A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 825: The Masked General’s Response - Part 5

"No, they've got something weightier," Oliver said. "A day in a slave's shackles is as weighty as a week of a free man's living. Look at your bodies and your scars. Those are the bodies of men far your older. They should be hit with that man's experience."

"It sounds nice, but how does it work, Boss?" Firyr said. "You can fire em' up, and let them know slave living was hard. Damn right, I agree with you. It's hard, and brats like that scowling Cormrant doesn't know the half of it, but it doesn't change the fact that he knows the spear and these men don't. I couldn't be useful without all the training that I've had."

"That is the issue, I would assume," Oliver said. "In time, perhaps I will make soldiers out of you, but you are no soldiers yet. In trying to be something that you are not, you weaken yourselves. Do not forget what you are. You are slaves free of the shackles. You are dogs that have bitten through the chains that bind you.

Fight like such a free hound – they cannot match your ferocity."

There it was, finally, a spark. He saw it stirring in the hearts of more than a few men. As he spoke, he'd made sure to speak to the Sergeants more strongly than the rest. Skullic had given them that advice about Command delegation, and as Oliver attempted to teach his men, he attempted to learn from Skullic's advice at the same. He thought he was close, but he wasn't quite there yet.

In Sergeant Yol, he saw a flicker. The tiny flames of his heart that had just broken free. A mad dog – the man seemed to like that image. It must have meant something to him.

In Sergeant Illy, things were quieter. Perhaps he did not relate. Or perhaps he was reluctant to truly let loose, as Oliver was encouraging them to.

The fires were small, but they were burning the same colour as Oliver's. He let silence sit for ten seconds, and he could all but hear an audible click.

"Got them," Ingolsol said gleefully, as he felt the connection get established. It was weak and it was tenuous, but the connection was there.

"Remember the responsibility that comes with this," Claudia warned. "Never forget what the first moment was like – what it meant for you. Never let that sense of responsibility wain. A leader must be capable of leading his followers towards progress."

Oliver was in agreement with Claudia. He held the same belief as she, though she did seem to have a significant amount of bias, given that she was a fragment of the Goddess of Progress. Nevertheless, on this occasion, it was not merely Claudia's ideals that would reach these people.

The connection was there, and now it was left for Oliver to speak. Whatever he would say next would be magnified. He glanced at Firyr. That man had a stronger bond to him than most. Half the other Sergeants did as well, but two were lacking. The strength of their bond did not seem equivalent to men in positions of leadership.

Oliver knew he would have to address that at some point, but he did not know how.

He didn't allow that pursuit of perfection to stop him from making his first step.

"Rage, comrades," Oliver said, his voice quiet, and his eyes tinged with gold. They looked up, the whole group of them, their receptivity immaculate. He pointed at Skullic's soldiers. They were changing over now, with a fresh wave of men replacing the last. "They are your enemy – rage against them. Rage against all that would see you again in shackles.

Weakness is your enemy, strength lies beyond your opponents. Those men hoard your strength for themselves. Trample them, and take it from them."

If lightning had struck earlier, now it was the thunder that they heard. The quiet slaves, impossibly, were bellowing.

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"""GAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!"""

A wordless warcry of beasts, almost mad with anger. Their fangs were showing. Their eyes were red and bloodshot. The relentless failures that they had been forced to endure for two days now served as the kindling for a deeper set rage. Oliver had merely tossed oil on those flames.

Every man in camp could not help but look at the fifty slave men who announced themselves properly for the first time. Reckless, primitive, and furious. It was the passion of man, and it was a horrifying thing to behold from such large creatures.

Firyr and Judas were the only ones not swept up by the sudden wave of emotion. Even the Sergeants had been caught up. They looked in surprise, for an instant unsure why the slaves had suddenly exploded – but then the wave of emotion washed over them as well. Firyr had more than enough rage to spare. He was a vengeful man, at is heart.

His anger had saved him from ever truly submitting to his slave master. He bellowed louder than the rest, raising his spear. The men shouted even louder with him, as though taking his cry as a challenge.

Judas' breathing came heavy. He was trying to hold back against the same emotion. He had stability to him now, he wasn't so liable to be swept away. He had a wife a child and… "ARGGGGHHHHHHHH!"

Now he was feeling the rage too. As happy as a man was want to be, there was always something lying there liable to start a fire. Judas – cruel man that he had been – had endured much that the nobility could not imagine. His rage came more deeply, though. He had an experience shared only by the villagers of Solgrim that he could draw upon.

A single night, where every man was helpless, no matter how much he struggled.

With his cry, Judas became once more what he was, what he had always been, and better still. A demon with Solgrim blood, with a strength that had felled men from villagers for miles around. If Oliver had never appeared, Judas would have always been the strongest man that he himself had ever met.