As the stentorian roar of the village chief reverberated through the bustling square, an electric tension zapped through the atmosphere, reaching a climax that choked the collective breath of the gathered spectators. Eyes, round as polished coins and glistening with anticipation, remained fixated on the epicenter of the forthcoming duel - a gritty faceoff between Morgann and Libian.

Sensing the moment, Morgan's muscles locked like the coiled spring of a predator as he launched himself forward, his blunt sword cutting through the dusty air with deadly intent. Every muscle in his arm flexed with raw power, propelling the weapon forwards. Libian spun aside from the whistling strike, his twin tonfas swirling like dancing flames to deliver a riposte aimed at Morgan's unprotected legs.

Morgan's teeth gritted together, the shockwave from Libian's tonfas rippling through his shin. It was a hit that should have sent him sprawling, but he held his ground, his muscles quivering as he fought to recover from the counterattack. Undeterred, he retaliated with a relentless series of strikes, each swing of his sword a challenge to Libian's defense.

A bystander's boisterous voice spilled through the crowd, "Morgan has a grade C aptitude with a 62% competency. He should win this. I heard he is general blood refining, so if that lad can make this battle last as long as possible, that would flip me a hefty stone. Hehe."

"Libian's the better bet, mark my words," another voice interjected, bearing a measure of subtle defiance. "The lad's got 70% competency; he's got the biggest winning chance, I say."

"Apptitue and competency don't always carve victors in battle, old man," a third voice hollered, piercing the clamor, its tone laced with the wisdom of experience.

As the impromptu betting embargo commenced due to the start of the match, it stirred up a storm of commentary.

Within the dust-strewn arena, Libian showed his expertise. His movements were fluid, ghost-like, the product of tendon refining that turned his every step into a ballet of evasion. He ducked, weaved, and dodged most of Morgan's attacks with efficiency. Morgan's attacks, though potent, were outmaneuvered with a dancer's grace, each swing only finding air as Libian struck back with swift counter-blows.

Yet Morgan seemed like a steady rock within the stream, every blow he took only fueling his determination. His endurance and stamina kept him going, despite the barrage of counterattacks from Libian. He refused to yield, using the advantage of blood refinement to push through the fatigue. His blows became more relentless, fueled by his determination to overcome his opponent.

As the fight unfolded, the crowd watched in awe, their excitement growing with each exchange. The clash between Morgan's raw power and Libian's nimble movements created a captivating spectacle.

As the battle raged on, Libian started to show signs of fatigue. His once fluid movements started to grow sluggish, and his breath labored. Morgan, despite the wounds that were steadily painting his body red, seemed to have reservoirs of untapped endurance. He was a blood refiner, after all, and the longer the battle raged, the stronger his advantage became. As one refined blood, the more increase in stamina and endurance one would get. Thus, blood refiners favored more drawn-out battles to make full use of their advantage. However, he had to be cognizant of not getting too battered by his injuries.

Whispers of speculation ran through the crowd. "That boy...he's going to win."

However, for all his dogged persistence, Morgan was not without worry. His wounds, though they were more grazes than gashes, began to bloom across his skin in alarming numbers. Blood refiners thrived in protracted battles, but even they had their limits. Morgan's stamina was remarkable, but his durability was not. He had to be mindful of not pushing himself too far, lest his organs succumb to the excessive strain.

Meanwhile, the drawbacks of tendon refining were starting to show in Libian. Each blow he failed to parry or dodge inflicted more damage, his tendons, robbed of their natural elasticity by the refining process, becoming a weak link in his defense. Most tendon refiners had to worry about this major drawback. Their speed and agility were bought with the price of lower defense and increased fragility.

Morgan was standing up more sternly than he had hoped. His body also could not last longer. So, Libian prepared to deal a swift and decisive blow, hoping to conclude the drawn-out duel. He gambled on the prospect that a final, focused strike coupled with the slow accumulation of Morgan's injuries might tip the balance in his favor, resulting in a lethal conclusion. Dragging out the fight further would only amplify his shortcomings, gnawing away at his chances of victory.

Spying a fleeting opportunity, Libian targeted an exposed spot on Morgan's body. With a final surge of effort, he drove his tonfas toward the vulnerable point.

Morgan, however, with a burst of renewed energy, deflected Libian's strike, countering with a powerful blow of his own. His sword connected squarely with Libian's chest, the blunt force landing with a thud that echoed in the silence of the duel's climax. The impact rocked Libian backward, his balance shattered, sending him sprawling to the dusty earth beneath, visibly stunned. The huberstain fungus that was attached to his shoulder, used in such fights as an indicator of vital limits, popped with a soft, almost regretful sound, its explosion signaling Morgan's victory.

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

Morgan crumpled to his knees, his sword serving as a makeshift crutch that held his heaving frame upright. He gulped in the arid air, his breath ragged and triumphant, his heart pounding an exhilarating rhythm of victory against his ribs. A weary grin stretched across his dust-streaked face, the triumph in his emerald eyes outshining the sheen of sweat and exhaustion.

Amidst the post-battle silence, an old man's voice cut through the stillness, "I won, hahaha. I bet 150 stones on that boy, and look at him now! Hahaha." His laughter, buoyant and contagious, sparked a domino effect of reactions.

Responses from other onlookers flowed spontaneously, "Indeed, betting on that kid was a good call. Whoever told me to bet on the other! Don't talk to me ever again!"

"Tsk, lost already on the first bout. Damn, my rotten luck!" Such varied reactions painted a lively portrait of the crowd, a montage of emotions that flavored the event.

Osric looked at the entire situation in stoic contemplation, "The tournament acts both as an internal competition to spur the youthful spirit and make allies and rivalries for future growth. No wonder it is so widely celebrated." He looked around at the faces of the students in the waiting room. "This tournament will springboard their future at the village. Perform well and thrive. Lose and be forgotten."

The village chief gracefully descended onto the center stage, "Winner number One hundred and Six." he declared in a firm voice that resonated with authority.

A wave of exultant cheer erupted from the crowd, washing over the stage. The resonance of their voices reverberated in Morgan's chest, his marrow vibrating with the excitement of his hard-earned victory. He drank in the view, every cheer, every round of applause that was meant solely for him.

Meanwhile, Libian lay on his side, his breath a shallow pant, his ears filled with the jubilant cheers. A hint of moisture, the salty taste of defeat, prickled at the corners of his eyes.

With the echoes of victory still reverberating in the air, Morgan mustered the last of his strength and strode towards the fallen opponent. Dust particles danced in the sun's rays as he extended his hand, a gesture of camaraderie.

"Libian," Morgan called out, his voice filled with genuine respect and admiration. "You fought with incredible skill and bravery. It was an honor to face you in combat."

Libian's chest rose and fell with ragged breaths as he blinked away the daze, his eyes meeting Morgan's outstretched hand. For a moment, disbelief lingered in his gaze, mingling with a hint of admiration for his opponent. With a nod of acknowledgment, he accepted Morgan's offer, his trembling fingers grasping onto the lifeline presented to him.

As Morgan's strong grip lifted Libian to his feet, the crowd erupted into applause, cheering for them. Smiles blossomed in some association heads and nods of approval from some council members.

The crowd, witnessing this gesture of sportsmanship, cheered even louder, their applause echoing through the arena like the resounding beats of unity.

"Would you care to cash out your winnings now or ride your luck into the next wager?" The bookmaker's voice cut through the clamor as punters were confronted with the fruits of their foresight.

"I'll let it ride," came the resounding answer from most, the infectious allure of chance tugging at their adventurous spirit. More often than not, the victors chose to reinvest their winnings, letting it simmer in the melting pot of future wagers, saving the satisfaction of cashing out for the event's culmination.

"That Morgan lad has a promising battle sense, though it needs to be polished," the association heads and their entourage evaluated each fight with meticulous scrutiny, their eyes unearthing potential gems for their respective organizations. They assessed each participant not only for their strength but also for their potential, viewing them as raw clay waiting to be molded.

"I like Libian better. He knew what he was doing, and when the initial plan failed, he was quick to adapt." Victors were not the only ones chosen for their potential.

In contrast, the council and elders enjoyed the spectacle from a more relaxed vantage point, their experienced gazes patient for the spectacle of the final bouts.

As the first match concluded, a team of healers descended upon the arena. Their gentle hands and nurturing magic enveloped the fighters, ensuring their swift recovery. Although the students were not severely harmed, it was as much about preserving the fighters' physical well-being as it was about honoring the spirit of combat.

"Now, let's move to the second bout," announced the village chief, his hands clutching a pair of tiny, crimson-tinged monkey figures. As the figurines exploded in a burst of vibrant colors, he called out the contestants' numbers, "Sixty-four and Forty-Six."

And so, the wheel of combat spun again, the anticipation and excitement surging once more. The next match commenced, the betting frenzy rekindled. The bout was a drawn-out game of endurance, a common characteristic of the general blood refiners who favored protracted battles to showcase their expertise.

Even though today's event stretched towards a seemingly endless horizon, the mounting anticipation for the bouts only served to amplify the thrill in the air. A day filled with matches, yet each subsequent fight kindled a fresh wave of excitement within the spectators.

"One Hundred Thirty and Fifty Two," the village chief's voice cut through the animated chatter, announcing the new contenders. At the call of his number, Cain ascended to the arena, drawing numerous eyes toward him. His entrance into the battleground was met with a ripple of murmurs.

Elder Leon's gaze followed Cain's movement, a slight, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Have high hopes for your kiddo?" Elder Arterus queried, turning to Elder Leon, his voice laced with intrigue and faint amusement.

"He better win," Elder Leon responded curtly, his eyes never leaving Cain. His words held the weight of expectations, reflecting both his confidence and the pressure Cain bore.

"That's quite the expectation," Bagus retorted, his gaze sweeping across the sea of contenders in the training hall, each of them harboring their own dreams of emerging victorious.

Cain's opponent, a wiry figure armed with a pole, stood his ground, the silent determination in his eyes indicating he was not to be underestimated.

"I wager 30 stones on the underdog," a voice rose from the crowd, brimming with an adventurous spirit, ready to embrace the tantalizing uncertainty of the bet. "If I lose, so be it. But if I win, the payoff will be amazing."

"Meh. I am just waiting for better games in the evening for massive betting." someone commented.