A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Well, Storm, if you continue to struggle with this lot – winning their respect, and the like – then come and find me. I might have another use for you, if you're looking for coin," Oliver said, nodding at him.

The boy seemed shocked, flattened, and uncontrollably afraid all at the same time. He gave Oliver the best nod he could, not trusting himself to speak. Oliver grinned back, and then stretched his shoulders, returning his hand to the hilt of his sword, he walked on.

The yellow-shirted boys parted as he left.

Oliver was reminded, once again, just what power the noble title bore. The power that came with a good set of clothes, the power that came with wealth, they were all mighty things. Augmented with his power on the battlefield, this academy, it seemed like a playpen. It seemed incredibly comfortable.

Perhaps it was a mistake to provoke Gargon, but Oliver found himself not particularly caring. He hardly knew anyone in that place. If it was his destiny to be outnumbered, without a single friendly face, he at least wanted to know that they were enemies.

He would rather fight a band of a thousand people that he knew were his enemies for a certain – so that his sword could find them without hesitation – than a crowd of five hundred that he was uncertain of.

With such thoughts on his mind, he made his way to the swords class.

…

…

"BASIC! IT'S ALL BASIC! WE MOVE, WE STRIKE, WE CUT! EVERY STRIKE, EVEN ON AN ARMOURED OPPONENT MUST BE DELIVERED WITH THE INTENT TO KILL! I TEACH THE SERVING CLASS TO STRIKE OUR ENEMIES, I TEACH THE NOBILITY TO FINISH THEM," the professor shouted. It was rather unnecessary to shout, when they were all lined up, just in front of him, but shout he did.

They were within the grounds of the Blue Castle, on one of its many fields. The grass and vegetation had been cut away, and replaced with a layer of soft white sand. Not deep enough so that a man would sink as he stepped on it, but deep enough to at least dull the effects of falling.

His first instructions came with three basic fundamental strikes. A diagonal slash, from shoulder to hip, a thrust, and then a side strike. He had taught them all such things before, for they were in their third year of classes, so Oliver naturally found himself distracted by being taught such elementary things again.

Of course, he knew the value of the fundamentals. From Dominus, he had learned something far more important than what this man was teaching – not the value of a single strike, but the value of the transition from one strike to the next. The power of flow, of water, of transition. This man taught them power, how to crush, and evolve all their muscles at once.

His style was fundamentally different to Beam's and to Dominus'.

The man continued to bark – he was a barrel of a man, short, but wide, and dressed in full plate armour, with an axe sheathed at his hip. Now that to Oliver seemed to be a contradiction that one wouldn't hope for from a swordmaster – that his favoured weapon was the axe, yet he taught the sword.

The man continued to babble on, as Oliver looked around. There were far more students in this class than any of the others that he had encountered. Two hundred, nearly. That was probably enough to forgive the professor's insessant shouting. When Oliver had tried to make conversation with the nobleman next to him, he discovered that the large majority of the nobility took this class.

It was mandatory for men, though there were still a good handful of women amongst them. There were so many nobles that needed to take the class, that the students had been divided into two, and the classes separated.

The professor continued to ramble on and on. Oliver had discovered that his name was Professor Heathclaw, and he was quite sure that man was shooting him more than a few pointed glances as he spoke. He didn't know Oliver, of course, not personally, but the man already seemed to dislike him.

"RIGHT! THERE WE HAVE IT! FUNDAMENTALS! THEY ARE WHAT WILL WIN YOU THIS BATTLE! MAN, WOMAN, CHILD, EVEN DOG," the man said, again Oliver was sure that he was glancing towards him, "WITH THE FUNDAMENTALS, EVEN THE WORST OF YOU CAN BECOME A WEAPON. SPLIT OFF INTO PARTNERS.

SHOW ME THAT YOU CAN SPAR."

Oliver stifled a yawn, as he heard everyone getting into position around him. There was a weighted wooden sword in his hand, of the type that Blackwell had given him, when he sparred with Lombard.

Heathclaw had made a rather big deal about Oliver bringing his steel blade with him, at his hip, and had shouted at him furiously for a good five minutes before the lesson had begun. It was not a brilliant way to start, but Oliver was willing to forgive him.

As was to be expected, all found partners long before Oliver did. He didn't even bother seeking one out. He figured he'd eye up the dregs, and see just who it was that the nobility seemed to detest even more than him.
Experience tales at empire

"Patrick! PATRICK! Stop staring around like a half-wit. Pair with Blackhorn – she's the best woman we've got. I trust her to control her strikes on a beginner like yourself," the professor said. His words sounded innocent enough, but from the smug grin on his face, Oliver took it for the insult it was.

As Professor Volguard had said, not everyone believed the rumours of Oliver's success in battle.

He motioned to the girl at his side. Oliver looked at her languidly. Blackthorn. It was a good name for her. She had shining black hair, and a piercing gaze, with a stern expression, and an athletic figure. Her sparring sword was thinner than his.

A rapier, he realized. That was what they tended to train the women on.