A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Harder, harsher, they cut those strongly armoured men down with a frightening ease. Now when they looked to Oliver, they did so hungrily. Wolves in the forest. He offered them flesh and glory. They gave themselves to him, and recognized him. The weight of responsibility. It drenched him in meaning.

They'd freed up more men. Ten now. Oliver took them with him. The building of something. Growing and growing. More branches to the tree, roots in the soil. Urgently, Oliver went. A journey towards a goal that he'd simply longed to solve with a click of his fingers. Now, between himself and his goal, he saw not just a single path, but a web of possibilities, mapping out infinity, and running as rivers of overwhelming meaning.

He wasn't one man any longer. He was part of a tide. Racing. He could see himself as part of them all. Their swords, their limitations, the spears under their arms, their racing fear, the exhilaration. Comrades. Comrades. He liked that feeling. He liked even more the feeling of their reliance on him. He decided to do right by them – to reward them highly for their trust in him, and for helping him towards their common goal.

They pierced through another detachment of armoured men, without hardly slowing. They barreled through soldiers of the High King along the way too. They were too large now not to. They were running down a line of men, and they couldn't choose their engagements as well as before. They had to fight whoever it was that they came across.

A hundred men, those soldiers beneath Oliver ballooned up to. It surprised him, but commanding a hundred felt no harder than commanding five. It was with the same lens and level of detail that he saw them. He was excruciatingly aware of each one, and with it, excruciatingly aware of the possibility in commanding so many. The problem of those thousands of armoured men no longer seemed as large. They were mighty together, and they would see it done to the very end. With Claudia and Ingolsol at his side, and a hundred men of the highest sort, all of them enthusiastic in their purpose, who was there that they could lose to?

It was glorious battle now – a just one. The room to play. Reckless manoeuvres. Charging through masses of men that they ought not to. Allowing themselves to be surrounded, as Oliver had let himself be surrounded before. The men were him, and Oliver was his men. The same will occupied them. They had no resentment for the danger that Oliver put them in. In fact, they loved him for it. They loved the dance, and they showed themselves to be far mightier than any could assume for it.

Not a single soldier they lost, in becoming surrounded that first time. A miracle is what Oliver would have held it to be, if he had enough knowledge to stop and think about it. But Oliver took it to be self-evident. They were balancing on the thinnest of threads, performing that fateful dance. It was only natural that, in keeping their balance, the rewards would be so immense. They were strong for it, and each time they overcame a foe, they became even stronger, they learned more. It was reckless, and barrelling, and between them, without even realizing it, Oliver and the hundred men that he had gathered changed the course of a battlefield.

His purpose was set, the job, soon enough, would be almost done. But the mighty were set to sniff him out. All Oliver's senses pointed to the fact of his existence even before Oliver himself laid eyes upon him. Ingolsol and Claudia had spoken their warnings, and the hearts of Oliver's men had spoken the same. Even if he knew not it himself, he had his vast web of connections to rely upon.

It came in the form of a white-haired man, with a terrible look on his face, and a grandness to his presence that made Oliver halt for a second, struck dumb by something, feeling the fear in his chest twist in a different sort of direction. It made him frown hard enough to look down on himself.

Big. He knew his enemy to be that. But he didn't know how big he himself was. Wasn't it the mighty that he had been seeking out, before he had become lost, determined to quench his vision of the corruption of those armoured men? Was this man in front of him not mighty? He was that, but he was also something else. He was the beating heart of that which ruined the purity of his searching. Oliver sought a growth that he could not put into words. He wanted to rush endlessly, and explore the forest of reality until he knew every leaf, on every tree, and every petal on every flower. That creature in front of him was the destroyer of those things. He left less for Oliver to explore. He stole away that meaning before it could be absorbed.

Anger now. Ingolsol and Claudia whispering to him. His men hesitating, frightened in themselves. A charge, right in front of them. Strong cavalry. Oliver hadn't fought cavalrymen yet, he didn't think, but he thought he knew how to deal with them.

"Spears to the front!" He shouted. He had a good few spearmen amongst them now. But would they be able to handle those heavily armoured beasts? He thought not – he knew not. They would shatter. There was no thread to balance on now. Just existence itself. Rawness. A terrible monster that had invaded his forest, and sought to crush all life in it.

Angry. The King of his little domain. The men that he ruled over, that trusted in him, that had given themselves to his temporary cause. Responsibility for them. The necessity to move forward. Pushing through his own spear line, to be right at their head.

Facing down that creature. Hating the sight of it. Feeling his heart twist. An impulse rise. Wind at his back. Dark clouds gathering in the sky. Pointing a sword towards his foe. Pulling his foot back, balancing his stance. Simplicity. Needing more. A man with a purpled arm. A straw hat over his eyes. A small smile hidden, as he held a stick. Then a flash of movement. A lightning strike. "You think you're fast, boy?" He said, holding the sword at Oliver's neck. "Speed isn't the only thing that put me in front of you."