A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1508 - 1508: The Banners - Part 4

He sent mud flying as he cut through the air in front of him, his sword thrusting out as if it were a rapier. It was a clear imitation of Blackthorn's technique. The two had spent so much time training together, that their respective personalities could not help but crop up from time to time in the swordplay of another. It was the most devastating attack Oliver could deliver at speed, whilst still retaining his distance.

A glaive came flashing to block the blow – but it came a moment too late. Oliver twisted his wrist, preparing to spin his sword for the follow up slash, but before he could, to his surprise, there was a sudden halt to his blow. Flesh and steel saw it stopped. It would have ran through Rainheart's lung had Oliver not adjusted it at the last second to move towards his shoulder.

It went in deep, straight out of the old General's back. The man grunted his pain. Oliver's eyes were wide with alarm, drinking everything in, with his instinct more on edge than a cat's. He was certain this was the strategy that Rainheart had laid out. He abandoned the sword in Rainheart's shoulder, knowing full well it would take too long to retrieve, and he jumped back in a single bound.

Through the air, a glaive flashed. Oliver only caught sight of its shadow, with his head facing the floor as it was, in his sudden disoriented retreat. Even without seeing it, his body moved. It knew exactly the danger had passed. That thoughtless state of flow that governed him, after so many battles, and so many kills. It took control of him in its entirety. Oliver was throwing down a fist, and stepping in, before he even knew what he was doing.

A spurt of blood filled the air, along with a sickening crunch, and then Rainheart was hurtling towards the ground, with Dominus Patrick's blade sticking out of his shoulder, and his glaive far too off to the right to do anything in the way of defence.

"STOOOOOPPPP! STOPPPPPPPP!" The referee cried.

Oliver had the vague feeling that the man had been shouting before then. Oliver only noticed him when he thrust between the two of them, preventing Oliver from going any further in damaging the body of the fallen old General.

"TO FIRST BLOOD!" The referee reminded them both, in a loud and berating voice. One could tell that he had been a Sergeant for a long time, from the well-practised look of extreme exasperation and irritation that he weighed down on them.

"STOOOPPP!" He repeated to Oliver, seeing that his fist was still raised, and that his eyes were still dilated with the full thoughts of combat. He shoved him in the chest, in an attempt to force him back a step. For a second, Oliver's eyes flashed gold, interpreting it as an aggressive action, and he brought his fist back, almost about to strike the referee himself.

Rationality took over, just before the mistake could be committed, but it was close enough that the referee wasn't quite so quick to be as loud as he had been in his shouting. He took a good few steps away from Oliver, observing him with careful and fearful eyes, before he decided that Oliver was entirely pacified.

"THE WINNER IS SER OLIVER PATRICK! FIELD MEDICS, ATTEND TO THE DEFEATED!" He said, seeming to shout louder, in an attempt to make himself seem less frightened than he was.

The sword was pulled out of the fallen General, and forced back into Oliver's hands. The field medics tried to assist the General in standing, but he pushed them away with irritated growls, tossing grown men from the crowd as if they were mere children.

With a face streaming with the blood of a broken nose, and with a steady waterfall running down from the wound in his shoulder, General Rainheart pulled himself back to his feet, and forced his way past an increasingly alarmed referee.

"It's over!" The referee called after them. "Stop them fighting!"

Despite the aggressiveness of his march, it didn't seem to be the continuation of the fight that Rainheart was interested in. That impression was further cemented, when he peeled his helmet from a sweaty head, and threw it down into the mud, allowing his long grey hair to stream down his back.

"The Sword of House Patrick remains sharp," he declared, loud enough that most of the gathered crowd could likely have heard it. The smile on his face was a strange and satisfied thing. It wasn't the sort of look that Oliver would have expected from the vanquished. He stepped one stride closer, until he was level with Oliver's ear. There, he continued in a deep growl of a whisper. "You look surprised, boy. Did you think that your General had set you up for defeat?"

"…I did not expect to find victory, at the very least," Oliver said.

"Then, one can see why Blackwell still calls you immature," Rainheart said. "You're a Sword. The tournament field is your domain, Captain Patrick. You still know not how to wield Command as a General does. The day you learn, the realm shall tremble."

Oliver wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but his head was too foggy from the battle, his brain took longer than it normally would have to process the statement, and by that point, General Rainheart was already limping away.

A wreath was draped over Oliver's head, and his hand was raised, calling him the victor. He looked around at all the faces that he knew, wearing an impossibly dazed expression. He saw the stern approval of General Blackwell, and the amused smile of Karstly, along with the quiet delight of Asabel, and the overwhelming excitement of all his men, who cheered even louder and more shamelessly than some of the peasantry.

"You expected that," Oliver realized aloud, when Blackwell and Karstly walked over together ahead of the rest, with their retainers behind them.