A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1890 - 1890: An Inland Kraken - Part 2

To put together exactly what had happened was still a matter of the utmost difficulty. The first defeat that Tiberius had inflicted Blackwell in managing a charge on his rear, from a placement that he ought not be, and with a speed that he ought not have, was still a matter that he had not found a solid explanation for. And in being so shrouded by that first problem, all that came after seemed increasingly menacing, and increasingly impossible to explain.

Indeed, it was to the point that Blackwell half wondered if there was no explanation at all. That they were simply so outdone by the man in front of them, that it could be pointed out as nothing but a monumental difference in skill.

That too didn't make sense. He was not so old, nor so out of experience, that he could find any opponent on the continent that could make him seem like such a beginner. The opposite was true – he was in the best state that he had been in many years. He had felt sharp, and far-reaching. He'd felt strong in his body, and certain in his Command. Any foe that he had met on the field that day, they would have found themselves crushed before him. All except Tiberius.

The worst part was that it was not only Blackwell that found himself defeated. Every single one of the Generals that stood in front of Queen Asabel had found themselves, eventually, on the back foot. Karstly who had been doing so well in his preemptive charge against the infantry had not been forced all the way back to the top of the hill, and he'd been forced to give up ground in the process.

No longer did any of them command the slope entirely. At every point, the Generals had been forced to concede a foothold. Tiberius did all that both from a distance, and then in person, when he felt his sword to be necessary. He did it like a man in pursuit of vengeance. It seemed like his response to that victory of Skullic's that they had all raised up cries for earlier – none of them were raising up cries now. They were trapped in a swamp, something that only the strange creature that was Tiberius knew how to swim in. They could find no footholds, no matter how it was that they tried.

Skullic had been the first to fall in, the first to fall victim to that endless scrambling, looking for anything that he might grab onto, but now the entirety of the army was plunged into that same swamp. The world was suddenly made too damp for any sort of spark to catch. That long established Stormfront fighting philosophy, that every single one of their Generals carried just the slightest piece of, whether they knew it or not, of starting the smallest of fires, and then seeing them blossom and grow in their own styles. All but Tiberius.

He was a creature made in the dark, apart from all the rest. A genius left to rot in the most well furnished of prison cells. Or was he left to rot? Did the Wyndon King not instead see him sharpened? Did he instead give to his monster all the things that were required to grow?

Blackwell had heard rumours spread, years ago, of the Wyndon King ordering masses of builders to his lands, for some secret project of some sort. They'd gone there, and few of them had come back, for so well paid was the work, and so consistent was it. One would have thought that he was building an extension on his palace, some new quarter for those of future centuries to marvel back on. But perhaps, instead, it was his prison palace that he was growing. He added to it, as his monster grew. For the larger the size Tiberius found himself to be, the more he needed evidence. The more rewards and riches he desired.

Perhaps, Tiberius' notion that he was an Emperor was not something that the Wyndon King had discouraged. Perhaps, the flawed nature that had seen Tiberius unable to exist in the rest of the country without due alarm was something that the Wyndon King had seen fit to grow, just as much as his skill.

The very foundation of his talent, and the strategy he wielded, was that corruption. The swamp that he had dived into, and sullied himself with. He'd swallowed its rancid waters, until he bled not normal blood, but the green blood of a swamp creature. Until he could breathe no air that was not tainted by a sickening miasma. He became something else entirely, a creature of experiment, a creature worthy of some level of pity…

As Blackwell began to think that, he was bulled by a heavy sword strike from above. He'd lost his horse in the melee, and had been frantically trying to organise his own lines, but Tiberius' infantry were merciless. He had Boundary Broken men amongst them, as heavily armoured as the rest, as they were monsters in their own right. Savage, relentless creatures, that cared not a wit for their own existence, only for the head of General Blackwell in front of them, and the other creatures down the line.

It was all twisted to a degree that Blackwell could not understand. He could not fathom such creatures as belonging to Claudia. Claudia's Blessings could not fall upon such beings that lacked humanity. The humanity of it was the very sort of thing that seemed to drive Claudia's progress – for it was that unique suffering that only an earnest human, in pursuit of something higher, could ooze, and could aspire towards. It was intermingled with honour. The sacrifice of something else could not be a fitting substitute for it.

To a degree, what Blackwell found in these men, was the exact opposite. Those Boundary Broken soldiers, they weren't as quiet as the rest. From inside their helmets, there came a growl. Low, like that of a large hound. They would pound away with that growl rumbling from their throats, desperate for blood. And when their own men did get in the way, they were just as ruthless. They cut down those heavily armoured men that the Blackwell infantry were struggling with, and they did it with such an ease, and without even the slightest shred of mercy.