A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1520 - 1520: The Unexpected - Part 11

He observed the sword of Gar that came close to him with thoughtless contempt.

"Thee who attack the throne of the mighty, I dispel thee," Ingolsol intoned.

Oliver did not have the slightest thought for what he did. There was no building of the actions, for flow did not exist any longer. There were only the results – and the results were borne with his sword through Gar's right shoulder, holding the young man aloft, with a single contemptuous arm.

"Did thou forget, Pandora?" Ingolsol said. "Did thou forget, how thee were cast out of the heavens by I? Did thou forget, that the Daughter that thou tormented, that she be the only creature that could match me? That the heavens gathered, and all the Sons and Daughters of you Great Three, they gathered, with your blessings, to match I – and none could reach. None had the will to even speak my name loudly. But she."

Ingolsol spoke of his defeat, as though it were a fond memory. He spoke of it with a hint of pride, as if it was the happiest he had ever been, as if it were his grandest achievement.

Gar struggled on the end of Oliver's sword, until the blade ran straight up and out of his shoulder, dropping him to the ground again. Then it was Oliver's turn to speak, where Ingolsol's voice had reigned so loud, without Oliver's lips moving to pronounce it to anyone but Gar.

"Did you forget, Gar, the stories they told of me?" Oliver said, his eyes far wider than they normally might be, stained purely by gold. "Did you think that suffering was a gift that only you had overcome? Did you think your emotions were enough to best me?"

Gar struggled to his feet, hatred in his eyes. His sword was pointed Oliver's way again. He stood on shaky legs, not seeming to understand the quantity of blood that spilled from his wound. No one, no referee or the like, had yet stopped in to intervene between the two, but Oliver and Gar had forgotten entirely of the bouts rules.

It was simply them, as far as they were concerned, one heart and mind against another. One Fragment against another. Oliver only knew of the Fragment in the way that Ingolsol had spoken of it, with the name Pandora, but with the expression of that name, there came a feeling of weighty knowledge, of the likes that he couldn't access, but of the sort that twisted his heart entirely the wrong way.

His hatred for the name that Ingolsol had spoken was not a thing that he needed to learn, but Ingolsol certainly helped amplify it. The Pandora Goblin was the creature that had left Dominus so wounded, and robbed the realm of the hero Arthur, even if it was by the High King's hand that they were both sent to face it.

The Goddess Pandora was the source of all the monsters in their realm. All that was twisted. No mortal needed to learn hatred for that name.

Gar no doubt felt such hatred, for he glared it straight back, as though he had just as much reason to despise Oliver, as Oliver despised the creature inside of him.

"Strike then," Oliver goaded him. "You will lose now, just as you have lost a thousand times before. I see what you, Gar. You do not have the tools necessary to overcome me."

Somehow, he'd had the sense that they'd fought before now, before even meeting each other. As if, someone, such Vessels were eternally at war with each other, without even knowing that they were, or of their existence. It was a murky line, a blurred boundary between the wars that they themselves fought, and the wars that their Gods had fought with such emotion before them.

Gar came, as erratic and empty as ever, fuelled by the chaos that Pandora governed over. He was impossible to predict. But a God like Ingolsol needed not to predict. He merely stood, for he was the mighty, he was the very symbol of power itself. His arrogance was the strength of his sword. His condescending smile was his most cutting blow.

The young man's short sword appeared before Oliver's neck as if it had warped through time and space to appear there. It was such a speed that, even in Oliver's hatred, he had to acknowledge it for the grand gift that it was. Gar was an exceptional fighter, there was no disputing that – but the emptiness that tainted his blade no longer seemed quite so threatening. It was as fragile as glass. With his eyes stained gold, Oliver could see that emptiness with nothing but contempt.

He slapped Gar's sword aside, with the steel of his gauntlet, that Gar had so easily sliced through before. Then the youth was running straight towards Oliver's blade, unable to stop himself, as if he was pulled along by the strings of a puppet.

The sword ran straight into Gar's stomach, and only then did the referee's voice call out in a panic, realizing that they were all about to witness a murder, Blackwell's orders be damned.

"STOPPPP!" He shouted, diving in the way, trying to get Gar back, and defend him from Oliver's sword at the same time. He very much risked getting himself ran through in the process. It wasn't exactly the wisest move that the man had ever made. But somehow, he managed to escape a wound of his own. Oliver's sword stopped short in Gar's stomach, and with a flourish, he pulled it out again, flicking the blood from the blade onto the grass around them.

Despite his wounds, he did not fancy that he had ever felt more powerful than he had then. He looked at the crowd, and he listened to their cheers, and he heard them through Ingolsol's eyes. It had been an incredibly long time since Ingolsol had been allowed such a full extent of control. Oliver felt he could see the lay lines of power, and loyalty, spinning straight through the air. There was a sudden feeling in his chest that, if only he reached out and grasped it then, he could snatch it all – all the hearts that were for sale, all the soldiers that wished to serve.