The sun dipped low over the edge of the arena as the final echoes of combat faded. Sumit rushed along the edge of the training grounds, panting, frustrated. He had spent the last few hours isolated in a quiet clearing behind the mountain ridge, pouring his aura again and again into the ground, trying to make it tremble.
The rumbling technique still rejected him.
He finally reached the arena just as the crowd was starting to disperse.
"Is it over?" he asked, catching his breath as he spotted Leo and Jack.
"Yes," Leo said with a nod. "Where were you this whole time? Went to the other blocks to see the others?"
"Other blocks?" Sumit looked confused. "You mean every block is fighting at the same time?"
"Yes, that's right," Jack cut in. "Each block's matches happen in parallel until there's a winner in every group."
Sumit stared at the now-empty arena, trying to process what he had missed. "And how long will it take?"
"About five days, I guess," Jack replied. "Enough of that. Let's celebrate today's victory for now! I know just the place."
Sumit shook his head. "No, thank you. I'd rather spend my night in bed than in a pub."
"Your wish," Jack shrugged. "Leo, you're coming with me then!"
"No."
"Why not? You said you would!"
"I said I would never come with you," Leo replied dryly.
"Come on!!!"
Their argument faded behind him as Sumit turned away. He didn't have the energy to play along with their banter. The stone path led him back into the quieter part of town, where the warm orange glow of lanterns danced in the breeze. The Bear's Cave stood nestled between a smithy and an herbalist shop—its familiar wooden sign creaking in the wind.
Inside, the air was thick with roasted meat, stale ale, and the gentle murmur of quiet conversation. The place wasn't empty, but it wasn't loud either. It was comfortingly neutral—just what Sumit needed.
He approached the counter, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. "Bear's Special," he said.
The bartender—a massive badger-man with a jagged scar under one eye—nodded silently. Bear served him a warm plate of grilled root vegetables and honey. He picked it up and ate it in the corner. After clearing the plate, he placed two silver coins on the counter. "Keep the change."
After clearing his mouth, he moved upstairs. The second floor was quieter, the hallway dim, the scent of old wood and lavender oil in the air.
His room was small but familiar. He placed his wooden sword on the bedside table, pulled off his boots, and collapsed into bed. Sleep took him quickly.
He woke to sunlight pouring through the thin curtains. He dressed quickly and made his way back to the arena after having breakfast.
"Oi, kid," Jack called out to him
"Good morning, sir Jack," Sumit said enthusiastically
"You are early today, are you excited about today's match?" Jack asked, "If I remember correctly, you will be fighting last as today's matches of the last block will be fought first, but on the bright side, you will get to see other blocks' matches."
"So you mean block 5 will fight first, and all the fights will be fought in this sequence of 5 to 1, but you said matches are held in parallelly?" Sumit said.
"That was for yesterday, from today onwards all the matches will be held in one place," said Jack. "Let's go to today's first match will be interesting."
.......
The stands were already packed. Sumit found a seat near the middle, just as the announcer's voice boomed across the field.
"Welcome everyone!!! I Sushant the Snake announce the start of day 2 of the tournament."
The crowd hushed as the announcer's voice rang out:
"For our first match Rishabh from the Donkey tribe and Khori from the Peacock tribe! Grit against grace!"
Khori strutted into the arena first, her long, colorful tail feathers catching the light with every step. She wore a smug grin and blew kisses to the crowd, spinning once like a dancer on stage.
Murmurs of amusement spread through the stands.
Then came Rishabh.
Heavy steps. No fanservice. Just a quiet presence that seemed to weigh down the air around him. His build was solid, square-shouldered, with thick arms and a furrowed brow. He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't need to.
He just walked to the center of the arena and stopped.
Khori raised an eyebrow. "No words? No flair? You're really going to be that boring?"
Rishabh said nothing. He just cracked his neck slowly, waiting.
Sumit leaned forward in his seat, watching both fighters closely. This wasn't going to be a flashy, back-and-forth duel—not at first. One would dance. The other would endure.
The referee blow the horn.
"Begin!"
And in a flash of blue feathers, Khori vanished from sight.
Khori reappeared a split second later behind Rishabh, his talons flashing toward the back of his opponent's neck.
Rishabh didn't move like a slow brute. He spun, lowering his body and raising one thick arm to block. Talons scraped across hardened skin like metal on stone. Khori somersaulted back with a click of her beak.
"Oho! You're not just heavy, you're fast too," she chirped. "Delightful!"
Khori lunged again, this time zigzagging so quickly she left afterimages. Her feathers shimmered, creating a dazzling display that made it hard to track her real movements. The crowd gasped as she shot forward like a blue blur, aiming a spinning kick at Donkey's temple.
This time, Rishabh didn't block—he tanked it. The kick landed with a crack, his head snapping sideways, but he didn't fall. He planted one hoof, then threw a punch with the weight of a mountain.
Peacock barely dodged. The wind from the blow knocked feathers loose from his tail.
Sumit watched, eyes narrowed. "He is using aura inside his body for strengthening, he is not wasting his aura like the peacock who only wants to look good."
It was true. Khori was using her aura outside her body more to look good, but Rishabh on the other hand circulating his aura inside his body to strengthen himself.
Minutes passed like this. A dance of aggression and endurance. Khori struck high, low, spinning and slicing with the precision of a master. Her aura flickered like firelight—sharp, bright, and controlled.
Rishabh didn't use aura. Or at least not on the outside. But his breathing was steady, his movements deliberate. Each step he took closed the distance by inches. Each punch was slower, but came closer.
Then Khori made a mistake.
She attempted a high vault kick—leaping over Rishabh to strike from above. It would have worked earlier, but this time, Rishabh was ready.
He stepped back—not forward—and raised both arms.
Khori landed right into his grasp.
A thundering cheer burst from the crowd.
Rishabh brought him down like an avalanche, slamming Khori into the ground with a spine-rattling crash. Dust and feathers exploded into the air. The arena trembled. Sumit stood in shock.
Khori coughed, dazed, trying to flutter free but Rishabh didn't let her go.
He held Khori in a crushing grip, locking her wings and pinning her arms. Khori struggled, but her thin frame was no match for Rishabh's bulk.
Still, she fought. Using every ounce of aura, Khori created a shockwave from her feathers, a burst of slicing wind that tore at Rishabh's arms. Blood ran down Rishabh's fur—but he didn't loosen his grip.
With a final growl, Rishabh twisted, flipping Khori onto his back and driving a knee into her chest. The breath escaped from Peacock in a choking gasp.
"Enough! The winner is Rishabh from the donkey tribe," the referee called, seeing the limp form beneath Rishabh's weight.
The crowd erupted in cheers and howls.
Rishabh slowly rose, breathing hard, bruises and shallow cuts littering his body. He didn't raise his fists or roar in victory. He simply nodded to the referee and limped off the stage.
Sumit let out a slow breath. "That was... brutal."
Leo, watching nearby, grunted respect. "The outcome was as expected. Using your aura just to improve your appearance will never get you too far."
Jack chuckled. "I almost feel bad for the bird. Almost."
Khori was being carried off on a stretcher, conscious but stunned.
Back in the stands, some fans still clapped for her for the show she gave, the speed she showed, and the style she never let go of.
But in the end, style had to bow to substance.
And today, substance had four hooves and a will that refused to break.