A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1504 - 1504: The Cries for War - Part 3

But to Gar, the weather was no problem. Not because it didn't make him cold, and not because the wet didn't bother him. As he walked, he shivered in his discomfort. It was the discomfort itself that he had grown used to. It still bothered him, but he found he could package up all his discomfort in one place, and set it aside, for a different, quieter part of his brain to deal with, as he dealt with other things.

"Mm," he murmured to himself with a little grunt, pulling out the coin pouch that he'd been given, with Oliver's coin in. Still, it was there, a full coin of gold, unbroken, despite Oliver's asking. Around it, there sat a few unspent coins of silver, and some coins of copper.

Seeing that purse, anyone would be surprised. There walked a man richer than the large majority of Serving Class men. Yet he drooled at the mouth, and he wore rags that most peasants would look down on. Carrying his battered sword as he did, clutched tight to his chest, and looking so vacant behind the eyes, anyone would have mistaken him for one of the madmen or invalids that the guardsmen knew so well to avoid. And, indeed, when the guards looked at him, they avoided him too. They frowned at the sword, wondering whether they should take it off him, in light of recent events, but none of them did. For Gar was too strange a creature to take seriously.

Naturally, that had been recognized by more men than just Oliver Patrick – the fact of his strange nature, along with the strange strength that had come with it.

Now the tournament goers had borne witness to it as well. As the world had descended into chaos for the tournament organizers on the previous day, Gar had made his way, quite comfortably, all the way to the finals of the tournament. And he'd even fought two duels in that time as well, against men that were favourites to win the entire thing.

His fighting had been messy. It was hard to tell whether it was easy or hard for him securing those victories. The stunned look on each of the faces of his defeated opponents was about the only consistency. They would find themselves sliced, before they even knew what had happened, and they'd walk off the field, like men robbed of a soul, trying to process what had just occurred.

His was an unusual strength, and an unusual strength presented itself as quite the attractive tool to unusual men, with unusual motivations. He wandered as a landmine, vaguely aware that he was part of the reason that the whole camp was in an uproar. Perhaps not directly – not yet. But he was part of the grand wave that was set to sweep the tournament away.

He'd heard of Ferdinand's death through his sources yesterday. A voice had spoken to him from the shadows to inform him.

"Freed cut the Lord's son down," the voice had cackled. "This is set to be a mess now, Gar. We're pulling out – but you'll have to stay. You still have your mission. You're not going to complain, are you."

Gar hadn't said anything. He hadn't even looked in the direction of the voice, so dripping in bloodlust, and so filled with the iron scent of recently spilled red.

"Keke, of course not," the voice said. "You wanted this task more than anyone else did. That's why you were brought, I suppose. It isn't like you're the type to follow orders. You'll just do what you want to do. And I suppose, we'll accept that this time. You do what you wish to do, Gar, but you better not let that stupid little mind of yours change. There's only one man that you need to cross swords with, and cut down, and you know his name already. Find your opportunity, and get to it. Melicos thought you to be the right man for the job, and he hasn't ever been wrong that I've seen. I won't allow you to break our master's streak."

Gar had stayed silent again, and then simply continued walking.

"Mm, I really don't like you after all. There's nothing going on in your head," the voice said, flitting from shadow to shadow to keep up with him. "But then, that is exactly why Melicos knows you will work best on a man like Oliver Patrick, so filled with passion as he is."

With that final parting comment, the killer had disappeared, leaving Gar to his devices, for the rest of the night, and now, for the rest of the morning. The silver that had sat in his purse had come as a result of that task that he'd been given.

"You," a guardsman said, stopping him all of a sudden. The man's kettle helm was down so far over his eyes that it took Gar a second to make out his face – but he made sure he did. He didn't like not to be able to see another man's eyes. "You contestant Gar?"

Gar looked at him, saw the Blackwell crest of his surcoat. His comrade stood next to him, with his spear at the ready, a distinctly threatening air about him. Whether that unfriendliness was simply because of the rain that drenched him as well, along with the cold that seeped past his chainmail, or whether it was because of a natural distaste for the peasantry, it was difficult to tell.

"Me Gar," Gar said to the affirmative, putting his coin pouch back where it belonged, using a sleight of hand that they failed to track.

"You've got another bout scheduled," the man informed him.

"Final bout, yes, yes, Gar know," Gar said.

"No," the guardsmen said. "We're here to tell you that isn't the case. You've got one more bout after that, if you make it through. You'll have the honour of facing General Oliver Patrick, should you have the courage to. Naturally, you will still take your accolades for winning your melee tournament before facing him, and you will have your reward. But it is strongly advised that you accept the opportunity to fight Oliver Patrick in the following round… We've been told to convince you."

That threatening aura intensified, as the two of them glowered, like a pair of thugs, intent on wrangling money out of a target that they'd picked. Gar looked at them curiously, not understanding.

"Gar gets fight Oliver Patrick?" Gar said.