No – he could see him. Verdant's eyes widened at that fact. He stared in awe, as blow by blow, Oliver forced that Great General across the battlefield. That same Great General who'd nearly killed him in a single blow – who'd knocked him so far, and sent him unconscious. One could never have imagined that these were the same to people.
Verdant recalled the words that Hod had said to Oliver. "Progress will see this battle won," the Minister had declared, and Oliver had instinctually affirmed it. "I still believe myself to be capable of more progression."
What kind of men dared to predict the likes of progress? Verdant was awed by it. If not for Oliver Patrick, he could never have declared the sort of victory condition that he had. He could never have assumed that men could grow in the midst of battle. Yet here it was.
Verdant's eyes saw what others could not. Even defending against Gadar's blows, dedicating his all to the defence, he still had enough vision to drink in all that was around him.
It wasn't merely Nila and Blackthorn who'd grown – though their change had been the most explosive – it was the entire army. There wasn't a single man spared. Every drop of potential that they'd stored up was squeezed out of them. The ex-slaves fought with greater effectiveness than veteran soldiers – though their style was far from the same. Theirs was a reckless animalistic wildness.
They made use of all that they had to fulfil Oliver's unspoken demands. The demand that they give everything that they had.
Now Oliver was close enough that Verdant could make out his face again. He could see his eyes, like the very eyes of the devil, fully at home right on the edge of existence. And with those eyes, Verdant was granted a blessing, as his strength left him. Those eyes fell upon him, looking right at him. They locked gazes, though there must have been nearly a hundred metres between them.
Verdant was forced to take a knee. Gadar's sword dug across his thigh. Relentless wasn't the right word for Talon's most loyal attendant – the man was something far beyond that.
"VERDANT!" Oliver called.
The sound of Verdant's own name startled him. To hear himself spoken to, specifically, out of all their soldiers… Was it wrong that he felt so privileged?
"UP, VERDANT!" Oliver said again. "YOU'VE FIGURED IT OUT FOR YOURSELF BY NOW, HAVEN'T YOU? WHERE YOU'RE WEAK?"
Even in the midst of combat with one of the foremost Attacking Generals in their kingdom, Oliver was in such a dominant position that he could observe Verdant's own fight. It was a monstrous thing. But Verdant realized it wasn't accidental. Oliver saw, just as plainly as Verdant did, that it was he that their victory now hinged around.
Talon would soon fall, but with a path of retreat open to him, he was too strong a man to be slain with speed. It was up to Verdant to secure the reins of victory, well and truly.
Oliver's voice was filled with trust, and Verdant regretted not being able to fulfil those expectations. For all Bohemothia's vision had given Verdant, he didn't see the answer that Oliver seemed to expect of him. He spoke as if Verdant had already answered such a question himself.
"YOU DO NOT EVEN HAVE YOUR EYES ON YOUR OPPONENT, AND YET YOU DEFEND!" Oliver shouted, before ducking straight into an attack on Talon, rushing him with three furious blows, cutting the General off before he could give a cry of his own.
With Oliver occupied, Verdant's attention returned to his own fight. He didn't know what Oliver was getting at. He wasn't looking at his opponent as he fought him? Of course, he was. There was no way he'd be able to track—
The priest was hit with a wave of sudden realization. His attention had most assuredly been on Oliver, and yet Gadar hadn't been able to secure any extra ground from it. Even without looking, Verdant's spear had kept the blows in check, tracing what they ought not to have been able to see. There was a distinct look in Gadar's eyes. It was almost as if he'd been blocking more effectively without…
The board pieces of Verdant's mind were overturned with a suddenness. The problem that he'd previously supposed he had was cast up in the air. Its qualities were torn to pieces, and they too were thrust up into the furious abacus of his mind, as he attempted to see what new shapes he could make out of these new pieces.
He'd trained the spear as hard as any man that he'd attended the Academy with. Likely far harder. He'd trained in his spare time, he'd studied it even when he wasn't swinging it. As far as information went, he had so much of it on the weapon, that even a master spearman would have had to admit defeat.
That information had never gotten him anywhere, though. In fact, the more he learned about the spear, the worse he got.
Even after he was Blessed by Bohemothia, and he began to gain knowledge on that which ordinary people couldn't see, his spear hadn't improved. He'd even dare to say – if he was speaking honestly – that his technique had become worse, as he gave everything over entirely to strength.
The problem wasn't that he lacked training. It wasn't that he lacked information. It wasn't even that he lacked connection to his body. His problem was that he had too much of all three. He saw too much at once, and he thought too much at once. The information became a burden, and manifested itself as delay, and clumsiness.
It made him the stumbling indecisive combatant that he was. A thing entirely removed from his normal character.
"Too much…" Verdant said, realized it. His pale blue eyes twinkled, and he smiled. Bohemothia rumbled, as though intrigued. A solution to a problem that impressed even that wise old God, that was a solution worth considering.
Gadar's sword came looking for his chest. His strikes were filled with an increasing amount of desperation, as he felt his General being brought increasingly close to the edge. That desperation only made him more dangerous.