A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Go on then," Oliver said, stiffening, his speech inadvertently reverting back to how he would have spoken to Greeves, as a peasant.

"The stories that spoke of you said Kursak – they were true. The other stories of you slaying Jok, after he received a second blessing from Varsharn – putting him through the Third Boundary – are also true, given how easily you bullied Heathclaw today. And yet… You are still only merely in the Second Boundary yourself. Such things defy convention, does it now?"

"How so?"
Your next read awaits at empire

"Well, a man in the Third Boundary is meant to be stronger than a man in the Second. That stands to the conventional wisdom upheld by Claudia's Church."

"My master. Or rather, my father – he told me that the Boundaries existed merely as limiters to our potential. To break through a Boundary is to open ourselves up to a new area of progress. It does not just make a man strong straight away, but it allows a man to progress with an improved speed for a time, getting even stronger.

There will be disparities, then, amongst the Boundaries, with those that have spent a long time progressing in a certain Boundary, and those that have only just arrived there," Oliver said, recalling what Dominus had told him.

"Indeed, that is true," Verdant said, wiping away the last of the blood. "Your father's understanding of the Gods was more developed than the folk around here, it seems. As expected from the first man to pass through the Sixth Boundary. The disparity amongst the Boundaries reflects the inherent potential in an individual.

You, Young Wolf, are the only case that I have been able to witness in person, where that disparity is manifest so obviously. Hence my interest in you."

He set his cloth aside. "I had thought that I might need to restitch these wounds of yours, given the blood, but I think it would be better if I did not. The skin has already lost much of its flexibility with your scar tissue. Here, I think some bandaging is in order – and some rest, if you would allow your body that."

Oliver gave a vague agreement. The wounds on his back did not worry him. Over time, they would heal, as they always did. They'd long since passed the point where they were dangerous. As long as he kept them free of infection, he would be fine.

It was his mind he was worried about. Or was it even his mind? Perhaps his soul was a more fitting word for it. Whatever that feeling was, like shards of glass driving into his heart, depriving him of that natural balance that he'd always felt. It was as though he was straining to uphold the roof of a temple, after all the pillars had been knocked out.

"Priest," Oliver said. "Should you not be handing me over to your professors? Have I not just committed a crime in this society of yours?"

Verdant sighed. "Again, you call it my society, as though you are not a part of it. I'm sure the professors will want to see you at some point, but I do not doubt that Heathclaw has already run to them with his complaints. There will be no time wasted, indulging me with your company, if only for a time."

"Then, what are you after?" Oliver asked, pointedly, his natural suspicion taking over. Everyone – or at least, nearly everyone – that he had encountered showered him with nothing but hostility. He could see no reason for the priest to act any differently.

"Greatness, Young Wolf, I chase greatness, like a bad smell, I hold my nose and search for greatness on the wind. There are plenty of fires burning here, petty politics, obscuring the air with smoke, but their scents are mere distractions. Behomothia saved me from a cold death, in the dark of her waters.

With her blessing, my senses are keener, and I believe I know what my purpose is, by her eyes," Verdant said, his voice strong, and self-assured.

"Some men have the power to unify. Others have the power to destroy. My role is neither. I am neither particularly clever, nor particularly strong – and yet I live, where others near me have died," Verdant said. "I admit – I am a young man at twenty-three, and you might not find it in yourself to trust any of what I might call wisdom, but I have an interest in greatness, Young Wolf.

I believe that to be my purpose. To guide the greats, like the moon guides the tides of the sea."

"…What is it that you want from me, then?" Oliver asked.

"The chance to watch what it is you do," Verdant said, cracking a wry smile. "You might find yourself to be in a predicament after your showing today – but it is still the most interesting thing I have found since my return to the Academy as a priest three years ago. None have shined quite as brightly as you."

"I see…" Oliver said, not exactly understanding where Verdant was coming from, but content enough that the man was not declaring himself an enemy.

"Hold this," Verdant said, as he handed him one end of the bandage, and began to wind it around his torso, rebinding the wounds on his back. He cleared his throat, and began to speak again. "You said earlier that you sought strength. You asked me if all the professors here are of Heathclaw's level, and in that regard, you might be disappointed.

Your father was the greatest swordsman the Stormfront has ever seen – who could compare to that? But, there are still men of note here, men of strength."

"Generals?" Oliver asked.

"A handful," Verdant said, a look of understanding in his eye. "Though, they do not teach. Most of them are rather old by now, but still, they hang around these cold stone walls, in the hopes that, like me, they find someone interesting, someone worthy."

"Do you think they'll teach me?" Oliver asked, it was hard to keep the excitement out of his voice. He was surprised by the sharpness of Verdant's answer.

"No, I do not think so," Verdant said. Oliver looked back over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow at the swift denial. "They seek a leader, Young Wolf, you have not proven yourself to be one yet. Their eyes are more towards the Games – and you have not even begun to gather a Force yet."