The village chief continued, a smile dancing on his lips, “I would also like to recognize the members of our village council, who have been doing a great job making this village a safe place." He extended a hand, directing the sea of eyes toward the elevated platform on the right.

The villagers swiveled in unison toward a group of individuals seated in a prominent position at the right of the arena beside the association heads. They were dressed in formal attire, exuding an air of authority.

Gio found himself caught in a storm of surprise as his gaze fell upon the trio at the council's helm. "Unbelievable! All the three pillars of the council have graced us with their presence," he breathed, a note of awe coloring his voice.

Although the council was made up of various different Rank 2 personnel,The spotlight always fell on the triad of power - the three strongest faction leaders who stood as the structural pillars, spearheading the council. Their presence today hinted at the magnitude of the approaching event.

In response to Gio's surprise, Lionel nodded in agreement. "Their desks are usually flooded with work. Yes, most of the council attends, but to have all the pillars together, they must be having high expectations from the tournament.” His shoulders danced a shrug of indifference, adding an edge to his statement, “I hope it lives up to the hype. Last year we swept the floor with everyone, so it was not a good one to watch.”

While the conversation fluttered around them, a murmur ran through the crowd like a playful gust of wind. "Here, Mr. Bagus!" their voices roared, "He always looks so strict. The embodiment of discipline." Whereas Madame Deradier looks so pretty, with her elegance.”

The roar of recognition stirred Bagus into laughter, as robust as the booming echo of distant thunder. His hand, cradling a glass of some amber liquid, responded with a jovial wave. "Listen to them, singing my praises. Ho-ho!"

Meanwhile, Madame Deradier, absorbed the crowd's admiration like a flower soaking in the sun's warmth. Her hand rose, acknowledging the applause, her words caressed by a hint of mirth, "My dear Bagus, they are smitten by my charm, not your stern countenance!"

"Hmm," hummed a presence beside them, sitting quietly. Councillor Colindier remained a steady constant amidst the electrifying buzz.

Osric leaned in closer as he eavesdropped on the hushed whispers of students nearby. Their voices danced with tones of reverent awe as they recounted, "Is that not Councillor Colindier? He killed two Rank 2 beasts singlehandedly by himself! He’s a hero!” Their gazes attached to the councilman with the adhesive strength of fervent adulation, basking in the reflected glory of his feat.

A hearty rumble of laughter echoed from Bagus's direction, his words drenched in jest as he nudged the otherwise silent Colindier. "Listen to them, Colindier! The saplings of our village recognize your name too."

Colindier sat still, not bothering to respond. Choosing silence as his only response.

Meanwhile, a sneer curled on Remfiled's lips as he pointed out, "Looks like the three coots decided to grace us all with their presence."

“Bagus is just a generation before you.” Libtin corrected him, “If you work hard enough after you achieve Rank 2, you might lead a faction in the council too.”

Libtin stepped in to correct him, "Bagus is merely a generation older than you." His words held a subtle challenge, as if daring him to rise, "Stride harder after achieving Rank 2, and you might just have a seat at the council table, leading a faction."

Remfiled merely rolled his eyes in dismissal, his response mirroring Colindier’s silence.

Tucked away in the flurry of conversations, Glucia, whispered a quiet vow to herself. Her eyes fastened on a distinguished figure seated in the council. His hair, a silver sea under the sun, mirrored her promise. "I will make you proud, Dad."

Opposite her, Preston’s usual vibrant energy seemed to wane. His eyes, riveted on Colindier's daunting figure perched in the arena, echoed a rising tide of nervous anticipation. "He actually came," he murmured, a trembling undertone in his voice that betrayed his calm facade.

As each council member stood up and waved, the crowd showered them with applause and gratitude.

"Lastly, but most certainly not least, it is my honor to acknowledge the distinguished elders of our village," the village chief announced. His hand ushered attention to the reserved space nestled between the association heads and the council, where wisdom was steeped like an aged wine. "These illustrious individuals have kindled the torch of leadership, painting a path of light in the darkness for our village."

Elder Leon rose from his seat, his silhouette etching a majestic figure against the sun, "The crowd is more lively and stronger than last year's gathering."

Elder Livia chimed in with her characteristic dry humor, "Though I must confess, I prefer their devotion in silent admiration."

A hearty laughter bubbled from elder Aretas, a sound as soothing as a babbling brook under the shade of a summer day. "However, it's our fellow association heads who have found newfound love for chatter," he said, casting a teasing glance towards their right.

Challenging the jovial atmosphere, Remfiled lobbed a taunt from the side, “You got a problem with that?”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

But Aretas, merely laughed at the provocation, like a cool breeze ruffling the feathers of an angry bird. "Ah, the fire of youth! It's a delight."

In the midst of the spirited exchanges, elder Dendiline, turned her attention towards Gautier, who sat a stone's throw away. Her question, laced with gentle concern, filled the air, "How fares your spirit? Ready for the contest?"

Elder Markus responded without revealing the storm of emotions beneath. "All will be measured in the crucible of the battlefield. I am sure he feels the same way."

Gautier did not respond. Merely just nodded.

Osric took a look before snapping his attention away.

"And now, my fellow kinsmen," the village chief spoke with a voice that carried a hint of mystery, capturing the attention of the crowd, "I have another exciting announcement regarding the rewards for this year's tournament."

A hushed anticipation filled the square as the villagers leaned forward, eager to hear what awaited the victors.

"The top three participants of this tournament," the village chief continued, his words enveloped in a veil of secrecy, "shall be bestowed a privilege seldom granted. They will be granted access to peruse and choose one prize from our village inheritance, left behind by our ancestor."

Gasps of astonishment echoed through the crowd. Whispers and murmurs spread like wildfire as the significance of the village's inheritance stirred intrigue and curiosity.

Those who knew, their shock was still. Those were surprised, and their expectation grew for the tournament.

Emboldened by the promise of the prize, the tournament participants girded themselves in a cloak of renewed determination. The glint in their eyes sharpened, mirroring the steel of resolve to secure their place in the exalted top three.

As the wave of excitement reached its crescendo, the village chief's voice cut through the din like a polished blade, "Let the games begin. Leif."

Leif, the village tactician, cradled a modestly sized box towards the center of the stage. His grip on the box was resolute, securing the restless inhabitants within - hundreds of tiny red creatures, hopping around in a frenzy, like an army of ants on a mission.

"Aha! They've chosen the alphabet monkeys to set the pace of battle this time," observed Elder Aretas, a hint of approval coloring his words.

Unimpressed by the theatrics, elder Livia voiced her dissent, "I'd take the simplicity of drawing lots over this spectacle."

Paying no heed to the commentary, the village chief held the attention of the crowd as he continued, "Each contestant has been assigned a unique number." The crowd's attention was now drawn to the spectacle of the little red monkeys. "The order of the battle will be determined by the sequence of numbers the monkeys select."

“The healers are on standby,” the village chief continued, his gaze directed toward a dedicated group of healers waiting patiently at the edge of the event, “and will heal your physical wounds and stamina as well as mental exhaustion.”

With the crowd teetering on the edge of anticipation, he posed the question that felt as charged as a thunderbolt, "Are we ready to start?"

The affirmation roared back like a rolling wave, a unison of voices echoing, "YES!"

A solemn note entered the village chief's voice as he added, "These young men and women have recently been baptized by the perils of the wild. Merely a month past, they undertook their first mission, travelling to the forest's fringes, experiencing the touches of life and death. Today, they face a challenge of a different kind, not the savage beasts of the wilderness, but their own peers."

"With that, let us initiate the first duel of the tournament," he declared, weaving an enchanting pattern in the air as he launched a handful of the alphabet monkeys skyward.

Their screeches reverberated around the arena as they soared, momentarily etching a strange beauty in the air, before erupting in a crimson cloud. From the settling dust, words formed, floating in the air like mystical incantations.

"Twenty-eight and One hundred and Six," the village chief articulated, reading the numerical summoning etched by the monkey dust. "Feel lucky as you are the first match of the day. Step forth and claim your place on the stage.”

“Oh, thats me,” a young lad, sporting a rough bowl cut pushed his way through the training hall, a mix of fear and excitement plastering his face. As he made his way toward the center of the stage, he looked around, the palpable pressure of the atmosphere pressing against him like an invisible shield.

Accompanying him was a plump boy, freckles dotting his arms like constellations in the night sky. He ambled onto the stage, the weight of the villagers' watchful eyes making him stumble slightly, his nerves betraying his attempt to seem composed.

With a hushed sense of ceremony, the village tactician approached the duo at the center of the stage. He carefully nestled a seed onto each of their shoulders, cracking its shell with practiced precision. From the broken husk, unfurled vines, slender and satin-smooth, as they wove their way over the contours of the contestants' bodies. Both the bowl-cut boy and the freckle-faced lad watched, with a mixture of awe and trepidation, as the seed flowered into a fully blossomed bud on their shoulder.

The village elder stepped forward, the gravity of his voice anchoring the crowd's attention, “You know the rules. The huberstain fungus, now a part of you, will react to lethal force, bursting upon sensing a force of attack that would kill its host. Your loss is confirmed if your fungus bursts. Any further attacks after the burst will result in your disqualification, along with more severe consequences. Surrendering at any point will also mark the end of your fight."

His gaze traversed between the two boys, ensuring comprehension of the rules was mirrored in their attentive expressions.

"Fight with all your might, show the village your growth," he resumed, "The battle begins at my mark."

"Three."

As the countdown began, the crowd rustled with impatient whispers, "Who are the fighters?" They were hungry for details, straining their ears to catch any morsel of information.

"The one with the bowl cut is Libian, and the short, chubby one is Morgan," came the hushed reply.

"Two."

The eager bettors volleyed another question into the sea of whispers, "What are their refinement levels? Do you know them?"

“Like I would tell you.” Information was a coveted, hoarded more jealously. Especially in a place where victory depended on keen knowledge, where betting odds were not public, and one had to navigate through their networks and gather additional intel to predict the winning chances.

"One."

As the chief’s voice echoed the final countdown, a wave of anticipation swelled among the spectators.

"I'll place my wager, ten stones on the chubby one. Seems sturdy enough to take a hit," a voice resonated amidst the audience.

"Ha, fifteen on the bowl-cut, kid. Don't underestimate the lean ones," retorted another, casting a speculative glance at the stage.

In every row, a flurry of activity ensued as betting personnel hurriedly documented the volume and value of the wagers being placed, their fingers dancing over their quills.

Then, in a commanding boom that resonated through every corner of the village square, the village elder's voice split the anticipatory silence, "Strike!"

With that single word, he set the stage for a display of strategy, strength, and survival that would determine not just the fate of the two fighters, but also the fortunes of those who'd placed their bets. The air grew thick with tension, the village waiting with bated breath for the drama to unfold.