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"Now that you mention it, I reckon you\'re right… I don\'t know if he\'s pissed off… Or maybe he\'s getting even stronger? He can\'t be, right? There\'s gotta be a limit," the same soldier said in reply.

"Fighting monsters from dawn till dusk, all but alone. It wouldn\'t surprise me if he was getting better," an older soldier said.

And indeed, that was the case, to a degree. Just as when Beam had been training in the mountains, he approached his days of monster slaying with the eyes of a man that desired progress. He did not mindlessly swing his blade, as a day labourer swung a shovel, merely to get the job done.

He swung his blade with the aim of improvement, with the idea in his mind that if he looked at the set of problems just right, that he\'d come up with a new idea and be able to act upon it.

Now, there were only two horned goblins left, and a lumbering hobgoblin that a club in its hand that looked more stunned than anything.

But where that hobgoblin was merely stunned, the horned goblins knew to feel fear. Beam had not once exercised his power whilst fighting on the soldiers\' battlefield. But the monsters could still feel his aura anyway – they knew to fear him. Beam\'s very combat style had been trained up to this point with the aim to instil that fear, after all.

The horned goblins tried to run, but they only quickened their own demise. Beam dealt with them easily. Without their group fighting tactics, and without their spears pointed in his direction, the horned goblins were the weakest of all the foes that he had to face. He thought that to himself, as his sword shattered rib cage.

Now it was merely the hobgoblin that was left. Beam\'s eyes fell to its, and already the creature was wavering. Beam knew that if he gave the command, the beast would likely kneel before him, and offer him his life, but Beam wouldn\'t have been satisfied with that.

The death of Charlotte left a poor taste in his mouth. A terribly poor taste – something that he knew he would not be able to wash out for weeks. But something the Captain had said left him with a realization: there was nothing he could do about his failure. The only path currently open to him was the path of strength.

No matter how he thought about it, if he was only stronger, the situation would be better.

If he was strong enough – if he was aware enough – he would have noticed the violence going on within the camp, even as he slept. He was sure his master certainly would have. Dominus had demonstrated levels of perception that bordered on precognition. Beam knew such states of power were achievable, and now, as the anger stormed through him, he sought them desperately, just as he had in the past.

Once more, he wanted progress. Once more he wanted power. Enough so that problems like this would no longer trouble him. Enough so that he could defend those he had taken responsibility for.

It hadn\'t been so bad in the past, when it was merely him. Those years when the progress hadn\'t come, and he\'d had to struggle only to be met with dust as a reward – he could have fought endlessly in that state, for it was merely his own life that was at stake.

Now Dominus had saddled him with the lives of the many, and Beam was not yet equipped to deal with that responsibility. He sought a method of growth so that he might match it, just as Dominus had intended for him.

The hobgoblin growled uncertainly, and waved the wooden baton on its hand around threateningly – the piece of wood was as big as it was, with the bark still on it from where it had plucked it from the ground.

But Beam was used to them wielding greatswords that size. Even if the weapon packed a considerable amount of force when swung by the rippling green muscles that made up a hobgoblin\'s arms, it was hard to show it the same level of respect as the viciously sharp greatswords that he had seen so often forced into their hands.

It swung at him, with that mighty piece of lumber, and Beam easily stepped back, letting it fly in front of him, just out of range.

There were things he wanted to try on this foe, after all. His misdirection skill was only continuing to grow stronger with his speed, though he had not yet made it more complicated, or really added that many techniques to it.

His skill at overwhelming was at the point where he almost matched it – he was far stronger than he was, after all. He was beginning to learn that it was not just strength or speed that made for an overwhelming strike, but it was timing as well.

It was there that his skill at overwhelming and his skill at misdirection began to overlap – for misdirection allowed him to dictate the pace, to create that timing.

The log hit the ground in front of him, sending him a spray of snow and dirt. Beam could have ended it right there and then – he was far faster than the hobgoblin by now, after all, and its arm was so dreadfully exposed.

But there was a third component to Beam\'s style that he had begun to work on. That method of monstrous fighting, imitates the style of combat that a goblin might inflict. That mode of combining flow with the infliction of fear – that was his new element. That was the puzzle that he sought to solve.

The hobgoblin did not make for the best test target, for there was already fear in its eyes. It was already a dead opponent, in truth – there was already enough of an advantage on Beam\'s side for him to take that victory. But he sought to create a further advantage, to use the opportunity to practise that which he was weak at.

He allowed his sword to go slack in his wrist – almost to the point of allowing it into the reverse grip, but not quite. He merely didn\'t force the same rigidity in his arm that he had had before, so the weapon didn\'t sit quite straight, but moved a little, according to Beam\'s whims.