A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1521 - 1521: The Unexpected - Part 12

They cheered his name, for the sake of the competition. He saw the looks of awe, of fright, of overwhelm. They had witnessed a battle to the death. They had come for what should have been a swift execution by Oliver's hand, but they had stayed for what had ended up being a bloody contest of endurance.

Oliver spied Blackwell, ever stern, the man seemed to have pulled himself together. Karstly didn't look terribly dissatisfied either, though Oliver could quite well imagine that, between the two of them, they were trying to decide whether such a hard-fought contest was a good thing for their war effort. The peasantry had enjoyed the show, but would they understand just how high the fighter Gar had stood, or would they simply degrade Oliver's strength to make sense of it?

The fight had lasted nearly twenty minutes, long enough to draw even more of a crowd than it had initially been prospected to. Noblemen that had expressed disinterest had ended up being drawn in by all the noise, and that only happened with an increasing effectiveness the longer it went.

By the time the event was done, and a thunderous applause was being delivered by the many gathered there, they had amassed a number of spectators that did not pale in comparison to a single one of the events before. They had come, as if like moths to the flame, to witness something that pulled them in like a gravity.

"The victor is—" The referee began to say, heaving in deep breathings, and holding up a hand to quiet the crowd, so that they might hear his declaration.

Oliver could still see Gar on the floor, kneeling, cradling his wound to his stomach, with shock and anger written all over his face, and his hatred still brewing like the strongest of teas. It made Oliver grit his teeth with irritation to see him be so continually defiant. Enough so that, he thought nothing of stepping forward, and pushing the referee aside, so that he might talk over him.

His like nudge threw the referee to the ground, and despite the man's protests, there was soon enough a sword levelled at Gar's neck.

Oliver spoke loudly enough then that the whole crowd could hear – not that he would have had to try hard, from the sudden hush that fellow over them, when they realized with alarm that the duel seemed well to be continuing. There were a few shouts of dismay, but Oliver drowned them out in an instant.

"Submit," he demanded of Gar. "I acknowledge your skill, but you are beneath me. Submit to my cause, and perhaps, you will find enough opportunity for blood, that one day you might best me."

He stared Gar down, with those unblinking golden eyes as he levelled that request of him. Gar said nothing in return, but the young man was seething. He grabbed the grass next to him into his fists, and he clenched tight.

"The weak submit to the strong," Oliver said. "One day, if you best me, I shall do the same to you. On that promise, I demand your loyalty. You have troubled me, and now you will do the honourable thing, and make it worth my while."

"Gar doesn't—" Gar began, practically foaming at the mouth, as he spoke up his refusal.

"Kneel," Oliver demanded again, forcing him back to the ground the second that he tried to get up. He detected the slightest little rummaging of fear, when that sword neared Gar's neck, and by that point, it was enough.

The youth doubted himself. When Oliver spoke his orders again, that strange wilfulness present in Gar, despite the emptiness of his fighting style, started to fade. "Serve me," Oliver said. "You are wasted in the wilds, Gar. I will not allow such a fine sword to collect dust, when the kingdom of the Stormfront has a need of you. Join us, Gar, and you will be rewarded properly for the glory that you collect. You are a Sword of the highest sort – it is time the Stormfront knew your name properly."

In front of such a crowd, after such a spectacle, the strange scenario made for quite the impression. For a youth to ooze such arrogance, and for that arrogance, somehow, to seem like power of the highest sort. If it had failed, it likely would have been met with disgust from those that had watched it. To take advantage of a fair fight, and to push the referee aside, in order to force an opponent into submission – that was an act worthy of disgust. It did not match the chivalry expected of a knight.

And yet, when the wilfulness of Gar crumbled in front of such an assault, there was a stranger reaction. There was something like a chill. It was as if the wave that had built up, and washed over Gar, dragged him under, drowning him all that was Oliver Patrick, had suddenly broken, and the slightest little touch of it washed into all that was around them.

Gar's sword slipped from his fingers. His head bowed. Gar gave his defeat. "Gar will listen… for time… But Gar will fight again, and Gar will win."

"You will win," Oliver said with the smallest of smiles. "Under my command, I shall promise you no shortage of victories, and I shall promise you too as many opportunities to challenge me as you wish for."

There was the slightest amount of delicacy in that, as if it were a kindness, in the aftermath of the storm of Oliver's overwhelm. Part of Ingolsol faded, just for a second, and the usual Oliver Patrick came through, to offer his reassurances. That slight little offering was enough for Gar. He returned the smile, as best he could. The idea of fighting Oliver Patrick whenever he wished to – there was no greater gift that Gar could have wished for.

But as soon as Ingolsol had receded, he was back again. Oliver slid his sword back into his scabbard, and he turned his gaze towards the expectant crowd. The referee was on his feet, and he opened his mouth, though he looked at Oliver nervously as he did so, as if asking for his permission to speak. Oliver shook his head at the man. "Now is not the time for talk of competition," he told the man.