A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1447 - 1447: Furthering Competition - Part 7

Oliver couldn't believe the intensity that was created, merely by the substitution of pieces for real men. Naturally, the men wouldn't actually be crossing swords with each other. But they'd said that they would do their best to make it look like they were, depending on the dice roll.

The announcer heralded the start of the match. "If we are all ready, let the Battle board match between Captain Oliver Patrick and Colonel TImmus Bookhorne begin."

Oliver was granted the privileges of making the first move, which he did so without hesitation, in the form of advancing a unit of spearmen. Those amongst the crowd that hadn't seen the previous matches cooed in excitement, when they heard Oliver bellow out his move, with a Captain's voice, and saw that the spear men quickly moved to bring it into reality. There was a vaguely magical sense to it all. It made Oliver feel like a mage playing with summons.

If Bookhorne felt anything about the unique presentation of the board, he did not let it show. He made his move with a good degree of grimness, sending his own spearmen towards the centre of the board, just a single square away from Oliver's, in order to match him, but at the same time inviting him forward to attack.

They developed their armies forward, bringing up their spearmen, and a single swordsman each, before readjusting the position of their archers. A tension began to build and the battle board grew more complicated.

Oliver hesitated in that position. He bit his lip. There was a threat, on the very next turn, that Bookhorne's well positioned archers would begin raining down fire on Oliver's spearmen, and that the Colonel's cavalry would soon be joining in on the action, threatening Oliver's flanks.

He felt exposed as he was. There was too much to defend, but he didn't have enough moves in order to do so. He opened his mouth, about to give an order that by this point had become more instinctive. Bringing his front runners back in a retreat, he'd be able to solidify his defence, even at the cost of giving up space.

The words, however, caught in his throat. He'd taken Volguard's warning seriously enough. If he were to retreat there, then a defensive battle would ensue, he'd be allowing Timmus Bookthorne all the developmental opportunities he needed to send his pieces forward to secure a rather crushing attack.

And Oliver wasn't too keen on the idea of that. He hated fighting on the defence. To him, it felt like the fun had been sucked out of the game when he did so. Even the way he was playing now, it felt like a void of fun to him. They were the same moves he always played, in the same order he always did, with only the slightest variation to make up for Bookthorne's quirks.

They were reliable, though. They were competent, and polished, like a swordstrike practised a thousand times. When the pressure was on, and with Oliver knowing that the crowd was watching, they were the moves that came the most naturally. They practically poured out of his body, demanding to be played. He could see all the defensive continuations rather well. He wouldn't be stuck for ideas for the next ten or twenty moves at least… But what about after that? Would he walk the same path as he always did, content with the same results?

His practising with Nila – if it could even be called that – had returned some of the fun to the Battle board for Oliver. But he didn't play anything like this. He didn't worry about protecting his pieces, he didn't worry about soundness, he'd only focused on bullying the girl in good humour. That was most certainly the fun part. She'd learned to play the game, and had a rather solid grasp on it now, but naturally, with all his practice, Oliver remained the far superior player, so he was well able to take more risks than he normally would. He could sacrifice a full handful of pieces, and then delight in the thrill of winning the battle back.

To him, the more he did that, the more the Battle board began to look like the battlefields that the First King had described. He always talked about them with a degree of amusement, and excitement, and they always seemed reckless, whenever he pointed to the specifics of the battle. He was fine using his men as sacrifices, fundamentally, even though, when one looked at casualties of the battle afterwards, the First King had managed to keep his losses to a minimum.

Somewhere within that, there was a sort of magic. Or at least a ridiculousness, something that Oliver didn't understand. It wouldn't have been fun to play badly. Playing recklessly and ridiculously, however, had delighted him, and he supposed that to be, because, within the mess that he had created, he could sense a certain degree of strength, that which he didn't understand.

So the decision came to him. In front of all these thousands of people, the well-respected nobles, the patrons of his from the Academy, and the Generals, Colonels that he had fought alongside, would he risk humiliation, based on a passing whim that he'd dared not even tested fully against Volguard, for fear of crushing the single candle of fleeting hope that he held in a sea of otherwise lagging potential in regards to his strategy.

He could feel Claudia stirring, as Ingolsol cowered away, unsure. The Dark God could not sense the power in the options that lay in front of them. He had no input to give. But Claudia saw opportunity. Or at least, from excitement, one would hope that she did.

"Do it, Oliver," she said, like a little girl, calling him in. "It will be ever so fun. Who cares what the results might be? You've endured worse humiliations. But against an opponent like him? What excitement there is to be had in taking a risk like this."

"Play, Oliver!" He heard Nila shout from the crowd, as he had shouted for her. He gave her a quick glance. He'd exposed some of his thinking on the matter to Nila, and expressed his knowledge that, that which he did, was entirely stupid… but that he no other paths available to him. For as little as he had told her, he fancied that her words came with a certain degree of understanding, and Oliver dared to take the risk, feeling a wave of steadfast and fiery resoluteness take over him, as he gave the order.