Trash

"Ughh..." Groaning and not at all enthusiastic, Tycon drew his cutlass, "Invictus... We are under 'attack' by... 'fooooul' demons."

Tycon reached for the ram-horns to the demon adjacent to him and hacked his blade into its neck. He sighed, "Death--"

"--to the enemies of INVICTUS!!" Lone and Wolfrider yelled.

Glancing behind, Tycon watched his two idiot companions charge their half of the enemies...

Barza Keith, the Lone Shadowdark, wielded a wolf-hammer with both hands. With savage force, he sent it crashing against a demon's shield, knocking the unsuspecting fellow off of their feet.

"Spread Smash!!" Wolfrider yelled out. His halberd began to glow with power, sheathing in a swirl of the orange dust that hardened into jagged stone spikes. He swung overhead and down into the demon's face, slaying him. The magical rocks exploded with a thunderous boom, forcing the other demons around them to halt their attacks and shield their eyes.

Wolfrider rotated his body, spinning his halberd and striking the back of a different demon's ankles. Their legs swept out underneath them, the base of the demon's skull cracked against the red-orange rock. The Lone Shadowdark yelled and with a hop up, brought his hammer down.

They defeated two demons in under a breath. It was an excellent display of teamwork.

...Those two were getting along suspiciously well.

Tycon turned back to his own half of demons, his face contorted in disdain. He released his grip on the first demon's horns, allowing it to crumple lifelessly to the ground.

"Five of you. One of me," Tycon swiped his cutlass to the side, flinging the blood off of it.

He examined his enemies... Red-skinned demon-soldiers with thick, bony brows and vicious, jagged-tooth weaponry.

Many battles in the past, Tycon had been worried, anxious, and scared. This was not one of those battles.

The soldiers wore looted, piecemeal armor, assembled haphazardly. Tycon surmised they may have been worn for style rather than for bodily protection. Their brows were thick and bony because their faces were sunken from fatigue, malnutrition, or both. And while their weaponry had rough, savage edges, it was because the weapons were chipped and in disrepair.

These demons were trash.

Stars above, he decided to say it out loud.

"You lot... I'm surprised that you actually have physical forms. You might as well all be mindless, scum-sucking scavengers..."

The demons looked at each other, still hesitant on whether to attack or not.

Tycon took a deep breath and sighed, "You're all trash. No-- you're worse than trash. You're the bottom of the trash heap. It's like two bags of trash kissed and made illegitimate children. However, the trash king had passed a law, forbidding such loathsome creatures and you were shamefully cast out of the trash kingdom and into the trash wilds."

That managed to get them riled up. The demons snarled their complaints in Abyssal.

"(Trash? We're not trash! You're trash!!)"

"(Oh, you'll pay for that, Outsider...)"

"(We shall rebel against the KING!!)"

Tycon stood, his cutlass at the ready.

He had transmigrated into this world without recollection of himself as Tycondrius. However, he was lucky enough to have a wide repertoire of learning and gained skills, relevant to the Realms. And of that knowledge, he knew several different sword styles.

The Elven blade styles were beautiful... but generally ineffective, lest the practitioner could assume the blade forms as easily as singing and dancing.

The dwarven arts emphasized strength and stability, usually with a shield. The orcs preferred heavy weapons, better for chopping while screaming at the top of their lungs.

It was the humans that mastered the arts of war. They took their weapons and they simplified the arts, removed everything unnecessary. And from there, they mixed and matched. They profaned the original traditions in order to make ugly, half-arsed styles.

But they were easy to teach. And there were far more humans than there were elves or dwarves or orcs.

And then the humans made their own beautiful arts. The various Hidden Sects came about, waging open and secret wars to amass their power. Heroes were killed, but their legendary arts lived on long after them, a testament to the mountains of corpses in their wake.

The White Raven sword techniques were in the middle. They were easy to teach and only moderately difficult to master. The forms had complexity and depth, but simple enough to always be relevant.

The problems were the same as with arguably any art.

Unbalance the enemy. Remain balanced.

Know when to poke or jab and when to commit.

Block or deflect with as little waste of energy as possible.

Open your enemy's defense for you or an ally to strike.

...Tycon closed his eyes, shaking his head. Ascending the Wizard Tower was taking a frustratingly long amount of time, with far more annoyances than he wanted to deal with.

He tapped his foot impatiently, "Stars and STONES, I'm not even LOOKING!! Come at me!!"

The first of the remaining rushed, snarling with stained, spiny teeth. Tycon lunged forward, popping the demon's face with his sword's pommel. Tycon forced his arms down for momentum, smashing a jumping knee into the demon's sternum.

Tycon opened his eyes, "Garbage."

The demon on Tycon's right lifted a chipped battle-axe. Tycon stepped forward, ilms away from the demon's face. The demon stared blankly, unsure of what to do. Tycon squinted his eyes in disbelief, "Ugh, disappointing."

He thrust his free hand out, grabbing the demon's throat, applying pressure to his carotid arteries. The demon had a bipedal humanoid form. Unfortunately for it, its weaknesses were very familiar.

Tycon began pushing the demon back, bashing his cutlass' pommel into the demon's face over and over again. Soon, Tycon reached the jagged canyon wall. He kneed the demon in the side and allowed the pitiful creature the mercy of collapsing onto the ground.

Tycon reared his head back, gathered the phlegm in his throat, and spat onto the fallen demon's face.

It was incredibly unprofessional, but Tycon was unworried of the consequences. Who was the demon going to tell?

Tycon turned back. The remaining demons hadn't moved from where they stood.

Of course, they didn't.

They were all spineless cowards.

As Tycon approached, a demon with three white horns scratched his cheek. He growled with a scratchy throat, forcing out words in the Common tongue, "Art thou... True? Of Lucifer?"

Standing next to the demon, Tycon grimaced. The demon was a few ilms taller than he was... even more so, with the height of his horns.

Annoying.

Tycon smashed the guarded pommel of his cutlass into the demon's crotch, causing the male humanoid to double over in pain. His gravelly scream seemed to echo into itself. Grabbing the demon's right arm, Tycon used a burst of mana to quickly strike the back of its elbow. Unsurprisingly, the arm broke, bending at an unnatural angle.

The demon tried to simply collapse onto the floor, but Tycon wouldn't let him. A savage kick to the demon's side spun him onto his back, clutching where he was struck. Tycon stomped his boot onto the demon's face, "What's my name?"

The demon roared in agony as Tycon lacerated the outside of the creature's arm, spilling fresh blood onto the sands.

Another demon stepped forward, fumbling with his Common, "S-sir... You haf-- have not..."