A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1575 - 1575: Where The Dragon Lies - Part 4

"I see that in you," Torfus agreed.

"You would love it too, if you'd spent half a decade, chains on your wrist," the soldier said. "Freedom, this is. If they ever tried to chain me up again, with these skills, I'd kill them all."

Torfus didn't doubt it. The man was exceptional in his prowess for combat. He was far stronger than Torfus could ever hope to be physically, and he had the skills too to go with it. It was the evidence of all the training and battling he had done under Patrick command. It had made him a monster in human flesh.

Such a man should have drawn fear out of Torfus, and made him worry whether it was the risk of fighting him, but Torfus, increasingly, felt only joy. He failed his attacks repeatedly, and he was given a good degree of pain whenever he did. But the cursing came less when he fell, and the smiling came quicker, for he had a sense, from atop the walls of Ernest, of a deep approval. As if Oliver Patrick was watching every blow that he delivered, and analysed it, seeing intentions beyond Torfus' own intentions. It was as if he couldn't put a foot wrong, it was as if everything carried a weight of meaning that he didn't understand, but General Patrick did. It gave him a confidence that he wouldn't otherwise have.

It had changed for them, again. When General Patrick had promoted all those Sergeants, he had given the new peasantry the ability to survive the training that they were being forced through. They were able to return home to their fires each day, and long for the food that they were promised – and that was no small thing for many of them, to each such large rations, and see their bodies grow stronger.

Now, as they settled down, amazingly, it wasn't just the food that they looked forward to. It was the training itself. Torfus had found a particular thrill constantly in sparring, but increasingly, that thrill came to the general drills now too, even the practice with the sword, a weapon he wasn't too fond of. Even the running through the mountains, a chore beyond chores. It all felt meaningful. It all felt as if he didn't have to try, as if, somehow, everything that he did was good enough, as if he was being carried along a grand river, of which the destination was paradise. It was as if simply moving was cause for praise, and the warmth of that praise made him move more. It kept him heated, despite the chilling cold. It almost made him want to leave his tent in the night, just to train more, so he might feel that sensation again and again.

He saw it in other men, in the glow in their eyes. The lanky youth Serbus, that he had paid particular attention to after his promotion, and even before it. Serbus' body wasn't conditioned enough to keep up with the training. It seemed inevitable that he would have to give up at some point. If not in the training, Torfus was convinced he wouldn't survive their first battle, and done all he could do to ally that.

Now, even Serbus was beginning to find a place beyond effort. He found meaning in the grand sense of ease. They were all present before something grand. For all the snow around them, they were in an oasis, a brilliant paradise. The gravity was lesser there. Every action seemed significant, praiseworthy, enough to record in the history books. The great fire burned, as hot as the sun, as gentle as a mother's touch, from atop Ernest's walls, and by its great heat, they all plunged forward, viciously, enthusiastically, without weariness, without complaint. The only complaint they had was when they were not allowed to move.

To simply feel the joy of the training would have been one thing. Torfus could have smiled to the end of his days merely on that. In two weeks, it felt like he had lived a year. It was a strength of living that he had never experienced. That alone would have kept him satisfied. What went beyond it – that left him addicted.

"URAHHH!" Torfus shouted. He twisted his wrist, and then his shoulder, and his thrust seemed to spin with it. He found himself ducking under the giant soldier's arm, as the axe went flying overhead. His spear point rammed itself straight into the man's armpit, with such grace, such speed, and such a closing of the distance that it seemed to defy comprehension.

Despite the pain, the soldier's response wasn't irritation, it was delight. He exclaimed despite himself. "By the Gods! What the hell was that, Sergeant? That looked fuckin' insane. Can you do that again?"

"I have no idea," Torfus said, and he truly meant it. Such things kept happening. He would be so caught up in his own fun, and his body would suddenly gain the confidence to try something new, and then it would go dashing forward in the attempt of it. At times, it ended in embarrassment, something that he now found so easy to brush off. At other times, however, it was as if he was a man beyond himself, years into the future, wielding techniques that he couldn't have access to. And then the man opposite him wouldn't be stingy in his praise – none of them were. None of them needed to be.

Even Torfus found many opportunities in which to offer such surprised exclamations of praise, for it the soldier he sparred with still progressed himself. That was a strange thing to realize too – that as strong as the soldier was, with each day that they practised, he grew stronger, and he unleashed more daring techniques, catching Torfus off guard.

It was in such moments that there was no going back. It was an opioid of the most profound sort. It was a sentiment to living that Torfus could never give up on. When the word was spread, and it was asked amongst the soldiery what that was, Verdant Idris had been set to overhear, and he had proclaimed, with a rather proud smile. "That is progress, gentlemen."