PREVIOUSLY.
[Then, the starting signal rang out.
The sound pierced the stadium with a dry, almost sacred precision. Chuta felt the very nature of the sand shift beneath his feet; the space before him was suddenly transformed into distance to be closed, into decision, into risk. The crowd roared once more, but the echo reached him as something distant.
What stood before him, instead, was real: a champion, a history shared with the kingdom, and an arena prepared to measure them without mercy. Chuta lowered his center of gravity slightly, mindful of the weight of his armor, the fit of his helmet, and the first movement of his opponent.]
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Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Second Month (April 1495).
Central City (Tunja, Colombia), Central-South Region.
Bochica Sports Center, Combat Stadium.
Third Person POV.
Chuta advanced slowly, measuring the distance with the precision of one who knows that a fight begins long before the first blow is struck.
The arena had not yet changed shape for him, but it was no longer a simple circle of compacted earth: it was a living space, a field where every step, every footing, and every breath could dictate the entire rhythm of the fray.
As he observed his opponent, his thoughts drifted back with the natural ease of an old habit. That which the kingdom now celebrated as sport had actually been born from something far less solemn.
From his earliest years, when he noticed that unresolved conflicts lingered between neighboring villages—and even among the Muisca themselves—he had sought a path to avoid the spiral of reprisals.
At first, it was merely a practical custom: compensation, negotiation, or a brief, regulated fight. Over time, the kingdom grew too large to leave such tensions to chance, and Chuta transformed the practice into a cultural pillar. Then came other sports imported from his future memory, and the idea finally took the form of championships, leagues, and regional representation.
Now, every region sent its champions. Now, rivalries could be channeled through stands, rules, and scoring.
The kingdom competed against itself, yes, but it did so in a way that reinforced unity rather than shattering it. Chuta knew it well: even conflict, if framed with intelligence, can serve to sustain a common identity.
The combat before him was one of the most serious variations of this entire system. Sixteen combatants, a full bracket, single elimination until the final.
The first rounds were held simultaneously—eight duels, hand-to-hand, without weapons. It was a pure test of technique, endurance, and the ability to read the opponent's body.
The second round shifted the logic: obstacles, barriers, difficult terrain, and randomized weapons and armor within a simulated environment. There, it was not just the strongest who triumphed, but the most adaptable.
The third round allowed the top four to return to their preferred weapons and armor, as if the tournament were telling them: now, show us who you truly are.
And the final joined all these elements into a single cruel and beautiful sequence: thirty seconds of pure combat, followed by a scramble for equipment amidst obstacles, and finally the full duel—already armed, already weary, already beyond excuses.
Chuta contemplated this structure as he continued to advance.
If he reached the final, he would have to manage his exhaustion from the very first moment. It wasn't about winning a single fight; it was about surviving a succession of trials designed to reveal the complete form of a warrior.
His opponent remained motionless for a few seconds more, and Chuta seized the moment to read him.
The man before him possessed the weight of a full-grown adult; that much was obvious even before he moved. Chuta, at thirteen, had trained moderately all his life—enough not to be a defenseless child, but not nearly enough to match the mass of a warrior in his prime.
The weight difference was going to matter. He knew it from the start. However, he also knew that a man's body does not always overcome the speed of a mind accustomed to calculation.
The rival lunged first.
It was a short, explosive, direct advance. Chuta barely had time to register the shift in posture before a low kick swept toward his legs. The strike was intended to unbalance him, seeking to bring him down from the base.
Chuta reacted with a quick leap to the side, feeling the air snap where his ankles had just been. The tip of his opponent's sole grazed the earth and swept past, but the man did not lose his momentum. He rebounded toward where Chuta had landed, closing the distance with a speed that confirmed his experience.
Then came the first real clash.
The man threw a short, heavy hook toward Chuta's ribs. Chuta raised his forearm to block it, and the impact surged through his arm like a dry jolt. Pain appeared immediately—more dull than sharp—and with it came the confirmation of weight: the opponent pushed with a force stemming from a more mature, more anchored physical structure.
Chuta felt that the blow didn't just strike his defense, but the very disparity between their bodies. He had trained, yes, but he could not yet compete in sheer mass with a grown man.
He retreated two steps and regained his axis.
In that initial instant, he had already entered a state of concentration that narrowed the world. The stadium remained there, with its immense noise and collective breath, but the combat was reduced to minute details.
The opponent's reach was just a fraction too wide. His right leg contracted before every advance. His gaze was not fixed on Chuta's face, but on his left leg, as if calculating the best angle for a takedown.
Chuta read all of this almost instinctively, as if the other's body spoke in a language he already knew.
The rival then leaned in with more clarity, his intention becoming evident: he would seek a low takedown, aimed straight at the waist or the base of the legs. Chuta did not wait to receive him. He moved forward with a brief burst—almost a contained hop—and raised his knee simultaneously.
The collision was blunt: a knee to the left shoulder of the man from the Chibcha Federal Region. The rival's body veered from the impact, and Chuta used the inertia to roll, avoiding being left exposed on the ground.
The man, bruised but still steady, rose quickly after a slight stumble. The way he moved his left shoulder was no longer the same. There was a new limit to his arm, a barely visible clumsiness that Chuta noticed immediately. It wasn't a spectacular injury; it was something worse for a fight like this: a functional discomfort that would hinder every future gesture.
Chuta decided to lower the intensity.
Not because he was at a disadvantage, but because he wanted to see more. He wanted to test the other's true rhythm, to gauge how much of his response was technique and how much was mere reflex. So, he allowed him to advance a bit more, drawing him into more fluid, longer, less explosive exchanges.
The rival responded like a serious warrior: he did not collapse, he did not lose his will; he kept trying to pierce the guard, seeking angles, pushing with his healthy shoulder. But the difference was already visible. The left arm moved more clumsily, and every time he tried to use it, Chuta could sense a small hesitation, a delay, a new rigidity.
The stadium roared above them. It was not a uniform noise, but a kind of shifting tide that rose and fell with every feint, every strike, every heavy scrape of boots against the dirt. Chuta, feeling that living backdrop around him, thought that the arena felt somewhat like an altar.
The spectators were not merely watching a fight; they were following a demonstration of order. Every duel in the tournament also told a story about the kingdom: the ability to compete without destruction, to measure valor without turning it into tragedy.
His opponent attempted a second takedown, this time with less precision due to the injury. Chuta lowered his center of gravity, stepped back, and then closed in with a compact defense that cut the attempt short.
There was a brief struggle, a short exchange of hands and elbows, and then the referee intervened upon seeing the control clearly tilted in Chuta's favor. The decision was not theatrical; it was technical. The man from Chibcha had not been incapacitated, but the combat was no longer balanced.
"Winner, Chuta!" the referee declared.
For a moment, the stadium's noise seemed slow to react. Then it exploded.
The shouts came from everywhere—dense, vibrant, amplified by the stands and the very structure of the sports center. Chuta felt that support like a warm mass pushing him from behind.
It wasn't just applause; it was recognition.
The people were not only celebrating an individual victory, but the entire scene: the young leader fighting with the gravity of a veteran, the defeated region maintaining its dignity, the tournament functioning as it should.
Chuta looked up briefly toward the stands.
The noise enveloped him, and for a moment, the arena seemed larger than before. Not because of its physical size, but because in that instant, he understood with absolute clarity that this space was not just for measuring who struck better.
It was a place where the kingdom turned strength into narrative, rivalry into structure, and pride into something that could be shared without turning into war.
Half an hour later.
Chuta advanced toward the assigned zone, his breathing measured and his attention divided between his own body and the space surrounding him. The section of the stadium prepared for this round no longer resembled a single arena, but four distinct territories within the same combat ground: an artificial forest with scattered trees, a woodland with a lake, a rocky expanse, and, at the edge of it all, an urban zone made of false walls, doors, and windows.
From his vantage point, the urban terrain rose like a small mock city: narrow corridors, blind corners, houses of hardened wood, and roofs that offered alternative routes. Chuta surveyed the layout from his starting point and immediately understood that this environment favored both ambush and escape. It was not a stage designed for head-on fighting for long; it was a stage built to force one to think.
His opponent was already on the opposite side, at a distance.
He was the representative of the Northwest Region, a man in his early twenties, short in stature—about 160 centimeters—but with a compact, solid build that promised endurance over speed.
His muscles rippled beneath his clothes with a brutal honesty, and his face bore the unmoving expression of someone who had come to win, not merely to participate. Chuta observed him for a few seconds and then lowered his gaze to the ground, as if he wanted to see the fight before it began.
He thought then of the prizes. Not just those of the current fight, but the entire mechanism that had turned the tournament into something fiercer than a simple tradition.
The kingdom had placed money, land, and concrete benefits on the table for the victors.
The top four finishers received gold or rare materials of equivalent value, along with large houses in regional capitals or similar estates, and honorary titles tied to the army.
Fifth through eighth place obtained less: less gold, no rare materials, minor titles, and a few administrative privileges. Chuta knew that this structure, over time, had ceased to be a symbolic reward and had become a real engine of ambition.
To this was added another layer that had emerged through his own influence: sponsorship.
Emerging companies, kingdom offices, and even regional bodies had begun to back their representatives as if it were a prestige spectacle. This mixture of formal reward and economic backing had made the combats even more intense. One no longer fought only for pride or representation; one fought for material advancement, for public presence, for a future.
A field assistant led him to the exact starting zone.
Chuta acknowledged the gesture with a slight nod and, before fully entering the combat, let out a long sigh. He wanted to clear his mind. He knew that if he lost himself too deeply in thought, he would fall back into his habit of over-analyzing too late. This time, he couldn't afford it.
He looked around for quick advantages: the visual exits of the labyrinth, the position of the windows, the open doors, the possibility of taking cover or hearing the opponent's footsteps amidst the hollow structures.
In his mind, he traced a clear route. Silent advance. Find weapons and armor first. Listen for the rival rather than look for him. Provoke him, if necessary, with false noises to force him to reveal his position. Do not attempt an early clash. The terrain was not made for that.
The starting signal cut the air.
Chuta moved immediately, but not impulsively. He entered the field with a contained speed, staying low, as if he wanted to glide rather than run. The silence of the beginning allowed him to hear the slightest things: the scuff of his own feet, the creak of a false wall as he brushed it, the breathing of his rival still far off.
He pressed against a wall, controlling the air in his lungs, and forced himself to listen. The stadium was enormous; the crowd's noise was muffled by the structure, turning any small signal into something vital. But he heard little more than the dry creak of panels and the reverberation of his own movement.
He advanced through the constructions at the urban edge and entered one of the houses. There, he found cloth armor reinforced with bronze plates. It wasn't the best protection in the world, far from it, but it was a start.
Chuta donned it quickly, immediately noticing the difference between improvised defense and absolute emptiness. The hardened cloth rubbed against his skin, and the plates covered the most exposed points with a tolerable weight.
He moved on.
Then, he heard footsteps. Fast. Focused. They came from the interior of the field, likely because his rival had found something useful before him and was trying to exploit the advantage with a lightning strike.
Chuta stopped and hid in a nearby building, keeping his breathing steady. From there, he saw the man from the Northwest appear between two structures, looking side to side with intense focus. He was searching for shadows, doors, rooftops—any sign of where his target might be.
He noticed something else: the rival was also looking at the ground. Tracks. Traces. That was both good and bad. Good because it showed method; bad because it meant he could follow a very effective hunting logic.
Chuta had already thought of that. He had been erasing his own trail every so often, dragging a foot, shifting the earth, breaking the obvious line that a simple pursuit could follow.
For an instant, he considered the possibility of ambushing him from his hiding spot. But he had no weapon. The idea was dead on arrival. Without an attacking tool, an ambush was nothing more than a desperate gamble.
The man continued checking the surroundings, found nothing, and eventually moved off toward Chuta's starting zone, perhaps thinking that would be the best chance to catch him.
Chuta waited a few more seconds. Then he rose carefully, took a nearby stone, and threw it in the opposite direction, seeking to divert the enemy's attention. The dry thud of the impact was enough. The rival snapped his head around and ran toward the source of the noise without hesitation. Chuta seized that opening and changed direction rapidly, returning to his search.
His breathing had accelerated, but not enough to cloud his judgment. He found another piece of armor, this time a garment of hardened wool. It was poor compared to the ideal, yet useful in combination with the first. He slipped it under his main armor, glad to gain an extra layer without losing mobility.
As his opponent's footsteps began to draw near again, Chuta looked up and saw a glint atop one of the walls: the sheen of a weapon resting on the roof of a construction.
He climbed without wasting time. His fingers found purchase in the wood and false stone with an agility born more of habit than strength. Upon reaching the top, he took the weapon.
It was a short-range bronze axe. Compact, balanced, maneuverable. Chuta felt immediate relief. Without a weapon, he would have had little chance of victory.
Still, the metal told him another, less comfortable truth: the edge was limited. It could cut, yes, but not like a fine iron blade. The wounds it produced would be for control and opening rather than devastation. He would have to use it well.
He then moved toward an open space. He didn't want to be trapped in a web of corridors or rely on a guerrilla war that lasted too long. If his opponent had decided to play a game of pressure, Chuta preferred to force him to fight where everyone could see the result. Furthermore, open ground would hinder any attempt to hide the rival's tactical inferiority behind walls and corners.
He didn't have to wait long.
The representative of the Northwest Region appeared before him, clad in leather armor and holding an iron sword. The other's protection was inferior; that much was clear. And the iron weapon surpassed the bronze axe in quality and raw power. Chuta evaluated the difference in a single glance.
However, there was something about that sword that caught his eye immediately. Something in the way the man held it, or the way the metal caught the light, suggested to Chuta—by the strain in the man's hand as he gripped the hilt—that the sword was poorly balanced or far too heavy for rapid use.
Chuta held the axe without raising it yet, waiting for the other's first move. The stadium seemed to have compressed around them both. The crowd was up there, invisible due to the distance, but present in the form of contained noise, an expectation that weighed heavy in the air.
The wind barely swept across the arena, making the fabrics of the false structures vibrate, as if the entire place were holding its breath.
Chuta had already decided: he was not going to enter a contest of brute strength. If the other's weapon was superior, he would have to turn that advantage into a liability. A fight was not won by the edge alone; it was won by the angle, the tempo, and the reading of the foe. And that sword, however superior it might be, seemed to have a weakness he could exploit.
He stood sideways, lowered his center of gravity slightly, and waited for the clash.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hi everyone.
There was a small problem with the previous chapter; it was published a day later than it should have been, and this one, well, I was out hunting for chocolate eggs for Easter. Hahaha
By the way, thank you so much for your support and patience. I know I don't thank you enough, but know that I always keep you in mind.
Back to the chapter.
First, I couldn't fit all the events into just a couple of chapters, so we'll have the next fights in the following chapter, and I hope to finish with the wedding there as well.
Second, I hope you liked the format of the battle series. I envisioned something like gladiator, but more dynamic and focused on the fighters' skills.
By the way, I'd like to know if this type of reading, a bit more focused on combat, is interesting, or if it just seems like filler.
For me, it was good, but it lacked more onomatopoeia or more vivid descriptions. However, I did have something like that, but when I read it in English, it seemed like an 18+ scene, haha.
I'll work on that more.
P.S. I hope to reply to your comments and reviews this week. I don't know why I always keep it in mind, but I keep forgetting.
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Read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 91) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 34) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 14) (ON HOLD)
You can find them on my profile.]