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. Sumit placed two silver coins on the counter. "Keep the change."
He didn't stay to eat. He picked up the warm plate of grilled root vegetables and meat and took it 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 the plate on the bedside table, pulled off his boots, and collapsed into bed. Sleep took him quickly.
In the dream, he stood in a vast field of dark grass under a moonless sky. The stars blinked like distant embers. And then, as always, she appeared—Black Cat.
Sleek, dark fur. Glowing golden eyes. A tail that moved like smoke.
"You seem frustrated," she said, her voice echoing in the strange space around them.
"I am," Sumit replied. "The rumbling technique… I can't do it. I try, but the ground just swallows my aura. Nothing happens."
Black Cat circled him, purring softly. "You force too much. You expect obedience. Aura doesn't dominate the world—it must communicate with it."
"That sounds like nonsense," Sumit muttered.
"Then remain stuck. Or," her eyes gleamed, "you learn to listen."
He looked down at his hands, clenched and trembling.
"I don't have time for that."
Black Cat stopped in front of him, tilting her head. "Then you will have nothing but time... watching others move ahead while you stay still."
Sumit opened his mouth to speak—but the dream began to fade, slipping from his fingers like mist.
He woke to sunlight pouring through the thin curtains. The smell of his untouched dinner filled the room, cold but still appetizing. His limbs felt heavy, but his mind clearer.
He dressed quickly and made his way back to the arena. Today's match promised to be an odd one: the Donkey versus the Peacock. Both had won their initial rounds surprisingly fast.
The stands were already packed. Sumit found a seat near the middle, just as the announcer's voice boomed across the field.
The crowd hushed as the announcer's voice rang out:
"Today's feature match—Donkey versus Peacock! Strength against speed! Grit against grace!"
The Peacock strutted into the arena first, his long, colorful tail feathers catching the light with every step. He wore a smug grin and blew kisses to the crowd, spinning once like a dancer on stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he called out, "prepare your hearts, because you're about to witness true elegance."
Murmurs of amusement spread through the stands.
Then came the Donkey.
Heavy steps. No fanfare. 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.
Peacock raised an eyebrow. "No words? No flair? You're really going to be that boring?"
The Donkey 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 raised his hand.
"Begin!"
And in a flash of blue feathers, the Peacock vanished from sight.
The Peacock reappeared a split second later behind the Donkey, his talons flashing toward the back of his opponent's neck.
But Donkey 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. Peacock somersaulted back with a click of his beak.
"Oho! You're not just heavy, you're fast too," he chirped. "Delightful!"
Peacock lunged again, this time zigzagging so quickly he left afterimages. His feathers shimmered, creating a dazzling display that made it hard to track his real movements. The crowd gasped as he shot forward like a blue blur, aiming a spinning kick at Donkey's temple.
This time Donkey 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's not trying to catch him. He's wearing him down."
It was true. Every time Peacock struck, he landed a hit—but Donkey just absorbed it. No counter, no flinch. Just pressure.
Minutes passed like this. A dance of aggression and endurance. Peacock struck high, low, spinning and slicing with the precision of a master. His aura flickered like firelight—sharp, bright, and controlled.
Donkey didn't use aura. Or at least, he didn't seem to. 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 Peacock made a mistake.
He attempted a high vault kick—leaping over Donkey to strike from above. It worked earlier.
This time, Donkey was ready.
He stepped back—not forward—and raised both arms.
Peacock landed right into his grasp.
A thundering cheer burst from the crowd.
Donkey brought him down like an avalanche, slamming Peacock into the ground with a spine-rattling crash. Dust and feathers exploded into the air. The arena trembled. Sumit stood in shock.
Peacock coughed, dazed, trying to flutter free.
Donkey didn't let go.
He held Peacock in a crushing grip, locking his wings and pinning his arms. Peacock struggled, but his thin frame was no match for Donkey's bulk.
Still, he fought.
Using every ounce of aura, Peacock created a shockwave from his feathers, a burst of slicing wind that tore at Donkey's arms. Blood ran down the Donkey's fur—but he didn't loosen his grip.
With a final growl, Donkey twisted, flipping Peacock onto his back and driving a knee into his chest. The breath escaped from Peacock in a choking gasp.
"Enough!" the referee called, seeing the limp form beneath Donkey's weight.
The crowd erupted in cheers and howls.
Donkey 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, gave a grunt of respect. "That's what happens when strength doesn't fall for flash."
Jack chuckled. "I almost feel bad for the bird. Almost."
The Peacock was being carried off on a stretcher, conscious but stunned.
Back in the stands, some fans still clapped for him—for the show he gave, the speed he showed, and the style he 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.