“How much you putting in?” the words slipped from between gnarled lips.

The heavy scent of tobacco and whisky filled the dimly lit gambling house, where a haze of smoke hung in the air, catching the soft glow of torches that lined the walls. The sound of shuffling cards and the clinking of chips created a constant rhythm that permeated the room. Patrons, both men and women, dressed in their finest attire, huddled around various tables, their eyes filled with a mix of excitement and desperation.

“All.” Osric held out a cluster of gem-like stones to the dealer.

Behind the wooden barricade of the table, the dealer stood, his graying hair and neatly trimmed mustache lending him an air of austere respectability that belied the atmosphere of the den. He accepted the stones, nimble fingers sifting through them with the precision of a jeweler. "Five hundred essence stones on you," he announced, his eyes flicking momentarily to meet Osric's, revealing a spark of intrigue as he scribbled the wager down on his paper.

"And a little more," Osric hinted

The dealer's eyebrows rose, like birds taking flight in surprise, as he watched Osric slide a folded parchment across the table. He unraveled it with a calculated slowness, his eyes widening as he read the neatly penned contents.

"Surely, don't mean to be serious?" he posed, his tone ripe with disbelief as his eyes shot back up to meet Osric's.

"I assure you, I am deadly serious," came the response as Osric chuckled.

Within the folds of the parchment was the ownership deed to his house, the estate that was the last thing his “parents” had left after he emptied out all other liquid reserves he could get his hands on. The value of the property far exceeded the 500 stones he had just handed over.

The dealer regarded Osric with a mix of admiration and caution."Very well," he relented, the three syllables dripping with newfound respect. "If you're truly committed to this, then the worth of your house will be included in the betting."

His quill made contact with the parchment as he etched the new terms, “The total wager will reflect a sum less than your estate’s market value. Our establishment takes a 10% cut, a fee for facilitating the loan and mediating the transaction. Once the tournament concludes, a window of three days will be granted for you to reimburse the loaned amount. Fail to do so, the house will be in our possession” He laid the conditions out with a clinical detachment that a man of his occupation could muster.

Osric's face betrayed no emotion as he listened intently to the conditions of the battle tournament.

"Osric, correct?" The dealer rummaged through a stack of documents, his fingertips dancing over the surface of each parchment. "Here," he said, pushing forward a sheet of aged paper. "Aptitude grade C and competency 58%. Based on your past performances, your odds are 1:4. However, it's worth noting that luck plays a significant role in these events, and anything can happen in the heat of battle."

He continued, "For every stone you put in, you will get four if you win. This is considering you are betting on the final result before the tournament even starts.”

Osric scrutinized the dealer's words, his gaze narrowing as he digested the information, measuring the risks against the potential rewards. A curt nod marked his acceptance.

"Kindly sign your agreement here," the dealer invited, a smile dancing on his lips. In his mind, he was already celebrating the hefty commission this gamble would earn him.

***

“Come on in; the tournament will start soon!” multiple voices boomed across the village, beckoning everyone to gather.

The village sprang to life as the words swirled in the wind. Men and women, the young and old, everyone, surged toward the heart of their village.. The village square had been transformed into an imposing arena. Imposing walls of stone had sprung up, encapsulating the battleground where victory and defeat would be shared.

Vibrant banners adorned the square, a riot of colors that danced joyously in the gentle breeze. Streamers stretched across the pathways, their ribbons fluttering merrily overhead. The anticipation was palpable, reflected in the wide smiles and sparkling eyes of the eager participants.

A grand archway framed the entrance, embellished with intricate floral arrangements and delicate ribbons. The morning sun cast a golden glow upon the stage, enhancing its majestic presence. Laughter and cheerful chatter filled the air as children darted between clusters of adults.

The streets were teeming with vendors peddling their treats. "Skewers, get your skewers!" rang out amidst offers of sweetened honeyound, their voices a lively tune.

A stalwart guard marshaled the participants, “Those participating this way,” her voice cutting through the cacophony. Her command was met with a wave of eager faces, their eyes reflecting a mirage of anticipation.

The designated waiting area was no less thrilling than the square, the huge training hall imbued with an intoxicating cocktail of anticipation, excitement, and mild anxiety. The training hall for them to wait was filled with decorations, creating an atmosphere of grandeur and festivity. Weapons adorned the walls, providing equipment for warm-up.

The air within the room was electric, with animated chatter and the rustle of clothing as the participants prepared themselves. Faces flush with excitement, hands trembling with eagerness, a few whispers of encouragement punctuating the buzz. Amidst the fervor, a few remained silent, lost in introspection, perhaps attempting to summon courage or construct strategies.

The hum of questions swirled around the hall, a myriad of inquiries fluttering through the air like a flock of restless birds. "Has your refinement grown stronger?" "Any sponsors backing you yet?" "How have the hours of training treated you?" "Did your first trip into the forest help you?" The air crackled with a mix of competition and camaraderie.

Osric scanned the sea of faces, finding familiar ones amidst the many. Cain was doing push-ups near the exit door. Glucia was hunched over her treasure trove of gadgets, her fingers flitting over her inventory with meticulousness. Preston was sharpening his axes. Hilda was talking to some others in a hushed tone.

Each time Osric locked gazes with a familiar face, a curt nod was all that was exchanged - a silent acknowledgment of the impending competition. The tournament was a solo event, and they were all trying to beat each other; thus, no one was overly friendly. One had to fight their friends and beat them to win.

A steady stream of participants continued to flow into the training hall, their excited whispers amplifying the buzzing atmosphere. Among them, Finn emerged, flanked by his loyal thugs, their sneers mirroring their leader's arrogance. A single, disdainful “Mmmph!” was his only acknowledgment to Osric before he retreated to a corner, seemingly to meditate.

Stolen story; please report.

Amidst the chaotic hum, a sudden crash reverberated through the hall. The forceful swing of the entrance door sent a ripple of silence washing over the participants, their gazes drawn towards the sudden intrusion. A collective gasp echoed through the hall as Mitrus strode in, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the room. His arrival stirred a blend of reverence and intimidation, his reputation preceding him.

The hall fell into a tense silence as Mitrus scanned the sea of young faces, his steely gaze carrying a hint of evaluation. Seemingly uncaring, he sauntered towards a vacant corner, his movements akin to a prowling lion. As he settled, the buzzing of conversation gradually seeped back into the room, albeit touched with a newfound level of excitement and anticipation.

From the training hall, people outside could be seen perched on wooden benches in the arena, their eyes glued to the grand stage set up within the arena, while others found vantage points on nearby balconies and rooftops, hoping to catch a glimpse of the forthcoming spectacle. The whole village was watching, eager to see the competition. The murmurings of the crowd echoed through the arena.

In the midst of this anticipation, a figure emerged, commanding immediate attention. A man of middle age stepped onto the stage, his confident strides showcasing his authority. He claimed the center of the arena, his silhouette against the backdrop of the gathered crowd. As he raised a hand, a blanket of silence descended upon the spectators, the previously buzzing square now hushed in silence.

Every gaze was affixed onto him, parents quieting their children and spectators craning their necks to get a better look at the central figure. His voice, magnified by the mystical resonance of a small stone he held, resounded across the square, his words reverberating with an authoritative timbre.

“That’s Mr. Lief! ” someone whispered.

"Welcome," he began, the words resounding like a grand gong, "to the annual tournament!" His voice echoed across the crowd, igniting a spark of exhilaration in every heart.

"In keeping with our traditions," he continued, his voice carrying over the sea of silent spectators, "it is my honor to present the host of this year's tournament." He extended his arm towards the entrance from which he had emerged.

A dazzling figure burst forth from the doorway, his fiery red hair streaking the sky like a comet. The crowd watched in stunned silence, their gazes captivated by the intimidating figure that now soared above them. The training hall echoed with the excited whispers of students, and their awe mirrored in the stunned faces of the spectators. The words, "He's the host this year?" and "We’re lucky!" intermingled with the gasps and exclamations that rose from the crowd as the figure performed his airborne entrance, the arena buzzing with the thrilling energy of awe and anticipation.

The figure was none other than the village chief himself.

After making a circle around the stadium of crowded folks, he landed gracefully in the center of the arena. His long, flame-like hair shimmered brilliantly under the kiss of the sun, setting him aglow with an almost ethereal aura. As his feet touched the ground, the square reverberated with a collective cheer from the villagers, a roar of approval that echoed the admiration they held for their leader.

The village chief raised his hands, signaling for silence, and the crowd gradually settled down, eagerly awaiting his words. His commanding presence held a magnetic quality, and the anticipation in the air was almost tangible.

"Thank you, everyone!" His voice, unlike the previous announcer, required no magical assistance. It was strong and vibrant, echoing through the square with an innate force that commanded respect. As his words resonated through the space, the crowd fell into reverent silence. "Today, we come together not merely to bear witness to a showcase of strength and skill but to celebrate the bonds that tie us together as a community. We gather here to uplift and encourage the vibrant talent that our youth embodies."

His words were met with an outpouring of cheers, the fervor of the villagers echoing in the village square like an invigorating anthem. The village chief allowed a broad smile to stretch across his features, reveling in the raw adoration that surged from the crowd before he continued his address.

With another gesture for silence, the roar of the crowd ebbed away, their gazes fixed on the chief in eager anticipation. "This tournament is looked forwards to by many and for many reasons," he asserted, his voice imbued with an undercurrent of pride. He swept his hand towards a particular section of the crowd, adding, "It would be possible if not for the many hunters that fight and protect and provide for our village. Both old souls and new blood alike, I express my utmost gratitude."

Various faces in the section swelled up in pride, their chests puffing out with validation. Their contributions are recognized, and their efforts highlighted. Their contributions were recognized, and their efforts bathed in the limelight, filling the air with a surge of warmth and appreciation.

"I wish to extend my gratitude to the newly formed hunter teams who have courageously stepped up to fill the void left by our predecessors," the village chief voiced, indicating specific clusters within the crowd. "Your dedication does not go unnoticed."

Among the commended were Gio and Lionel, their hands swirling above their heads in a triumphant wave, the crowd rewarding their dedication with cheers and applause. Osric also saw many faces in the hunter section that he recognized within the mission center. He spotted the trio he'd recently crossed paths with—Tristan, Elysia, and Malkus, among the crowd, absorbing the waves of adulation.

"But let us not forget those who have guided us," the village chief continued, his gaze scanning the sea of spectators. "To the honorable heads of our village associations, your contributions have been instrumental in our growth and prosperity. Your tireless endeavors have ensured the safety and well-being of our people."

His hand gestured towards the left-hand side of the high seats, where a congregation of distinguished figures sat, each a representative of a different village association.

"Hark! That's Mr. Libtin, the backbone of our Farmer's Association. And lo and behold, that's Mr. Remfiled, the alchemical genius heading the Alchemy Association!" Whispers rippled through the crowd as they identified the esteemed figures. All of these people were influential in the village, their presence bringing excitement to the crowd.

"Isn't that Mr. Gautier? The head of the Veteran Association?" gasps of surprise echoed as people recognized the man who had made a bet involving Osric and Finn.

"So that’s the old man that decided to open up the bet between Finn and me," Osric observed the old man who had triggered his current predicament.

The excited pointing and whispers continued, "Look over there! Some rarely seen faces have graced us today. The heads of the Military Association, the Mission Center, and the Craftsmen Guild have joined us!"

Their mere presence amplified the anticipation in the air.

A cheeky grin adorned Remfiled's face, his playful eyes glittering under the bright sun as he teased Jaymark, the head of the Mining Association. "I haven’t seen you until you came out of your hidey-holes, Jaymark," he taunted,

Jaymark was not one to be left behind. He retorted with a twinkle in his steel-grey eyes, his voice rumbling like a distant thunderclap. "Aren't you also always holed up? Don’t pretend like you are not just a busy homebody," he countered. He rubbed his burly hands together, his bushy beard shaking as he chuckled. "At this point, get married to your cauldron already."

"At least I make something instead of just hitting on stones all day," Remfiled shot back with a sly smirk, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of a well-matched verbal duel. "How about now you hit on some women?" He suggested, a playful grin dancing on his lips.

“Why don't you-” Before the jovial dispute could escalate, a gruff voice cut through the playful exchange. It was the head of the Military Association, an old man with a stern face carved with wrinkles and deep lines, evidence of countless battles fought and won. "Why don’t you two quiet down?" He grumbled, his voice like the growl of a seasoned warrior, instantly silencing their banter.

"Agreed," chimed in Libtin, a smile curling on the edges of his lips. He was a man of few words, his wisdom and calm demeanor widely respected amongst the villagers. His words carried an unmistakable air of authority, a gentle reprimand hidden under a layer of agreeable diplomacy.

Remfiled let out a theatrical yawn, stretching his arms wide as if preparing for a comfortable nap. "You oldies, why don't you quiet down and let the young ones talk?" his voice filled with mock annoyance.

“Disrespectful as always,” Gautier commented, shaking his head.

The association heads finished waving at the crowd, the crowd showered them with applause and appreciation.