A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1798 - 1798: Supposed Victories - Part 9

Oliver had thought, in his lack of understanding, that when he asked those peasant men to be heroes, he did so by force, with his Command, and he built something that was not already there. He was not to know that those seeds had been growing with each passing day – those same men had been watching and waiting for such a command. They had grown used to combat, enough so that they could almost be comfortable with it. With their General going so far beyond himself, they desired the opportunity to do the same.

So it was with a smile on his face that the peasant man watched, and he waited, surrounded by superior men. He was a watchful little wolf, his heart beating with a feeling of euphoria. He had never felt so alive. He knew not how he would match his enemy, he only had absolute belief that, whatever route he took, by his Lord's profound understanding, he would reach that desired goal, and he would do what was asked of him.

A cavalryman swiped for his back with his sword. A standard, and necessary move, dealt from the peasant's blind spot. But he was swift in getting out of the way, as if there were eyes on the back of his head, he sprang forward, to the cavalryman right in front of him, squaring his spear towards his chest.

With a snort, that cavalryman knocked it aside. He was armoured heavily, with a narrow-slit helm over his head. The man seemed to fancy that even if the spear blow had landed, he could have twisted to avoid a killing blow. Besides, it was obvious what he faced, from the rawness of the creature's form, and from the surcoat that he wore over his motley armour – it was one of Oliver Patrick's peasant soldiers, after all.

The next man came, emboldened, seeing the peasant's lacking technique, seeing him out of position, he slashed at him from the side with his own sword. The peasant tracked it well enough, and gave a bold dodge, ducking down entirely. It wasn't a martial arts slip, but the ducking of a child. A big movement, of the sort that any teacher would immediately have coached out of him.

The men pursuing him almost laughed seeing it. The horseman that had started behind him pushed forward again, to slice him across the back, now that the peasant had used up all his movements, and trapped himself right where he was now, with his knees bent, and nowhere to move to.

The sword came again, once more from his blind spot, a certain killing blow against the peasant that they had all by now successfully evaluated. They had seen the fullest scope of his movements. He was untrained, and raw, barely physically able enough to keep up with combat. Yet, perhaps he was indeed bold and brave – that more than made up for a lack of training.

The sword came down towards his neck, past his shoulder. That there was the evidence of the cavalryman's training. A blow he had no doubt practised a thousand times. Such accuracy delivered even from horseback. An arc that prevented any dodging – something that secured blood, no matter which direction its target moved in.

Then there came the twist. An inhuman thing. From the ground, where his knees were bent, and he ought to have been incapable of movement, the peasant dropped a knee to the ground even further. He twisted all the way off to one side, losing his spear in the process, and bending all the way backwards. It was done with a shocking fluidness, as if what they were witnessing was just a sudden stroke of genius. It seemed incredibly natural, for all its inhumanness – as if it were the impossible feat of a wild animal. The sword that should not have been possible to dodge went swinging past, and the cavalryman, temporarily, lost his balance in the saddle ever so slightly, bereft of the resistance in his sword he had expected to find.

Then it was there, like the inevitable threading of a needle. The twisting came apart all at once. The man snatched his spear and uncoiled himself with an explosive speed. All his tightly stretched muscles bounced back with a strange elasticity. Then his spear was thrusting, straight under the armpit of that raised arm, finding the gap in the armour, and spearing the man straight through.

"What!?" Came the gasp of an ally, a close friend of the slain – the two would take to the battlefield together, no matter where they went, swearing they would watch each other's backs. He pushed his horse forward swiftly, buoyed by rage, raining blow after blow down on the peasant and his spear.

The peasant soldier was pushed back. Already he was out of breath. It had taken everything he had just to slay the last man, and he knew not how he did it. He wasn't able to block efficiently enough to counterattack. He didn't even know how he was managing to check each blow, yet somehow he was.

Then, before he knew it, he was thrusting again. He knew not how he'd found the timing, but in the rain of ten blows that had been through down on him, the cavalryman had lost his speed, and his attacks had grown more violently and looping, allowing just enough of a window of a opportunity for a counterattack, if perfectly timed and predicted. The spear point went up under the helmet, into his throat.

The peasant collapsed in his exhaustion, grinning maniacally. "A hero, General Patrick. We's heroes, ain't we?" He said. It was as if his General was guiding his spear for him, for the soldier knew not how to do such things himself. He knew not why it was that he'd been able to best those men that were greater than him – only that his General had chosen this particular moment of battle to stage the melee, and that, if that was what Oliver Patrick had chosen, then that meant the wind of victory, no matter what, blew in their favour. That pure, unshakeable belief kept him forward.

Now, with a single cavalryman warily circling him as he knelt and gathered his breath. He tracked the man out of the corner of his eyes, but did not move, knowing full well that he needed to rest for as long as he could. He couldn't afford to do anything else.