A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1487 - 1487: The Realm's Most Valiant - Part 5

The more Oliver saw through her eyes, the better he could feel the void, and the distortion that was caused by that overwhelming quiet. He felt like he could map the space around it. The feeling of wrongness grew to such an intensity that it almost made him feel sick. He turned his eyes, finally, in what seemed to be the right direction. He looked at empty space head on, and went dashing towards it. His sword ran out, slashing, for no reason at all – and still found nothing but empty air. Empty air, and then a sudden rush of wind, as a creature dodged past it. The slightest swelling of alarm.

That, without Claudia's assistance, he would have never noticed. Making the void move, as unnatural as it was, brought Oliver's sense of nauseous awareness to him all the stronger. He couldn't see the man, but now he was sure he could sense it. Or at least, he could sense whatever it was that allowed him to move as such.

"The presence of a Dark God," Claudia told him. "Nocturna. General Blackthorn and Blackwell were right, when they said that it would grow impossible for us at night. We really must end this Oliver, or we'll never be able to find this man again."

Claudia's sense of justice stirred, along with her profound awareness. Oliver's awareness was spread so thinly in all directions, that the sounds his comrades made, in attempting to speak to him, had no chance at all in being translated into words, though he was aware of them to a near profound degree.

He gnashed his teeth, and forced a greater speed out of himself. The creature was fast, in its shadows. The Dark God had augmented it in more ways that just camouflage. And now that he could get a sense for the figure, Ingolsol's own irritation grew, as he leant his fury to the attack. Though he did so in an almost unusual way for him – for he allowed Claudia to be his sense, whilst still waiting, with aggression poised, for the moment that he himself might strike at what was in front of them.

The two together ensured that an attack finally landed. Oliver knew not what part of the man that he had hit, only that it resulted in a spray of blood. There wasn't even a grunt to augment him. It truly was like he was fighting a shadow, completely devoid of human life. The shadow snuck away again, with impossible speed, but the trail of blood betrayed it. Oliver zoomed after him, this time following up with a thrust, striking where he would assume the stomach of a normal man to be.

He was finally rewarded with the slight resistance that normal flesh might offer. His sword pierced straight through. From the redness that came away off Oliver's blade, he reckoned that he might have made it to the other side. But the shadow, still, gave no indication, even from that wound that would normally have taken the life of a normal man.

Its speed only fell to the slightest fraction of a degree, as the blood spilled down the shadow's body, outlining it as a silhouette, finally giving Oliver a sense for the man's height. He corrected his positioning, and lined another attack up, guessing where the man's head might be. Then, with all the fluidity that his training offered him, he gave a looping blow, and felt the resistance of spine on sword, until the instant that it broke through, and the man's head was severed from his neck.

Oliver knew what was done, given the amount of blood, and the sensation on his sword. But it was not until the killer's head hit the floor that he could actually see it. It was as if a spell was undone. He saw the shaggy beard that Torin had mentioned, along with the long shaggy hair, all of it trimmed not by the deeds of his sword. Then, he saw his body too, as it slammed down beside it, dragged out of the shadow.

"It's done," he announced unceremoniously, not feeling an awful lot of success for the victory that he had managed to achieve. It was only a grim acknowledgement of the completion of something that needed to be done. There was no celebrating to be achieved.

"Young Ser Torin, verify it, if you would," Verdant said, startling Ferdinand's retainer out of his revelry.

"E-er! Yes!" He said, jumping up, and dashing forward, right to the edge of the spreading blood pool. He studied the man for a second. Oliver turned the head over with his boot, to allow Torin a better look. "It's him," Torin said.

"For a certainty?" Oliver asked.

Torin nodded seriously. "I would not forget that face. I doubt there are two alike it."

"We can only hope that is true," Oliver said. "For this is as close to justice as we can come for Ferdinand, and you are the only man that we can rely on to deliver that sentence. Take another, long careful look, and disregard from your mind our position, and how it might affect us if we are wrong. Make sure for certain, that this is the man that killed your Lord."

Torin did as he was told. He studied the face, and the body, and the clothes, and all that was around it for nearly a minute. Then Verdant handed him a lit torch that he'd secured from a passing guardsman, and Torin crouched, casting the torchlight over the body, studying it further, and shifting it now and then, bloodying his hands in the process. After a time, he stood, and with a sombre expression on his face, he nodded. "This is the man that killed my Lord. This is the man that I have failed to stop."

"Good," Blackthorn said, his voice weightier than any of theirs. When he spoke, it was more than enough to cause a slight tremble. "Then remember your failure, boy, until the rest of your days. Work your life to make up for it."