A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Even that seemed like a jab. Oliver acknowledged it to be wise advice, but in acknowledging it, he couldn't help but see himself as a little foolish. Was this not childishness that kept him so impassioned, or was it simply who he was? There was a fine line. That line seemed to be whether it was effective or not.

"Ah," that noise of realization came louder than he'd intended. Indeed, victory… That was the only thing that mattered. That was why he'd allowed his rage to develop in the way that it had. Rage was his key to Ingolsol, and Ingolsol, no matter how devilish the Dark God might have been, was powerful.

But that was not all Oliver Patrick was. Oliver Patrick the keystone that managed to keep both Claudia and Ingolsol in check. He could not be overrun entirely by both of them.

"A man has to be broad," Dominus had said. "Not height, but in perspective. He must have many tools that he can use."

He'd swung his sword right by Oliver's neck as he'd said that. "That would be the attack of a particularly forward-thinking man," he'd said, before taking a step back. "And this is the stance of a man of a different temperament. A counterattack.

A swordmaster might teach a beginner to fight according to his temperament, but if you want to aim for the pinnacle, you can not simply do what comes naturally. You must explore everything. You must leave no stone unturned."

That was advice that Dominus Patrick had eventually ended up turning on himself. He'd covered all the grounds in swordsmanship that he could think of. He'd gone for the styles that he'd most resented and looked down on, and he'd mastered them.

And then, in the end, when that was not enough, he'd broadened his perspective even further, and he'd looked into that which all the Stormfront knew to rival – that of mana usage.

'Broaden the perspective, Oliver,' he told himself. There were weaknesses to this style. Just because it was so effective against him, there and then, did not mean it was perfect in its entirety. It would not be flawless, or else it would dominate every battle board. Oliver knew that much from his training with Volguard and Skullic. There was no such thing as a perfect strategy.

The only way to truly move in the world of strategy was adaptively. It was through the flow that Dominus spoke of, and the flow that Claudia presided over.

Though the Verna might have attempted to imitate that flow, through the calmness of their movement, and the way they stifled any forward attacks, they had not mastered it entirely. Oliver could say that for a certainty, only now that he stood back away from it. His experience told him as much. The heart of a battle was not so simple. There was not just a single response.

He drew open his eyelids. He acknowledged the state of his hand, and finally, he sheathed his sword. This was not a battle that would be won with the blade, not that day. He was injured, but he was not without weapons. There were other tools that he had at his disposal to try.

His gaze locked in on Firyr's relentless struggle. He couldn't seem to get anything going, no matter how he tried. Even sitting in the zone of potential that was Claudia's first few steps through a new Boundary, he couldn't find anything to stand on.

Oliver knew what he needed to do. He needed to create such a bridge. Indeed, might was one way to overcome a foe. But with the sword, he had learned to overcome enemies that might alone could not defeat. He'd learned strategy in one-on-one combat better than he'd learned it even over the Battle board.

It was a place that he was comfortable in, and if the circumstances had not been what they were, he might never have ventured away from it.

"New potential, sweet Oliver," Claudia said, the warmth of her smile could be felt, even if he could not see it. She delighted in this. Her love for humanity was the most genuine. Even the smallest fragment of Progress, she seemed nearly ready to cry for the person that had achieved it. Oliver had heard her comments, as she saw through his eyes.

She could feel what Progress truly was, better than any, and she knew the struggle that true Progress required. And that was a struggle that she would always weep for.

"Let us build," Oliver said aloud. He still had his cards. Blackthorn was still waiting in the wings. Firyr was still full of energy, even if the men around him were beginning to tire. The enemy had the ultimate faith in their defence – then, Oliver supposed, they had only needed to create an even more delicate and overwhelming attack to counter it.

The first of Oliver's signals was given. The Patrick men received the command with relief. They'd been awaiting his orders with bated breath. They'd almost feared that the first signal might have been one to retreat. Instead, the order was given for them to move towards the centre.

The men had been scattered in a flat line, covering the entirety of the road, but now they opened up space to their flanks, and they pushed more men to the centre, whilst bringing those on the sides back.

The end result was very much like the arrow headed formations that they'd gone against the shield walls within their battle facing down Khan. It left space on a thin slope where there ought to have been no space.

It was a contradictory and sudden move. One that invited the enemy to come forward. And with the style that the enemy currently employed, of opposing the enemy's motion, and only striking when they drew back, it seemed a fatal blow indeed.

"Oho…" Karstly said, delighted, from the bottom of the slope. Even Gordry gave a grunt of acknowledgement. He could not see exactly what it would achieve, for he was not the most strategically minded man himself, but he could feel in his heart that it was an annoying move – and that was exactly the sort of move that was to be praised.

"They retreat!" Jericho cried from beside Amion, his delight evident. "They're making the room to take steps backwards, aren't they?"