A free day was given to rest up after each round, Alexander as well as Derek and Rave became well known in the camp, popular icons worthy of emulation by the Scouts. Even some of the Soldiers and Knights become close pals with them.
Alexander was known for his lightening fast strike coupled with a well placed knock out, Derek for his fast jab and Rave, his swift kicks.
Seventy-four teams participated in the tournament, thirty-seven teams were knocked out during round one, eighteen teams were knocked out at round two, nine were knocked out at round three, six went out at round four, two went out at round five, leaving just two teams, team twenty and fifteen.
So far in the tournament, Liam and Ivan barely made it through, Liam lost three combat while Ivan lost four. Taven struggled with two but won all five rounds.
It was day fifty-nine of the Scout Regiment and the final round of the tournament, the most awaited moment.
To make the match fair, the contestants penned down their names, placing them in two separate pouches.
The sound of murmurs swelled like a low tide as Commander Devon reached for the pouches.
A hush fell over the arena, the silence palpable as the crowd leaned forward in anticipation.
With a flick of his wrist, Devon plucked a folded slip from each pouch. The crowd erupted in a frenzy of whoops and cheers as he announced the matchup: "Team Twenty, Derek Owems. Team Fifteen, Rave Louis."
Derek's intense gaze locked onto Rave, standing tall and foreboding. A smirk danced across Rave's face as he shot back a disdainful glare, "I'm going to make you beg."
"Give me a clean fight lads." Commander Devon spoke then withdrew from them while raising his hand to give the go ahead.
The air shivered as Rave's side kick sliced through the air, its velocity so swift that it left a trail of dust in its wake. Derek barely managed to dodge the attack, his head snapping back in a graceful evasion as the kick breezed past his face.
Derek retreated, his footwork measured and precise, creating a buffer between himself and Rave. His opponent's smirk, promised nothing but trouble.
Rave lunged forward with the ferocity of a wild beast, unleashing a relentless barrage of punches and spinning kicks, each one fueled by a conflagration of speed and skill. Derek, gritting his teeth, managed to block and evade, but with each escape, his composure frayed a little more.
As the battle raged on, Derek's heart hammered in his chest, searching desperately for any flaw in Rave's technique. There it was, Rave was driven by his overconfidence, and that would be his loss.
The thud echoed through the arena as Rave's fist connected with Derek's jaw, the impact jarring but tolerable. Though a lesser fighter would have buckled under the force, Derek knew this was child's play compared to the bruising blows dealt by Alexander.
But in the instant that Rave reveled in his false victory, Derek found his opening. His fist struck Rave's face, a swift unseen jab that reverberated with a crack of bones.
Stunned by the unexpected blow, Rave staggered, his arms flailing as he struggled to regain his balance.
Pressing his advantage, Derek fired off a second strike, the crack of his fist reverberating against Rave's belly. The impact dropped Rave to his knees, a groan escaping his lips as he cradled his stomach.
The crowd, a teeming mass of roars and cheers, drowned out Commander Devon's announcement of the winner.
Derek, fists raised in triumph, basked in the adulation of the victory cries as he approached his tent.
"Damn, that was some fight!" Liam exclaimed, the echo of the crowd's cheers still ringing in his ears.
Derek nodded. "Rave was a beast out there. Almost had me at one point."
Taven shook his head, a flicker of worry etching his brow. "Yeah, I thought you were done for after that blow."
"It was all part of Derek's plan." Alexander chimed in. "Rave's pride was his undoing."
In the next round, Ivan took to the arena, but the dice of fate rolled against him. His opponent was a hurricane of fists and fury, and Ivan, despite his best efforts, soon crumpled under the onslaught.
In the hushed stillness of the arena, Commander Devon's voice rang out, "Team twenty, Alexander Rachik. Team fifteen, Mark Irok."
A murmur rippled through the crowd as Alexander rose, his bearing exuding a calm confidence. Across the arena, Mark stood poised, a mirror image of Alexander's graceful stature, his farrowing brows furrowing with intensity.
Mark, seemingly aware of Alexander's strategizing prowess, set his defensive stance revealing his intent to leave no opening for attack.
"Your tricks won't work on me, Alex. Don't even think of it," Mark warned, his eyes alight with challenge.
Alexander's smirk widened.
As Commander Devon's signal rang out, Mark lunged forward, his fists striking with relentless flurry of blows, raining down upon Alexander.
But Alexander, unperturbed, danced away from each punch, his movements fluid as silk.
To the untrained eye, it might have seemed that Alexander was on the defensive, dodging and weaving, avoiding the fight. But the subtle brilliance of his strategy was tiring of Mark's offensive.
Sure enough, the moment came. A hint of hesitation, a split-second's break in Mark's assault signaled his fatigue.
Like a bolt of lightning, Alexander's foot snapped out, a perfect, blinding-fast spinning kick that connected with Mark's head.
The crowd erupted, a wall of sound rising from the stands as Mark crumpled to the ground, his consciousness flickering out like a candle in the wind.
"Dammit Alex, always taking the moment." Derek beamed.
Liam, a slight waver in his voice, chimed in, "Yeah, and I'm definitely going to lose."
Derek patted Liam on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it, chubs. Our team's already made its mark. Just do your best, that's all we ask."
Liam straightened his back, confidence gleaming in his eyes. "Yeah, I've got this."
"That's the spirit," Derek added with a grin. "Now get out there and show them what you're made of."
As Liam marched to the arena, the Commander's voice boomed throughout the stadium. "Final round, step out lads."
Liam, his heart beating in his throat, stepped out onto the dirt, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of his opponent—Holms Fliker. His adversary, lithe and wiry, boasted a shaved head and cruel eyes that promised no mercy.
A moment passed as Liam and Holms sized each other up.
Just as Commander Devon's signal rang out, Liam lunged, his fists flying in a flurry of punches, each aimed with precise force.
Holms, agile and light on his feet, seemed to anticipate Liam's every move. He avoided each punch, seizing the opening, he drove his into Liam's belly with the ferocious force.
Liam doubled over, the wind knocked out of him, groaning as the pain ricocheted through his body. Holms, his eyes gleaming with malice, pressed his advantage, unleashing a torrent of punishing blows.
The arena became a haze of blood and dirt, Liam's defenses buckling under the onslaught. Yet, through sheer force of will, he refused to fall, bloodied but unbowed.
"Yield already, fatty," Holms taunted, baring his teeth in a snarl.
"Not on my watch." Liam's voice ragged, "Not when my team is counting on me."
Holms, incensed by Liam's stubbornness, bared his teeth and came in for the kill.
But Liam, his eyes narrowing in a flash of insight, dodged Holms' swing and, in a burst of adrenaline, drove his palms into Holms' ears with a deafening crack.
The crowd exploded, their shouts rising to a fever pitch as Holms staggered, clutching his head in agony.
The cheers of the crowd washed over Liam, fueling his determination. With a roar of victory, he seized Holms' waist and, hurled him into the air and slammed him into the dirt.
The Scouts erupted into a frenzy, streaming into the arena as Liam stood triumphant. Holms, lying dazed and defeated, was barely conscious.
Commander Devon knew there was no stopping them, he picked Holms up and left the arena.
After a nice and warm evening bath at the lake the Scouts returned to camp, then made their way towards the end of the restricted section, where a great hall awaited them. It had rows of long tables with benches on each side, a short table was reserved for the captain and commanders at the fore front which stood on a three step elevated platform.
The feast, an array of delectable delights, beckoned with its roasts, pies, and sweetmeats.
Team twenty reclined at the sixth table of the third row, with little hesitation, Liam began to devour every morsel within reach, eliciting a chuckle from Derek, who sipped from his mug of rum with a satisfied grin.
"Calm down, Liam, or you'll make a pig of yourself," Taven gently chided.
Derek merely shrugged. "Let the star of the tournament have his fill.
The boisterous din of laughter and merry chatter filled the hall as the Scouts gorged themselves on the feast, the air alive with the buzz of celebration.
A sudden hush fell upon the crowd as Captain Ramsey rose to his feet, a sudden stillness descending upon the room. The Scouts, their mugs at the ready, followed their captain's lead, lifting their cups to the sky in a synchronized salute.
"To an outstanding tournament and victory to team twenty!"
Captain Ramsey's words rang out, their sincerity and pride reverberating throughout the hall. The Scouts responded with a unified cheer.
As the reverberation subsided, the Captain resumed his seat, a rare smile gracing his face.
Commander Devon, his authoritative voice cutting through the crowd, rose to his feet. "Alright lads, those selected by Captain Ramsey on the day of his arrival are to report to him immediately after this feast." His eyes scanned the hall, landing upon team fifteen and team twenty with an unspoken challenge in his gaze. "Commander Kanlor has chosen team fifteen and twenty for his group."
The tension in the air thickened, as the gazes of team twenty and fifteen collided, a silent clash of wills.
As Commander Devon continued to assign teams to their various superiors, the assembled Scouts fell into an attentive silence, each grappling with the implications of the pairings.