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Tournament XI
Author: Alfonzo Perez
last update2025-11-07 08:17:10

And so, the match began. With complete confidence, Subrata was the first to move. He lunged forward, launching a barrage of punches from both fists. Yet Rangga, calm and composed, evaded each strike with graceful precision. Occasionally, he would deflect one or two blows—not with the intent to counter, but to subtly alter the direction of Subrata’s attack, making his rhythm falter.

The crowd’s excitement surged. A few spectators began edging closer to Aji, who stood at the edge of the arena. They were gamblers—faces tense, eyes gleaming with greed—hoping the handsome young man would give some clue as to who would emerge victorious. None of them had yet placed their bets, and they sought an omen, a whisper, anything from Aji that could tilt fortune in their favor. If he hinted at who would advance to face him in the final, their purses would grow heavy with gold.

But Aji had already read their intentions. Though he had discerned who held the upper hand between Rangga and Subrata, not a
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  • Final

    “Very well—if that is your decision. But do not come to regret it when you lose that arm. And remember: I never forced you to step into the ring tomorrow.”Subrata’s face was steady with the stubborn pride that had defined him for years. “I understand, Master. I have weighed the risks and the costs. I only ask that you lend me your full support.”“As long as the disciples of the Black Tiger Sect walk the righteous path, you shall have my support,” the old man replied. He rose slowly, the joints of his hands creaking like weathered wood, and moved to leave. “I will book a room and remain here tonight.”“So you will stay to see me fight?” Subrata asked, a spark of consolation in his voice.The elder only inclined his head, a measured, almost paternal gesture, then stepped out into the corridor and vanished into the night.---Dawn broke with a pale, breathless hush over the tournament grounds. Aji, Ratih, and Rangga departed t

  • The Arrival of the Sect Master

    Subrata’s eyes widened in unease as he stared at the gleaming needles neatly arranged upon the small wooden table. The mere sight of them sent a chill crawling through his spine. His mind, restless and unwilling to surrender to pain, began racing—searching for another way to heal his wound without having to endure the needle’s bite.“Is there no other way, healer?” he asked anxiously, his tone heavy with frustration. “Tomorrow I must fight in the final match. If you stitch my wound, will I even be able to move my arm?”The old physician sighed, running a wrinkled hand over his beard as he examined the torn flesh once more. “Without stitching, I fear it will be impossible for it to heal by tomorrow, young man. The wound must be sealed, otherwise it will fester, and the bleeding will not stop.”Subrata frowned deeply. “And if we don’t sew it shut—can it still close on its own?”“There is another way,” the healer admitted, “but it will take time—week

  • Tournament XIII

    No one in the audience could have predicted Rangga’s defeat. The entire arena fell into stunned silence as his body was hurled off the stage. Even Ratih and Aji were left wide-eyed, disbelief freezing their expressions as the dust settled.A heavy sigh of disappointment swept through the crowd. Everyone had expected a grand finale between Aji and Rangga—two warriors of equal strength and pride. But fate, it seemed, had chosen a different path.“What a shame,” Aji murmured under his breath, the words carrying the weight of genuine regret. He had been certain that Rangga would claim victory.Rangga approached, his steps steady despite the loss. When he reached them, a faint but warm smile curved his lips. “I’m sure you’ll win tomorrow,” he said, his tone calm but sincere. “In terms of skill, you’re far superior to him. But be careful—he’s a cunning man.”Aji met Rangga’s gaze and smiled back, his confidence unshaken. “Don’t worry,” he repl

  • Tournament XII

    Rangga moved like a shadow, weaving through the storm of strikes that rained upon him. Each time Subrata’s fists came crashing down, Rangga twisted or bent away, and when the timing allowed, he countered—swift, precise, and deadly.The duel of bare hands unfolded with ferocity. Every movement was sharp as lightning, every blow heavy with intent. The two warriors were no longer testing each other’s strength—they were fully engaged, pouring both body and spirit into the contest. The arena crackled with tension, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath.Each time Rangga parried, the strain sent jolts of pain up Subrata’s wounded arm. Blood once again seeped through the reopened gash, glistening red against his tanned skin. The injury that should have healed now throbbed with agony. Subrata grimaced, but pride forced him onward. Every collision between their hands drew a hiss of pain he tried in vain to suppress.Rangga noticed it—the subtle tightening of S

  • Tournament XI

    And so, the match began. With complete confidence, Subrata was the first to move. He lunged forward, launching a barrage of punches from both fists. Yet Rangga, calm and composed, evaded each strike with graceful precision. Occasionally, he would deflect one or two blows—not with the intent to counter, but to subtly alter the direction of Subrata’s attack, making his rhythm falter.The crowd’s excitement surged. A few spectators began edging closer to Aji, who stood at the edge of the arena. They were gamblers—faces tense, eyes gleaming with greed—hoping the handsome young man would give some clue as to who would emerge victorious. None of them had yet placed their bets, and they sought an omen, a whisper, anything from Aji that could tilt fortune in their favor. If he hinted at who would advance to face him in the final, their purses would grow heavy with gold.But Aji had already read their intentions. Though he had discerned who held the upper hand between Rangga and Subrata, not a

  • Tournament X

    The match had ended almost as soon as it began. The young woman’s movements were sharp, precise, and filled with the quiet elegance of someone who had mastered her art through relentless practice. Her opponent, perhaps overconfident or simply careless, made the fatal mistake of misstepping—and in that instant, Ratih’s body moved like a whip. She spun gracefully, her legs scissoring upward in a flash. The impact landed squarely on her opponent’s chest, flipping the woman backward before her head struck the wooden stage with a heavy thud. The crowd gasped as the fallen fighter lay unconscious, sprawled motionless upon the floorboards. Ratih had claimed victory, swift and clean.When the excitement of the battle faded, Aji suggested they take a walk through the village to clear their minds. The two of them, walking side by side under the afternoon sun, drew the eyes of nearly everyone they passed. Their quiet harmony—the calm poise of the handsome warrior and the gentle radiance of the b

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