A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1517 - 1517: The Unexpected - Part 8

In his head, that was about the only connection that Oliver could begin to make to Gar. There was nothing else to draw on, no patterns to form – but that very lack of a pattern became a pattern in itself, and so he ascribed to Gar all that was void, all that was empty, and bit by bit, the attacks and lack of flow surprised him less and less.

That didn't allow him to fight any more viciously, however. He still found himself so firmly outmatched that it was as though in his heart he was defeated already. The slashes that he gave were half-hearted, as if he had already accepted the prospect of his demise.

The only stubbornness that he had left was in keeping standing on his feet. It was the same feeling that he got playing against a master of strategy that he knew to be far beyond him. Sometimes, there would be a flurry of emotion, and he would be determined to defeat them – only to naturally lose regardless – but oftentimes, there was a dull acceptance of the defeat already, and when it came, it hardly seemed to mean anything.

He didn't have the leeway to wonder what he might feel in losing to Gar. But he did know that it would be a superior swordsman that he was losing to. There was no shame in that. All he needed to do was to defend his life, and then, soon enough, the duel would be over, and it would be his defeat – and then after the fact, he could consider what it was that had gone wrong, and he could allow himself to grow stronger from it.

A sword dug towards his stomach, just a little too deep. There was a brief moment of panic from Oliver. He knew very well where his own vital points were, after having gored so many men of his own. He moved faster than he had in a good few exchanges, to redirect the sword off to his side instead, so that it wouldn't pierce through his organs.

That was an effort barely achieved, and his only reward was a different sort of pain, as his side was sliced open. He felt himself buckle ever so slightly. A grim smile met his lips. He had ceased to think of it as a duel. He felt as if he was standing on the battlefield. And yet, somewhere in his heart, he was so sure that salvation would come, that the duel would be stopped, and that death would be avoided.

The strikes that sought out his stomach, and his heart, they seemed to be aimed with the intent of putting a stop to that delusion.

"Die," Gar said angrily. "WEAK! DIE! DIE! DISAPPOINT! BIG DISAPPOINT! GAR ANGRRRYY! GAR TRAVEL FAR! YOU DIE FOR GAR!" He howled.

His outrage made no sense to Oliver. It almost made him feel sorry for the young man. There was pain in those eyes, a sort of madness that Oliver had no chance of understanding. That madness wished to see him dead, and punished for the pain that Gar had been dealt.

"OLIVER PATRICK! OLIVERRR PATTRICKKK!" He shouted, the name heaped with accusation, as if there was something that Oliver had done against him personally. "WEAK! SOFT! GODS TOO KIND, LOOK AFTER! NOT FAIR! TOO EASY! NOT FAIR!"

As best as Gar could speak his words, he layered his accusations against Oliver, and with it, the sword came clattering down. A vicious barrage of attacks. Oliver deflected them, one after the other, finding them lighter than the previous ones.

He could feel the anger in the sting of the weapon. The anger jabbed at him, full of hatred, blaming him for something that had happened. Or else, ridiculing him for who he was.

For all the empty strikes that Gar had delivered before, with all their overwhelming power, it was those angry strikes that fell the weakest.

In the sheer void that he had created, it was Gar's own fire that made Oliver's eyes flicker.

He curled his lips in irritation, feeling his own rage stir, ever so slightly. "You do not know me," he said, slipping past Gar's next strike, and sending a thudding punch to the young man's side. As unarmoured as Gar was, that single punch made his eyes bulge.

It was the briefest window of allowances, but there was the smallest of pauses in combat, allowing Oliver to look at that which was in front of him. He saw the hateful, aggressive eyes that Gar stared at him with. So hateful, and yet they did not see what was in front of them. He was not blind – but his vision was as empty as his swordplay.

There was something in it, for Oliver, that stank of an insult. He could feel those eyes looking beyond him, seeing an Oliver Patrick that Gar had built up in his head. He could get a sense for that image, from the way Gar acted towards him, as if he was the highest of nobility, borne upon a silver spoon of privilege. Little could have insulted Oliver more than that.

Even when Gar sang his name, spitting it full of spite, he spoke of a different man. Oliver Patrick was merely one mask of a strange creature. Other names, at other times, would have meant far more. With Oliver Patrick so scorned, Beam twisted his lips, and clenched his teeth. Covered in mud and blood, and ragged in his armour as he was, it didn't take much pretending for Oliver to imagine himself as a peasant once more.

Gar didn't shout again. His anger seemed to retreat into him, along with the body blow that Oliver had dealt him. There came again that sense of a lacking presence from him, and that strong air of unpredictability, but now Oliver was watching for it.

He knew he could not match it, logically, but he found that he wasn't so keen on losing. He wondered why it came with a certain irony that Oliver Patrick was so much more comfortable with losing than Beam was? Ought a man who had built so many victories not have cultivated a pride along with it? Would he not lose more in a single defeat, than a boy who had known nothing but such defeats?