A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

That rushing drive wasn't just applied to his lessons. It was midweek already when Oliver had received that fragment of hope from Professor Volguard, and as soon as it had ended, he'd gone into the gardens to practise with his sword, and to find a spear that he might attempt to use and add to his arsenal.

Though he'd been barred from any and all combat classes, that didn't stop him from training alone.

Training alone brought with it a hearty amount of progress in the different weapons, or at least, that was how it felt. It was like he was dusting off a layer of rust that he'd only just seen was there.

Though he didn't reinvent the wheel with his spear training, everything was growing crisper, and he thought that the thrust of his spear was approaching that ideal that Combat Professor Kolan had shown him.

He reflected on what a shame it was that he couldn't ask Professor Kolan for private tutelage, but he'd been informed in no uncertain words by a third party that such a thing was off the table. As one would expect from an Academy with the military as its foundation, weapons training was in more demand than any other pursuit.@@novelbin@@

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It was only in archery where he'd gotten off lucky, because of the efforts of Professor Yoreholder herself, who'd insisted on making the time whenever she could.

He found at least an hour a day to dedicate to that weapons training. Students would see him training amongst the trees as they passed, kicking up snow in the frosty winter world, as he cut imaginary opponents to ribbons.

By this point, even Oliver's attempts at practise and foolishness were so high level that people dared to stop and stare as though it was an outform, watching as he chased after an ideal. Of course, they would only remain so long as Oliver did not glance their way. The second he did, they would hurry off in embarrassment, some girls even with a hint of red on their cheeks.

Progress, progress, progress.

Finally, it was all coming together. Bits and pieces that he'd reached for, they were starting to fall into place. It certainly wasn't the way that he'd planned for things to go – there'd been so many unexpected occurrences, and current circumstances weren't perfect, but above it all, progress still won out.

After a life of stagnation, Oliver could not complain. That was the sentiment deep within him that kept him from truly swaying in any direction. Even in the worst throws of his sickness, that unshakeable principle kept him from losing himself.

Even with the budding anger that had come about after his less-than-ideal meeting with Princess Asabel, he still kept himself pointed and he kept himself sharp.

He didn't blame the girl herself, but it didn't do much to get rid of the flames that burned as a result. Progress was a saviour in that. A friend that he, of all people, never expected to have. Progress showed him a glory previously unknown to him. A box full of treasures wanted the whole world over. Every fibre of his world screamed with life, urging examination.

Even the long-dead leaves of trees, long buried or frozen beneath the snow – those that had not rotted – invited the ideals of progress. They invited study and curiosity, and at times even further innovation with his sword.

It wasn't a perfect pursuit, though, even if it was beginning to feel so eventful. It wasn't as though he could solve all his problems in one fell swoop, no matter how he strained. In his quieter moments, he racked his mind for ways to deal with his political situation, but all he could come up with was the steady incremental approach that they'd already enacted.

Even in that, he couldn't know whether it would lead him where he wanted to be. He could only have faith that something was better than nothing.

Therein lay the precarious balance. The more the progress of the last few weeks – and that week in particular – got to him, the more his mind pushed for firmer plans, and firmer controls. There seemed to be two distinct paths there, and it puzzled Oliver what the difference between the two was.

One invited the urge for complete control, whilst the other was gentler, like water, like the budding flow of battle, to merely solve tiny problems, trusting that they would build into a mightier wave. If Oliver had not had so much battle experience under his belt, he might have been drawn in by the first of those ways.

There was a seductiveness to it, that plotting of a future that may or may not come to be – and there was even a strength there, that didn't seem to last. But the world, continually, threw those plans out of order with its surprises, both in good ways, and in bad.

He hadn't expected an assassination attempt. That had thrown his plans out of whack. Had he plotted, like a true strategist, that might have broken him. It did not, though, for his way was the subtler way – the way of a man that knew not good things until most recently.

He hadn't expected the letter from Lord Blackwell. That too, had he been plotting so furiously, with no leeway in his plans, was something that he might not have been able to enjoy so thoroughly, for it would run contrary to his designs.

His highly volatile world demanded the second approach. There could be no other way of moving, when the world was in such chaos. All that a man could do was whatever he could do.

And so, even with anger licking at him, Oliver once more settled into a peculiar calm – a purposeful calm – of the same sort that had afflicted him at the trial. It was the calm of a hunting animal, alert and ready, but not immobilized by anticipation.

Another day passed, with people he wasn't quite sure he deserved doing more for him than he could have ever expected.