perfect, a life-or-death battle was not the time to practice high-level maneuvers that carried such a high risk of personal injury. 

Lone brought his sword from low to hie and he pirouetted to dodge a counter-attack. The pirate that was standing in front of him fell to the deck, missing his leg below the knee. 

The Ranger dipped impossibly low for a man of his muscular frame, swaying his body with perfect balance... and he swung his swords down casually at his sides.

Two more pirates' throats erupted in gouts of blood as they fell to their knees. 

Tycon grimaced. 

Who was the cold, efficient killer he was watching? ...and what had become of the foolish, desperate companion he traveled with?