A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 879: The God’s Delight - Part 2

He glanced at his attendant. That beautiful, horned-headed woman who had served him so long. That emotionless face, yet with eyes that betrayed a longing. Ingolsol knew how he felt. How could he not? He planted that very emotion in her, just as he had cultivated every aspect of his majestic throne room to be exactly as he wanted it to be.

That was Ingolsol's power, and its influence, and it extended to nearly half of the Realm of the Dark Gods, without hardly trying. They'd moved him here thousands of years ago, throwing him out of the heavens, and the very instant he'd set foot there, he'd seized what they had for himself.

"Claudia," Ingolsol said, speaking his words onto his parchment, knowing that they would reach her. "My power grows. You can no longer evade my voice. You know that I shall make my return. And when I do – you know that you shall have had a part in it."

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Claudia did indeed hear, though she wished she did not have to listen.

Just as Ingolsol was in his throne room, lounging, she was in hers, though her posture was far too tense to be described as lounging. Her hands were white with fear for her subjects as she looked into her pool, and Ingolsol served as nothing but a distraction.

"We ought to take measures to silence him. If we speak to the other Gods, they might listen," the attendant counselled. "Varsharn would, if we were to…"

"Varsharn can not stand against him," Claudia said, her voice hard, filled with a strength that seemed surprising for such a delicate woman. "It took all of the heavens united to cast him out. We do not have the unity needed to make such a call again."

"But his warnings…" the attendant said.

"I will return," Ingolsol cawed, unknowingly interrupting their conversation.

"They're true, are they not?" The attendant continued.

Claudia didn't answer.

"What you did, when you Blessed that boy, did you know it would lead to this?" The attendant said.

"How could I?" Claudia thundered. "How could I know, that for Ingolsol, it would only take one to match our tens of thousands – no, one to match the hundreds of thousands Blessed by all the Gods."

"He is the God of Despair—" the attendant started to say.

"He is not!" Claudia shouted, with rare impatience. She seemed surprised at her own anger, and quickly grew quiet, as though embarrassed by her own outburst. "He is not… His name is returning. Despair is a mere fraction of what that man once was."

"Claudia," Ingolsol cooed. "The day will come when you and I are reunited. Our union will make even the Old Gods kneel. Oh, how I can't wait to hear Pandora and Gaia squeal. Perhaps even old Chronos might awaken and greet us? But even the Three shall be paltry, when the time doth come."

Claudia heard Ingolsol, and his words were like a spear to the heart.

"I do not think even he knew this would happen," she said quietly.

…

…

Oliver forced the slow retreat of Talon, a fact that should have been enough to secure victory by itself. But the General wasn't merely an outrageous fighter. That was a simple addition that came with his territory. His true worth came in the tidal wave that he'd made of a few hundred ill-trained men. He was, in short, a monster in his own right.

What he created culminated in significant pressure. The Patrick line, inevitably, was forced back. That was about the only thing they could do to try to contain the strength and ferocity with which their enemy now fought, but even then, it didn't stop them from incurring heavy losses.

The only thing that kept them hanging on was morale of their own, and the belief that Oliver Patrick would slay the enemy General for them, and bring them victory.

Neither Oliver nor they could have anticipated that it would take so long to get that job done. Now they were dealing with the consequences of that delay. As with any system, when the pressure was increased beyond that which it could handle, it would inevitably blow out at its weakest point.

As well as the Patrick soldiers had been fighting, it was fair to say that they'd passed that point of critical pressure a good while ago. The size of the enemy army, coupled with the strength of the Blessed individuals that walked amongst them was an obstacle of overwhelming size. Something that they hadn't truly been able to match.

And now that same obstacle had been inflated to grand proportions, with the effects of General Talon's Command.

The pressure became far too much, and the system experienced its first break. There was a weakness in their formation that they'd known to exist from the start, but dared to go with it anyway, owing to their lack of numbers.

That was the left flank.

Rivera's sword ran in through Blackthorn's side, and a mouthful of blood erupted out of her mouth, spilling down her pale face.

How many people would have wept at the sight back at the Academy? A woman viewed to be so refined, and so beautiful, that she'd been admired by both men and women alike. To see her as cut up as she was, with her armour and arms slashed viciously all over, would have invited more than a few tears.

About the only man capable of attacking such a creature without reservation was likely someone like Rivera. As a beautiful man himself, beauty held little value to him. He wanted that which he didn't have – further strength – and to that end, he was willing to cut down what was in front of him.

"It's over," he told the woman, as she fell to her knees. She'd resisted him for far too long, but now Rivera could say that for a certainty. "Bare your neck, and I will take your head cleanly, and painlessly."

Lasha barely heard him. She couldn't hear anything. She was staring fixedly at a spot in the bloodied snow in front of her, trying to will her body to continue breathing, as every breath was breathed with unimaginable pain.