A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1519 - 1519: The Unexpected - Part 10

Oliver's irritation continued to grow. He forced himself to move faster, and stronger, for all the good he did him. He did not feel himself tiring. His fire only grew. And yet, that seemed to be the very thing that was making Gar stronger as well. Gar's blow fell on Oliver even more heavily. They were strikes that Oliver felt in every bone of his body, even when deflected it.

The wounds he dealt to Oliver's body were one thing, but there were wounds of the heart that Gar seemed to inflict as well. When one's predictions as to what might happen next, and one's own version of reality, was continually defeated, it was only natural that one's mind might begin to waver.

Dominus Patrick had instilled a very particular kind of philosophy in Oliver, during their time training together, and Oliver had taken it through his life since then, and built upon it in his own mind. It was the understanding of the world through Claudia. The world as a continued series of processes, all linked together, all flowing in a grand system of life, like that of a river. It was progress, and it was naturalness – and against Gar, such things did not exist.

It was as if Gar was assaulting that philosophy directly, that which had taken Oliver so far, and allowed him to overcome obstacles far mightier than himself. It assaulted the Fragment of Claudia within him. It was as if a pair of hands were held over her eyes, and she was made blind, and weak. The more time that Oliver spent fighting with Gar, the more he had a sense that the Fragment of Claudia within him was reduced, and assaulted.

And with that sensation, his anger grew, and it grew, as Ingolsol was granted the reins more and more. It was what the God of Power had fought for, during the courses of months and years. He was granted his throne, by Gar's hand, as Claudia was signalled out, and removed entirely from the picture. Yet, Ingolsol did not seem to be particularly happy about that fact. Oliver could hear Ingolsol's voice in his ear, tainted with the same anger that Oliver felt.

"This little wretch," Ingolsol growled. "Does he think his hands are worthy of reaching so far?"

Oliver grunted in agreement. Though such a grunt was hardly Oliver anymore. Before Claudia had reached out to him, to offer him stability, in the darkness of those woods, and in the darkness of the mines and holes that he dug through, it had ever been him and Ingolsol. Angry, and violent, and unwilling to compromise. Ever wilful. Without the balance that Claudia offered, the name Oliver did not suit him in even the smallest degree. He was Beam in his entirety.

"I know this scent," Ingolsol said, as Gar's hands rummaged through the contents of their soul, snatching at everything he could, with those hands entirely of void. "That's an old scent – a Fragment of the past. The old should know their place. Wrinkled fingers should step away, before they find themselves shattered. Power is for the vital, and the strong. In hoarding it, the old only make war all the more likely to come to them."

That sense of knowing from Ingolsol seemed to increase, the more they exchanged blows. Ingolsol picked apart a memory that he did not yet have access to. He searched around it, looking for a name, and as he did, Claudia shied away all the more.

In the confines of Oliver's mind, she seemed very much like the young girl that Oliver had supposed her at times to be, in her image of playfulness. So far gone was that strong, reliable presence that Ingolsol had kept in check. She cowered, with her head in her hands, in a world entirely made of darkness, not willing to look up even once. She used her long silver hair as a shield, so not even the slightest little sight could make its way through.

Tendrils of void reached out in that darkness, growing ever closer, encroaching on Claudia's position under the canopy of her tree. The last bits of light were continually threatened to be snuffed out – and Ingolsol's rage only grew at that fact.

"Who art thee, to suppose thy hands can reach towards such treasures?" He said, his voice even deeper than Oliver knew it to be, and somehow more ancient. "Who art thee, who we once called Mother? Who art thee, whose hands we cut away? Dust thee think, you can crawl your way back, into a realm, where mine eyes see through thee tricks? Do you suppose you can match she, who matches me, when thee art so far beneath me?"

With such a call, Oliver felt his instincts twist. The flow that he continually reached for, as a direction of rightness in his world, as a way of figuring that he was still on the right path, he abandoned it. His head spun from the dizziness of the reorientation, but when it settled, it was as if he could suddenly see.

The hands he reached out against Gar, in order to see that flow built, he saw the folly in it. There was no need for such things. In this world around Gar, there was no movement. There was only stagnation, a world of shadows and void, that sought to swallow everything up. One did not weather the void continually…

"ONE OVERWHELMS THE VOID IN A SINGLE STROKE!" Ingolsol roared.

Gar dove in, unawares, starting his flurry of attacks, so complete in their emptiness. Oliver stood, his mind so full that it almost mirrored emptiness in itself. He stood like an arrogant emperor. He did not even think to react. He didn't strategize, he didn't plan, he didn't look for anything in the world around him.

For there had come an absolute and overwhelming confidence, that he, within himself, had everything he needed. He didn't need to build towards it, he didn't need to correct any of those old ideas that he had. He was absolute, and he was overwhelming, just the way that he was.