Headed by a Snake

Chapter 550 Performance Anxiety

?The Tycon with the pierced face raised an eyebrow... "Are you two uh... from the future? Somethin' happen that you had to break the Laws? Or 'sit something else?"

"BOSS??!?" Pale placed his hands on his cheeks, yelling in a panic, "We're in the PAST??"

"Less questions, more listening, young man," Tycondrius scolded before again addressing his other-self, "We're in a Reality Marble, a recreation of past memories-- a simulation, if you will. As no timelines can be changed, I can sate your curiosities, if you wish."

"Makes sense," Other-Tycon tilted his head up. "First time in the sim, then? Since you don't look like you're sick of me, just yet."

"Yes, it is. And no, I've grown beyond all forms of mundane pettiness."

"In the future..." Other-Tycon furrowed his brows, continuing in Parseltongue, "(can I believe my little sister can be this cute?)"

"Your question is stupid. Ask a different one."

"Aha, just... just testing," The handsome, if slightly-less-knowledgeable gentleman averted his gaze, "It looks like piercings have gone out of style?"

"Correct," Tycon nodded solemnly. "You look like an arse."

Other-Tycon scoffed, "Can't change the past, Ty."

Tycon frowned... "Hm. For whatever reason, I don't like being called that, anymore."

"Huh. Weird," Other-Tycon shrugged. "But things change, I guess. At least I'm still a handsome motherf*cker."

"Indeed," Tycon nodded. "But change isn't always a negative outcome."

"Catch," Other-Tycon tossed him a modified Decanus helmet-- the eye-visor was composed of green, enchanted glass. It felt good in his hands... as if he'd reunited with a long-lost friend.

"Appreciated," Tycon nodded. "Pale, you may speak your thoughts, now."

Pale gulped... "We're... we're in the past... back when Sol Invictus reigned supreme in the Ezyrian arenas."

"Nice," Other-Tycon nodded. "Actually, we were supposed to fight against--"

Tycon raised his palm.

Other-Tycon's lips curved upward into a scheming smirk, "Actually... it'll be best as a surprise."

"Aww," Pale pouted.

"Ahaha! Don't worry about it, whelpling! --Pail, was it? It'll be a good one!" Other-Tycon grinned... "Honestly, I wasn't sure we was gonna win."

"I did," Tycon pursed his lips. "We did, rather... We do."

"Hah, right. Obviously," Other-Tycon rolled his eyes, "Anyroad... did that dummy Quay really name his kid Bucket?"

Tycon scoffed, deciding not to answer. He had no idea of the specifics, "I'll ask you to inform the other members of Sol Invictus. It's too early for Pale to meet with Quay and I daresay Mister Dragan has to be... properly mollified."

Pale looked up, clearly unhappy... "I have to do really good to see my dad, huh?"

Tycon shrugged, "I suppose I'll allow it if you perform well enough."

He didn't see any value in having the boy meet a dead man... but if that was his motivation, that was fine.

"What... the... hells?" Other-Tycon furrowed his handsome brows, "He lets you call him Dragan?"

Tycon didn't answer. That question was also stupid. Instead, he gently pushed Pale forward, "Armor up. Your training begins soon."

...

"Sir Tycon! What weapon should I use?!"

Pale was fretting, staring at the weapon racks. Many members of Sol Invictus were skilled with different weaponry... and would change their weapon tactics based on the scale of combat or if there were any unique rules in certain matches.

The two of them were set to participate in a two-on-two match-- standard ruleset.

Nothing heretical. 'Honor' was preferred, but not necessary.

Such a thing was impossible to enforce. Nowhere in the Realm was such a term defined by law-- even in the heart of the Holy Country of Tyrion.

"Young man, I believe you would be best with... a spear," Tycon patted the young man on the shoulder.

His class was... Spear Hero. Unless there were dire... extraordinary circumstances, the boy should... always default to a spear.

"Well... Y-yeah," Pale pouted. "But... but I can use a sword-- or... a polearm? Are we fighting really tall opponents? Or like... short ones? Do they use magic? Or...?"

Tycon smiled politely as he grabbed a spear off the rack and thrust it (not-so-politely) into the boy's hands, "What are you most confident in using?"

"...A spear, Sir." Pale hugged the haft close. It wasn't enchanted, but it was made of a sturdy and weighty darkwood... a bit more refined than something a beginner would opt for.

"Turn around," Tycon gestured. "I'll double-check your straps."

Pale sighed as he turned, slouching and relaxing his shoulders, "Boss... I'm just... Ahh... I don't know."

The straps were fine. Tycon patted the boy on the shoulder to signal everything was in good order, "Are you nervous?"

"Y-yeah... It's... I dunno, Boss," Pale turned, looking up with a worried expression.

"Are you afraid of taking injury?" Tycon offered.

"No, that's not it... It's just... dad will be watching, right?"

Tycon rolled his eyes, "Is that different from me watching? Or Mister Dragan or Mister Wroe?"

"Well..." Pale gulped, "No? But it... it *feels* different. Should I... be trying to use my strongest Skills? Or should I try to be extra flashy, since we're going to be fighting in the arena?"

"What? No," Tycon shook his head. "You should be trying to win."

"What would... what would my dad do?" Pale pouted.

"Something foolish, I'm sure," Tycon shrugged.

"R-really?" Pale furrowed his eyebrows, "That doesn't sound right? My dad is super strong, though?"

"He is," Tycon chuckled. "In the arenas, he would enjoy himself to the fullest, performing whatever gaudy Skill or spin-move that fit his whims."

"So... what should I do, then?"

"Do what you'd like. Nothing exists, spoken or written, dictating that you have to copy your father."

"Well... I know that, but... what should I do to... make him proud, I guess?" Pale frowned.

The young man was full of a great deal of doubt... and more than Tycon thought appropriate. However, it was... permissible. The boy's worries were... normal, considering his young age.

Tycon pursed his lips in thought. The proper answer to such a question was... complex. He'd oversimplify it for the young man's benefit.

"If I know that fellow... he'd be proud, as long as you try your best. Quay never gave less than his all."