A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1518 - 1518: The Unexpected - Part 9

The difference was, Beam could not afford to lose. Beam existed on the small warmth provided by a single candle of hope. Beam had walked a tightrope for years to get to where he was. The slightest little inconsistency of mind or body would have led to him falling into weakness. His soul would have been consumed entirely by the curse that he found himself unconsciously resisting.

Beam had a pride that exceeded that even of the nobility. For Beam, pride was a survival instinct, it was the most necessary thing. He would not lose, because he could not afford to. That fire that he had cultivated within himself, to keep the small candle of hope well protected, had allowed him to overcome obstacles that should have overwhelmed him.

Not, Gar, however. The only thing his fire gave him against Gar was the willingness to not be defeated.

When he slashed at the air, full of Beam's fire, he found no success, for Gar was not there to receive the blow. The intentions that Oliver had tried to track had disappeared, and Gar was there to his right, like a ghost, looking straight through him, nothing but a strange instrument of war, entirely disconnected from the world around him. No, he wasn't even war – for war was built, and one event flowed to the next. Gar was nothing but void, and he tore apart what was in front of him, in the same way that the ever clawing fingers of void did.

For all Oliver's determination, he could hardly seem to block Gar's short sword. Swung eternally with a single hand, it fell with such a degree of force, that even two hands from Oliver struggled to slow it. The best he could do, continually, was simply see to it that he did not die in the process.

Each strike that he failed to properly parry made his rage build. He found his determination increasing. His face twisted from the strain of it. He dug his feet firmly in the mud. He stood his ground, and vowed in his heart that he would never lose to the man that stood in front of him. It was as passionate as Oliver Patrick, or Beam, could get, and that passion was only increasing.

Against Gar, however, it meant nothing. Gar swallowed it all up. Oliver's passion, his wants, his strategy, his skill, his very strength, it all fell silent before it, as if drenching it in the quiet of a snowy landscape. Before Gar, all was mapped in white, all was cold and incomplete, there was no fire that could burn through it.

Verdant recognized Oliver's growing fire, for he had seen it so many times before. When his Lord had reason to grow so fiery, Verdant himself found that he had reason to be confident in his Lord's success. He knew to trust Oliver's impulses, for they always seemed to lead somewhere better.

Yet now he could see too why the assassin Melicos had picked Gar for the job of seeing Oliver Patrick perished. "He profiled you far too well my Lord…" Verdant thought, in a pang of worry. The information gathering of Melicos was even stronger than Verdant had feared it would be. He glanced anxiously towards the direction of Lord Blackwell, wondering when the man might give up his farce of pretending the rules did not exist. Some things overwhelmed others, for they were entirely opposite in their nature. Verdant knew to accept that fact, and he forced him to do it with what was in front of him. Just as water would always overwhelm fire, Gar and his emptiness would always overwhelm the passion of the creature called Oliver Patrick. There was nothing to be done about it, and no use to be continued.

"We ought see this stopped, Lady Felder," Verdant said, sighing. "He might lose his life at this rate."

Verdant could see that Nila was even more anxious than he. Her face was white, and her teeth were firmly buried in her bottom lip. She twisted her fingers in her hands, and seemed hardly able to stand there. But when Verdant called, she did not move.

"Lady Felder," Verdant said again, surprised that she hadn't followed in the first instance.

"…I heard you, Verdant," Nila said, forgetting to speak as politely as she normally would. "But I do not think he would let us. Not when he's like this."

"I think this is one rare moment when we might have to use force against him," Verdant said, feigning a calm that he did not feel. "Otherwise, it seems quite certain that he will end up perishing. We still have need of our Lord. I will not see him pass before his time."

But Nila shook her head at him again. "Do you not see what he is like?" She said. "He hasn't been like this in the longest time. He's learned to have such control of himself… But he's terrifying now. He's so angry. I don't think we could step in his way, no matter who we tried to stop him with."

"…" Verdant went silent. He studied the woman. Her all her anxiousness, she did not seem to wear the face of doubt. She did not like watching what it was she saw in front of her, but nor did he get the sense that she believed Oliver would lose.

"I have seen him overcome worse than this," Nila said, almost as a casual comment, but it made Verdant's eyes go wide. Rarely did he get the opportunity to hear how Nila had seen the Oliver Patrick that had existed during his time away from the noble court. He had heard of great feats of heroism, and the great victories that he had secured, but in his mind, they had never looked quite so one sided.

"Worse than this..?" Verdant echoed in wonder. "What could possibly be worse than this?"

The glance Nila gave Verdant made him gulp. He could almost see a memory in her eyes, of something mighty and terrible, with a boy, far too young to be fighting such things, confronting it.