“What a nice way to tie the bow to the first half of the tournament,” Gio stretched from his back, his eyes tracking the crowds as they dispersed from the arena for a break. His fingers unfurled as he allowed the moment to wash over him, the thrill of the spectacle still tingling in his veins. Especially the last fight that ended in one blow.
The crowded folks were ordered and disciplined as they began to exit the arena, a controlled whirlpool of excitement and anticipation. The thrill of the tournament had not entirely ebbed away; rather, it seemed to have transformed, like a wild river finding its way through new channels, into a kind of bubbling excitement for what awaited them outside. Faces were flushed, eyes sparkled, and the air crackled with the promise of what awaited them outside.
“Well, not as exciting as our year, I tell you that,” Lionel grumbled, his voice dripping with nostalgia. He rose hastily from his seat, his muscles coiled like a ready spring and started walking with Gio towards the outside. His eyes, once focused and intent on the game, now caught the gleam of lanterns ahead, unlit but filled with the promise of the night. The lanterns stood like sentinels, waiting for the darkness to cloak them with purpose.
As they moved, the hunger for competition was now replaced by an actual hunger. The taste for victory, once paramount, was supplanted by the longing for something rich and hearty. The savory smells of roasted meat and fresh bread danced in the air, teasing and tantalizing. Many people licked their lips in anticipation, their faces reflecting a childlike joy, their voices lifted in chatter and laughter as they moved through the wide gates.
Outside the arena, a carnival was held in full swing. Bright colors painted the scene, full of life and vigor. Savory smells wafted through the air, luring people into a temptation of taste and satisfaction. The melodic tunes of a minstrel band playing a jaunty melody added a touch of whimsy while vendors shouted their wares, enticing the hungry audience.
People laughed and clinked glasses, getting drunk with alcohol after getting drunk on the victory of their bets. They reveled in triumph, their faces glowing. Though some drank to forget the sour feeling of loss, their faces etched with lines of regret and disappointment, vowing to not gamble anymore after the loss. Others, resilient in spirit, were already convincing themselves that their luck would turn out better, their eyes gleaming with stubborn hope.
“What are you rushing for? The break is for another two hours; we have plenty of time to explore,” Gio insisted, his face showing a trace of amusement. His eyes followed Lionel, who had led him on a brisk and hasty walk, his determination evident in every step.
“We might have time,” Lionel whispered, his voice urgent yet filled with a hint of excitement. His face was a mask of seriousness, but his eyes betrayed him, gleaming with anticipation as he continued, “But Hazzrd’s Sour Wine will be gone soon if we don’t make it in time.”
“Haha,” Gio chuckled, his laughter contrasting Lionel’s intensity. His eyes danced as he teased, “Is that why you’re so worried? You’re in a good mood today, taking a day off from being an ass?”
“Humpf,” Lionel merely grumbled, his face a picture of mock indignation. But his pace did not reduce; his steps were purposeful, fueled by a desire for the rare pleasure that awaited him.
***
All the people in the training halls within the area had more than reduced in half. Unlike the jovial excitement of the audience that filled the arena with life and color, the atmosphere in the training room was somber and still.
The very air seemed to hang heavy with concentration and the weight of unspoken thoughts. Whispers were exchanged among contestants, but they were hushed, transient things, fleeting. The room was not filled with the bustle of preparation but rather a kind of intense quietude, as if the very walls were holding their breath, waiting for the next act of the drama to unfold.
In one corner of the room, Hilda was engaged in a deep meditation, her eyes closed and her breath steady—every inhalation strengthening mental fortitude, every exhalation releasing doubt. Mitrus, too, was sitting in silent contemplation, his eyes focused but far away, lost in thought or perhaps some profound understanding that was his alone.
Across the hall, a group of contestants huddled together. They were discussing strategies, analyzing opponents, and sharing their insights. They were the remaining part of the non-combatants' group, and in the shared experience of their status, they had found solidarity in each other. They were willing to share information and discuss insights. Glucia was quite involved in this clique, her eyes animated and her gestures emphasizing points.
Further away, people were practicing their swings, faces etched with determination. Sweat dripped down their brow like liquid resolve. Preston and Cain were facing each other, doing some light sparring, their bodies moving, keeping them active and not as nasty. Finn was practicing as well, his strikes guttural against the phantom air.
In a secluded corner, Osric sat, observing everyone. His eyes were sharp, taking in everything. Even though the free time in the middle was allocated to any activity, rarely did people choose to leave the training hall and venture into the carnival. Osric understood this; the air felt like he was going to war again.
They were focused—every one of them.
***
“So? Seen any good seedlings?” Elder Livia exclaimed, her voice ringing with the vigor of someone deeply engrossed. A glass of wine in her hand, she leaned forward with a gleam in her eye. "I had my sight on Morgan, that boy; he fought with fire! The passion in his movements, the intensity of his strikes; it was like watching a young viegur take flight!"
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Madame Deradier, turned to Elder Livia, her eyes alight with slight excitement, "Indeed. It was an extraordinary match," she conceded, pausing to take a thoughtful sip of her wine. "The way the young man moved, so swift and yet so controlled. But I still prefer that Arimiti lad. There's a complexity to his style, a maturity that I quite like."
Conversations like these filled the room, a rich discussion of opinions. The progress of the tournament was not just observed; it was analyzed, debated, dissected, and sometimes even used to forge new agreements. Predictions were discussed, and behind it all, the subtle play of politics continued.
Various important figures of the village moved in and around the room, the soft rustle of their robes barely heard above the gentle murmur of conversation. Their footsteps were muffled by neilmouse fur carpets, laid lovingly atop polished hardwood, a touch of luxury that added warmth and elegance to the room. Above, the grand chandelier had been replaced by an artful arrangement of hanging lanterns, their soft glow enhancing the natural daylight, casting a serene look to the place.
Tall doors lined one side of the room, thrown open to allow the gentle breeze to waft through, carrying with it the sweet fragrance of blooming gardens. Lace curtains fluttered gracefully, adding to the room's comfort.
Most people lined up with their own groups, talking in small clusters. The association heads stayed together. The council members held their ground, and the elders chatted amongst themselves. The room was a living chessboard, with moves and various alliances. It was more chaotic as several members were part of more factions, having to juggle their own home base and keep in conversation with other parties, a balance of diplomacy and intrigue.
“Cheers to the fun we had so far!” the village chief’s voice rang through the room, a clarion call that momentarily united the room. His smile was broad and genuine as he initiated cheers with several people, his glass raised high. The room responded, glasses clinked, and laughter filled the air, a temporary truce.
“You still have energy after announcing that much?” Lief snided from the side, holding his drink in his hand. His face was alight with genuine curiosity, and his tone, though playful, carried a note of admiration.
“Less talking and more guzzling!” the village chief retorted with infectious laughter, his eyes sparkling with good humor. “I made this myself!” He announced, proudly holding up his glass, the liquid inside shimmering with a golden hue that seemed to capture the essence of celebration.
The entire room raised up their glasses, the sound of toasts echoing through the air.
The village chief, Vitomir Kuznetsov, led the largest faction, the Kuznetsov clan. It was a family of great stature, their influence sprawling across the village’s landscape. Half of the association heads and a quarter of the council members supported them. They also had the largest number of elders in their camp, a testament to their deep roots within the village.
"Markush! You an' Gautier, hic, y-you're neck 'n neck on th' number of, uh, people in yer bettin' pool. Y' got 6, he's got, erm, 4, ha! How's it feelin', buddy?" Elder Aretas exclaimed, his hand fully around Markus’s neck, his face flushed with the rosy glow of intoxication.
“You’re already drunk, what a lightweight,” Markus shook his head, his face betraying a hint of amusement. His eyes, though, were serious, reflecting the strategic mind behind the jovial exterior. “We shall see. Although I am winning, it is not good to assume victory until you grasp it firmly in your hands.”
"Yer so, hic, serious, Markus, lighten up a li'l bit! Here, here, have some of thish, thish drink, heh." Elder Arteurs offered his glass, his speech slurred but his intention clear. His eyes, though slightly glazed, were warm, inviting Markus into the shared joy of the moment.
The second most prominent faction was the Lunariehe camp, a group known for its social prowess and charismatic leadership. Led by Elder Aretas Lunariehe, a man of magnetic personality, they had several association heads that aligned with them and about half of the council members. Aretas was liked by many, his sociable nature and skill in dealing with people earned him friends and allies across different ranks.
“Enjoy the time, Markus,” Elder Leon came towards them, his eyes twinkling with playful challenge, a skewer of aromatic meat in his hand. His fingers were greasy, but his grip was firm, the embodiment of a man who enjoyed the pleasures of life. “Betting will become fun come this past halftime, so enjoy while you can.”
“You were lucky last time, this year you will be beaten, old man!” Remfield's voice rang out from the corner of the room, filled with gusto.
“Speaking of bet. Sis, you still owe me from last year’s bet between the Skullian twins,” Madame Deradier chimed in, her voice sweet but carrying a note of sternness. Her eyes narrowed momentarily before returning to their usual sparkle.
“Oh, what? I don't know what you mean?” Elder Dendiline feigned surprise, her face a mask of innocence that fooled no one.
Madame Deradier chomped on her fruit, rolling her eyes, her face a picture of playful exasperation.
“Hehe. I know, I know, you’ll get it soon.” Elder Dendiline relented with a jest, her eyes crinkling with mirth.
“The party’s lively as ever,” Bagus commented, biting into some fruit, the juice bursting on his tongue as he surveyed the room, his eyes taking in the kaleidoscope of emotions, alliances, and rivalries.
“Hmm,” Colindier nodded, his face impassive but his eyes sharp, observing the interactions with an intensity that revealed his inner thoughts.
The third-largest faction was arrayed behind Colindier. A hero of few words during the last beast wave, his stoic demeanor and quiet strength had garnered respect and followers. He was seen as an upcoming leader, his confidence attracting those who appreciated his unspoken depth.
Many more factions existed inside the village’s political sphere, but they were shadows in comparison to the consolidated power of the prominent ones. Some were hesitant to take leadership like Remfield, his fiery spirit tempered by caution, while others lacked the burning ambition to rise.
“AHHHH,” Libtin yawned, stretching his arms wide as if to embrace the weariness, “Watching all these youngsters is fun and all, but analyzing each and every single one for the association is tiring work.”
“I have this potion that can perk you right up,” Remfield offered, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of sincerity and mischief.
Jaymark squinted in annoyance, his face contorted in a scowl that seemed etched into his features, “Last time I drank one of your potions, I got myself diarrhea for three days. Don't you dare sell your trash to others! You better not incentivize this, Libtin.”
“I say this again. The line between poison and medicine is a thin one,” Remfield shrugged, his face unbothered by the criticism, his shoulders relaxed in casual dismissal.
“Yeah, that line is thin and almost non-existent for you,” Jaymark snapped back, his voice dripping with contempt, “Aren’t I right, Gautier?”
Gautier looked at them from his conversation with the head of the Military Association, his eyes apathetic, “I say this again. Please do not involve me in your petty squabbles. Come to me when you have actual serious matters.”
Remfield chuckled his laughter, a soft rumble that seemed to dismiss the tension.
The room continued to buzz with laughter, debate, and the subtle maneuverings of village politics.