The battle went just as expected. Cain was a son of an elder adorned with the crest of privilege that granted him the highest-tier available resources and knowledge. His competency already put him in a better state than most people. His grade B rarity gave him an edge in most fights. Although aptitude was not everything, it was still a significant factor in winning.

Cain, specialize refining his tendons, gracefully circumnavigated his adversary’s ferocious onslaught, playing with the wind of his opponent's strikes. His strikes were not wild or desperate but deliberate, guided by hours spent in practice. His blunt sword delivered a swift and decisive defeat. Cain popped his fungus, cutting down the opponent before he could leverage his resilience and endurance. The battle was over before it had even truly begun.

“Better luck next time for me, I guess," the person who had bet against Cain exclaimed, his voice tinged with a mix of disappointment and admiration.

A voice, as crisp as the morning sun, echoed across the arena, "Next, Three and Fifty-Four". A new round was on the horizon, one that once more enticed the gaze of every spectator.

Gautier and Elder Markus honed their attention on the approaching duelists.

"Old man, aren’t one of those your “so-called ten people” that are part of the bet?" Remfiled questioned from the sidelines, his words sharp yet softened by an undercurrent of playfulness.

"Yes," Gautier confirmed, "That's Zikiri right there." His voice carried confidence, revealing the hope he held for his chosen warrior.

"And isn’t the other person?" Libtin probed. His voice weaving an layer of suspense into the already tense atmosphere.

"Yes, that's Emara." Elder Markus replied for him from the other side, as he affirmed the identity of the second combatant. "That's one of my own people selected for the bet." He turned his gaze to the stoic figure of the village chief in the arena. The chief looked back with a slight playful grin. An unspoken understanding shared between them "Seems like this is his way of telling us to be done with this matter pretty soon."

"Hehe. It seems like you two are running his patience thin." Elder Aretas’ hearty chuckle cut through the tension. His jest painted a lighter hue onto the atmosphere.

As Zikiri and Emara approched the platform, their shadows intertwined in a tacit dance, mirroring the imminent duel. Each step taken was loaded with an intention, a silent readiness to face off in a battle that far outweighed the preceding ones. The crowd, sensing the weight of their impending confrontation, bristled with restless energy. A fresh wave of betting frenzy swept over the spectators like a gust of wind stirring a field of wheat. Stones were thrown in with zeal and speculation, escalating the ambient noise to a deafening high.

Emara called out, strapping her shield to her hands. "Nice seeing ya." Her words, painted with casual familiarity, danced around the arena. "Didn’t think the assosiation was recruiting ya. You did a pretty good job hiding it."

Zikiri's laughter, rich and hearty, resonated through the gathering. He heaved his two-handed hammer from his back, "I didn’t think the elders were recruiting you either." His response bore the signature of a comrade's banter. "You also did a good job not mentioning it."

Emara's retort was sharp and swift, her body assuming a defensive posture. “Who could refuse the offer? Very enticing.”

Zikiri returned her stance, his body tensing in a striking position, assuming an offense posture. “Same. Could feed me for days with all that stone. Make me a big and strong guy.” The levity in his voice belied the seriousness of their situation.

“Ya sure, big guy.” Emara’s eyes rolled, a ripple of amusement washing over her stern exterior. “Now we gotta fight. Just like our training sessions?” She seemed to toss the question into the air, a feather floating in the wind.

“Just like our training sessions,” Zikiri agreed, a grin splitting his face, lighting up the tension-charged atmosphere. “Let’s see who falls first.”

“Looks like they have some history between them.” Jaymark pointed out.

“Was it that obvious?” Reimfiled’s retort echoed around, dripping with sarcasm. “As if the whole arena could not tell. You people at the Mining Association are dull like the rocks you mine.”

“What you sa-”

His words were abruptly cut off, like a string pulled taut and then severed, as the village chief's booming voice cascaded over the arena like a tidal wave. “Strike!”

Both combatants exuded an aura of confidence and determination, ready to showcase their skills and give it their all.

With the opening of the duel, Zikiri hurled himself into the fray, wasting no moment. There was no pause, no hesitation. His bulging biceps, laced with rippling muscles that danced like serpents beneath the rawhide of his skin, flexed and unflexed, handling the enormous weight of his hammer as if it were an extension of his arm. His intent was as clear - to shatter Emara's shield and her resolve in one fell swoop. Though his method lacked finesse, it more than made up for it in sheer brute force. The strike he poised was akin to an avalanche careening down the sides of a snow-capped mountain - massive and crushing.

And yet, Emara remained unfazed in the face of the blow. Her shield effortlessly swung upwards, connecting with the descending hammer in a thunderous clash. The impact of their collision resonated throughout the arena, sending shivers down the spines of spectators, their hearts pounding in response. The ground beneath their feet shook, matching the cadence of their racing hearts. Emara's body absorbed the punishing blow with a grim determination, acting as an impenetrable fortress against Zikiri's tempestuous assault, leaving her unscathed and undeterred.

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“He’s a muscle refiner, alright. No wonder you chose him. His Grade C aptitude is not bad too. Not many start refining their muscles first, too. Those blows are hefty. His technique could use some work, however.” The head of the Military Association weighed in, his eyes tracing the ebbs and flows of the battle with an acute discernment.

“And she’s definitely refined a significant portion of her bones. Grade B aptitude. That would be a pain to deal with. Those bone refiners are a sturdy bunch.” Madame Deradier’s voice, honeyed and seasoned with experience, layered on a fresh perspective. “They found some good seeds.” Her words painted a different angle of the duel, highlighting the strength and potential of the fighters, further intensifying the thrum of excitement in the air.

Emara retaliated, her movements deliberate. Though seemingly slower in tempo, every action she took was calculated. Nimbly, she pirouetted around Zikiri's onslaught, seeking gaps within his aggressive assault. Her focus was laser-sharp, targeting the chinks in his stance - his joints, the exposed strips of flesh - all in an attempt to immobilize him, to neutralize his superior power advantage.

"She’s shrouding the inherent shortcomings of bone refining rather impressively. Clever girl, offsetting her speed limitations with carefully choreographed, purposeful strikes," noted the head of the Veteran Association.

Zikiri's powerful blows clashed against Emara's sturdy defense, while Emara's precise strikes threatened to exploit Zikiri's vulnerabilities. She would dip low beneath a sweeping arc, her shield rising to bat away a downward plunge or dart to the side, her own shield going on the offensive to probe Zikiri’s defenses. Zikiri’s grunts of effort, Emara’s hiss of breath with each deftly executed counter, and the sharp intake of breath from the crowd created an intense atmosphere.

Undeterred by her measured offensive, Zikiri continued his relentless onslaught, altering his angles, switching his sides, his hammer a blur as it sliced through the air, wielding it with a brute force that was truly awe-inspiring.

"That young lad seems to have misconstrued the real essence of muscle refinement. It isn’t merely about amassing power; it’s about wise utilization," Madame Deradier commented, her insight punctuating the air. “He’s bound to tear something at this rate.”

Zikiri, oblivious to the foreshadowed caution, swung his hammer with reckless abandon, plunging into his next strike, his hammer poised for impact. However, as his hammer arced through the air, poised for a fatal strike, a sudden, sharp pain surged through him. His body froze in the middle of his assault, his form rigid as if petrified. Madame Deradier, echoed her prediction, "Just as I thought. Those muscles may be robust, but everything around them is fragile. He was bound to hurt himself."

Seizing this fraction of vulnerability, Emara cleverly veered away from her usual attack pattern, delivering a deceptive feint. Zikiri, caught off guard, reacted a hair's breadth too slow, leaving him exposed to her sudden tactical shift. Emara lashed out with her shield, aiming at Zikiri's hammer. The shield met the handle of the hammer with a resounding clang, sending vibrations up both their arms. The weapon was jerked free of his grip, spiraling out of his hand, and landing several feet away.

The arena was hushed as Zikiri found himself momentarily bereft of his weapon. Seizing this fleeting moment, Emara moved in, delivering a swift strike to his body. The attack landed with an audible crack, causing the fungus to pop to Emara's victory.

A tidal wave of cheers engulfed the stage as the conclusion of another thrilling match marked the passage of a memorable day. The crowd, euphoric, celebrated Emara's unexpected turn.

"Looks like you lost this one, old friend," the head of the Military Association remarked as he directed his comforting words at Gautier.

"One loss in a string of battles does not define the result. There is still much to go," Gautier replied nonchalantly, his calm demeanor unshaken by his defeat.

Elder Markus, nodding in tacit agreement, was well aware of the stakes of their wager. The victory was not claimed by the number of matches won but by the quality of the triumph. One person could make all the difference with the way the bet was laid out. It was never a time to celebrate too early. Even if nine of their selected contenders fell, the victory could still be claimed by the highest-ranked individual. The result of the bet was decided by whichever side had the highest rank in the tournament. Not who won most. So one person could make the highest difference.

"You got the better of me today, Emara," Zikiri admitted as he was being treated for his injuries, his voice carrying a note of grudging respect.

"I simply bided my time until you slipped up," she retorted with a soft chuckle. "You've always been a bit too reckless for your own good."

“I guess I let the thrill of the battle get to me. But know this! Next time, I'll make sure not to give you a chance," he proclaimed.

"Two Hundred Six and Eighty One," the village chief's voice rang out, setting the stage for the subsequent duel.

Osric glanced at the wooden plate he was handed upon entering the training hall. The etched number "Eighty-One" shone in stark contrast to the weathered wood, his call to the arena. It was his time to step into the spotlight.

Ascending the steps to the stage, he gripped his blunted spear with practiced ease. The summer heat grazed his skin, the midday sun beaming into his eyes. Yet, the sun lacked the intense vibrancy of the previous weeks. The passage of time was palpable as the peak of summer started to recede, giving way to the refreshing coolness of autumn, a gentle whisper of change carried on the occasional breeze.

From the other side emerged his opponent, dressed in lightweight clothing suitable for agility, and walked onto the stage. A quiver full of arrows sat snug against his back, and a finely crafted bow rested on his shoulder. The sharp definition of his lean muscles and the piercing focus in his gaze painted the portrait of a well-trained archer.

A hum of intrigue rippled through the crowd, their anticipation reaching a fever pitch as they contemplated the impending clash between the wielder of the spear and the bow. The electric charge of excitement and uncertainty sparked a renewed frenzy as spectators hurried to place wagers on the combatants.

"50 stones on the lad with the spear. As soon as he gets within striking range, that archer is done for," a confident voice echoed through the crowd.

"60 on the archer. Don't underestimate the power of distance and precision," another countered, their laughter hinting at hidden insights.

"Isn't that?" Jaymark began, his eyes narrowed in recognition as he turned towards Gautier.

"Yes. He's one of the original contenders in our wager, the original one where this all escalated from, as you all probably know," Gautier clarified.

“How you think he fares? I heard your association couldn't get a hold of him that he's been in seclusion this whole time," the head of the Mission Center inquired, interest piqued.

"Let's watch and learn," was all Gautier offered, his expression revealing nothing.

"Isn't that Osric? The lad your son had a quarrel with, Markus? How do you think he is doing? Do you think he has a chance to reach further?" Elder Aretas asked

"It's anyone's guess. Naturally, I have faith in my own blood. Why the sudden curiosity, Aretas? I am surprised you’re interested. You're usually not so inquisitive," Markus returned the question.

“Me and his father in the council were quite close at a point. Just wondering.” Aretas confessed, his gaze distant. “It truly is sad where the scars of life lead us.”