The words of the village chief, resonant and laced with gravity, had barely ceased to echo in the torchlit square when the healers, garbed in robes of shimmering indigo, materialized like graceful specters.
“Just close your eyes and hold your breathing,” one of the healers came to Osric, his voice a mellow whisper as he delicately placed a hand on his sweat-gleamed back.
Osric could feel the tiredness being sucked from his limbs through the healer's one hand, while from the other, a warm flow of energy, infused with the fragrance of wildflowers and the soft murmur of a distant brook, was being infused into his very core. It was as though life itself was being breathed back into his aching body. His muscles relaxed, the bruises fading, and his stamina reinvigorated.
“Well done, young one,” the healer said, his eyes sparkling with satisfaction as he gave Osric a pat on his back. “You're ready to face another battle if you wish.”
Osric nodded, his chest swelling with newfound energy as he walked toward the training room. He had done enough. He had shown his worth to the village. Winning the fight dominantly showcasing his strength and battle sense. He needed resources to continue refining, and by displaying his capabilities, he would attract the eyes of major powers in the village. He had completed his objective. He had dominated enough, but not to an unreasonable extreme.
Finn gazed at Osric's retreating figure. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to steady himself, his heart in anticipation of his own fight.
Cain, his grip firm on the hilt of his sword, felt a spark of battle intent flicker across his face, a glimmer of a flame yearning to ignite. “I wonder, between us, who might win,” he wondered to himself.
Nearby, Preston and Hilda exchanged glances, their expressions a blend of respect and surprise. “I knew he was good, but I thought he would be average, but I guess I was mistaken. He’s more than good,” Preston murmured, his words laced with admiration.
Hilda nodded. “Beating Arimiti, that was not what I expected.”
“Wooo!” Glucia's cheer cut through the heavy atmosphere as Osric arrived in the training room.
Reimfield's eyes remained fixed on Osric, his mind assessing, evaluating, already thinking ahead. “He’s got potential,” he finally said, his voice low. “If nurtured correctly, he could be a valuable asset to the right faction.”
Gautier turned towards him, “Why the sudden interest in him?” he asked.
Reimfield's face remained impassive, his eyes momentarily softening, the barest hint of nostalgia creeping into his expression. “Well, a friend of mine I had not talked to in a while told me fondly of this young face that likes to come to his place a lot to read,” he replied with a cryptic answer.
“The next match,” the village leader’s voice rang out, strong and commanding, cutting through their conversation as a red mist exploded in the air.
The sun began to dip lower in the sky as the tournament went on, casting a golden glow over the arena. The clash of weapons, the cheers of the crowd, the palpable tension, and the excitement all merged into a long event.
Many more fights occurred on the stage. A shield-armed warrior skilled in bone-refining clashed with a nimble tendon refining, dagger-wielding combatant. The dagger fighter's agility couldn't breach the bone refiner’s fortress-like defense. In the end, the shield warrior dealt a crushing blow after the tendon refiner tired out, emerging as the victor of the battle.
The crowd roared with excitement, a wave of sound rolling over the arena as another match was announced.
“One Hundred and Twenty-Six and Fifty-Two!”
In one corner stood Glucia, her face glowing with determination, her body poised. On the other side of the arena, a formidable opponent awaited her: a towering, muscle-refining swordsman wielding a massive, gleaming sword with ease as though it were an extension of himself.
Bagus leaned towards the man sitting beside him, his voice tinged with both pride and challenge. “Let’s see the fruits of your daughter’s labor,” he said, his eyes gleaming with expectation. “This ought to test her capabilities.”
The man did not respond. His face was a mask carved from stone, his eyes fixed on the girl onstage. But in the depths of those eyes, there lay a sea of emotions – hope, fear, pride, and love, all intertwined, a storm only a father's heart could truly understand.
As the village chief signaled the start of the battle, the swordsman charged forward with thunderous steps, his sword ready to strike. Glucia knew she couldn't afford to engage him directly. She swiftly retreated, creating space between them, and reached into her belt, producing a compact vial of sap.
With a flick of her wrist, Glucia tossed it on the ground. In an instant, a cloud of thick smoke enveloped the arena, obscuring her location. The swordsman swung his sword blindly, hoping to strike Glucia, but she was already on the move, skilfully navigating through the smokescreen.
Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
“Kentoush’s barrages are strong and harsh. Good thing she did not try to compete with him on that,” Bagus commended, his voice rich with approval.
“She’s an internal organ refiner, so her combat capabilities are low. She has to adapt and control and improvise. Her victory relies on her preparedness.” Osric observed her battle plan.
Although the tournament of awakening was mainly used to test the combat capabilities and the potential of the recently awakened, it was not solely about brute strength or brute skill. People who refined their internal organs for support in a team, who chose a path that emphasized intellect, strategy, and adaptability, also had a place in this competition. They were tested on different standards than standard fighters.
They were allowed to bring their tools to battle, a concession to the myriad ways that strength could manifest. Instead of testing pure combat proficiency, the contestants were being tested on their logistical skills, planning, and improvising abilities. However, these allowances were not without stringent controls to ensure fairness and to preserve the spirit of the competition. All the contestants using items had to make them themselves, turning their creativity into another weapon in their arsenal. The number of resources they registered was the only one that they could use, thus testing their foresight, their ability to plan for contingencies. They could only use what they made, so if they squandered all their resources in the first battle, they would be at a disadvantage unless they could craft more as other battles unfolded. It was a balancing act, a game within a game, a challenge that brought depth and richness to the contest.
As the swordsman's frustration grew, his swings became wilder, less controlled, roaring with more power, yet lacking intent. His eyes, obscured by the smoke, were filled with desperate annoyed fury. The crowd watched with bated breath, unable to see through the smoke but sensing the growing tension, feeling the swordsman's desperation in the very air, thick and cloying like the fog that hid the combatants.
Glucia reached into her belt again, her fingers finding the familiar cork of another bottle. With a delicate twist, she turned the cork, unleashing the contents of the bottle onto the floor. The arena's surface, previously solid and secure, became a slick.
“Here!” she called, her voice echoing through the arena, a taunt. Her words were like a beacon, guiding the swordsman to her.
The swordsman, oblivious to the change, charged toards the sound as if looking to hit something, anything. His steps echoed through the arena as he swung his massive sword down toward where he thought Glucia would be.
But she was already out of reach, her mind several steps ahead.
With a horrific slipping sound, the swordsman's foot slid out from under him, his momentum betraying him, hurling his body forward and out of control. The crowd collectively, inhaled sharply as they heard his body tumbling to the ground with the hollow thud of defeat. His sword slipped from his grasp and clattered across the arena.
Glucia rushed towards her fallen opponent as he lay stunned, her small dagger gleaming in her hand. In a swift motion, she popped the fungus with her dagger directly, completing the necessary task with efficiency.
The smoke began to dissipate, revealing Glucia standing tall and poised, her eyes fixed on her fallen opponent. The crowd erupted into cheers as the realization of her victory set in.
The village chief raised his hand, signaling the end of the battle. "Victory to Fifty-Two!"
She did not gloat or celebrate; she merely nodded to the chief with quiet dignity and made her way off the stage, her head held high but her steps light and humble.
“HoHoHO,” Bagus's laugh rang out, filled with genuine delight. "Clever girl," he said, his voice rich with approval. "She might go far in this tournament. She still hasn’t revealed all her tools."
The arena, alive with the vibrant energy of competition, continued to churn with the next set of battles.
Finn easily defeated his opponent, disarming him and crushing him with the raw, primal power of a muscle refiner.
Preston defeated his opponent, too, with the vigorous glory of a blood refiner.
Hilda also beat hers as well with an easy victory.
“Ten vs. One Hundred Seven!”
Multiple heads turned, eyes widening, breaths held. This match was going to be special. It was related to the person most likely to win the whole tournament, a figure who stood like a mountain among hills.
As Mitrus stepped into the arena, a set of whispers fell upon the crowd. As the person that was highly favored to win the entire tournament, his presence commanded respect, awe, and curiosity.
A young, wiry combatant with a nervous glint in his eyes, he gulped audibly as he faced the one who was favored to win. His hands were visibly shaking, but there was a determination in his gaze that couldn't be overlooked.
The crowd could see his fear, but they could also sense his resolve. This was a chance to prove himself, to show the world that he was more than just an unassuming obstacle on the way. Though his fear was palpable, so too was his tenacity.
The village chief signaled the start of the fight, and Mitrus's opponent wasted no time. He lunged forward with a series of aggressive strikes, his sword dancing in the air as he sought to land a blow. His tactics were diverse, displaying an impressive array of moves that would have overwhelmed a lesser opponent.
But Mitrus remained unfazed. With a calm and composed expression, he effortlessly dodged each attack, his movements fluid and graceful.
“His movements are practiced. Using least movement for dodging as possible.” Osric noticed.
It was clear to all who watched that he was in complete control of the battle. His opponent's attacks, no matter how intricate or well-executed, seemed to have no effect on him.
The crowd began to murmur, their excitement growing as Mitrus's opponent continued to attack, each strike more desperate than the last. He was giving it his all, using every tactic in his arsenal, trying to find a chink in Mitrus's armor.
But Mitrus was like a stone wall, unyielding and impenetrable. He moved with a grace that belied his power. His eyes, cold and analytical, never left his opponent, dissecting and evaluating every move as if studying a puzzle.
He is merely looking at him as a practice dummy,” Elder Leon pointed out, his voice tinged with annoyance. “Seems that the village chief has taught that kid his arrogance as well.”
Finally, as if bored of the fight, he made his first offensive move.
In a lightning-fast movement, Mitrus countered a particularly aggressive strike, and with a single punch, he connected with his opponent's chest.
The crowd watched in awe as one single punch, lethal, popped the fungus on his opponent's back, knocking him to the ground with a force that echoed like a thunderclap.
The crowd looked at each other in disbelief over how quickly the battle ended.