The Ogre Strength Fairy and the Eldest 'Son'
Chapter 219 - We Came Here To See *Blood*, Not... Oh, This… This Isn’t The Colosseum?

Chapter 219: Chapter 219 - We Came Here To See *Blood*, Not... Oh, This... This Isn’t The Colosseum?

The wooden benches groaned under the shifting weight of mortal spectators finding their seats. A certain pair of orphans had settled into a good spot among them with clear views of two adjacent dueling grounds. The morning sun made them squint when looking toward the easternmost circle, but with the covers overhead that would ease up in an hour or so.

Officials in white suits made a final pass of inspections before the three judges per field took their positions. Each wore their insignias and pins denoting representation from different major Guilds from their regions. They would referee their own first and then a representative would be picked when the multi-regional finals started.

Near the staging area, competitors surrendered their personal weapons to a secure storage before approaching the practice weapon racks. They watched the Yecine heir carefully wrap their heavy blade with something before passing it to the attendant. Qat took extra care with the black ribbon as she tied it at the hilt.

She didn’t want either item damaged in the duels.

"Look there - see how the Continental Army fighters all test the weapon balance the same way?"

Fusand stood suddenly, earning glares from those behind them as he pointed toward where several uniformed cultivators methodically checked practice spears. Nohre tugged him back onto the bench before nudging her elbow softly into his side.

A familiar mint dress with silver accents was visible not far from where they picked. Their master moved between the other medical staff and arranged supplies. The Goltbred heiress looked very controlled and practiced as she worked around mostly older cultivators.

Of course, her gaze occasionally drifted toward where Qatrand er Yecine selected a blunted greatsword. The person in question judiciously matched, as much as possible, their usual weapon’s weight and balance from the many samples.

’I could have suggested she practice sensing weight finely with her Element and essence field!’

Elua really wished he had thought of it before. It likely wouldn’t have been foolproof as an Enchanter, but she imagined it would have been impressive if she just strode up and picked the perfect weapon by waving her hand across them.

Officials moved between the waiting competitors and briefly checked for hidden weapons or other prohibited items. A thin-faced man in a crisp red suit paused near the racks of practice weapons before marking something in his ledger. The cultivators were informed of their matches by a temporary wall with placards of their names.

The amount of climbing brackets showed that it would be a lengthy tournament - and that didn’t include the exhibition duels that would occur for those who wanted to continue after being dropped from the main contention.

"This middle ground has better viewing angles than I expected."

Nohre gestured toward where the first scheduled pair were taking their positions. Her attention shifted between the judge’s hand signals and the gathering medical teams at the field’s edge. Fusand caught her staring and opened his mouth to explain.

"The matches usually aren’t that dangerous. But it’s better to be ready for accidents. Just like the people fishing out those that fall from the tower."

His voice dropped lower this time, more mindful of those around them after being elbowed. His fingers drummed against his knee as he watched Elua confidently direct two other medics with a smile to spread out their coverage between fields.

The boy had noticed she was very good at getting people to listen to her. It wasn’t just her words. When she wanted, it was like people paid more attention to her.

The verbal match with the Frozen Duskblade came to mind. She set the pace, terms, and seemingly everything about the conversation once she had been engaged.

’If I could orate half as well, the young children at the orphanage might listen to my explanations more.’

The rising murmur of the crowd shifted as a senior official stepped onto the central platform. His military bearing and perfectly pressed uniform suggested Continental Army background, though his insignia marked him as a neutral party for the event.

"The first round of regional qualification matches will now commence. Competitors are reminded that continuation of any bout after a judge’s signal will result in immediate disqualification."

The absence of another speech from Corde hez Iralev disappointed some folks in the crowd, but many more were still just excited to finally see the fights. The senior official’s signal set all three fields into motion at once.

Nohre’s attention had shifted to where one of the medics knelt to arrange supplies near their section. The woman’s movements were efficient as she organized different types of bandages. Each item seemed to have its designated place, suggesting a system born from experience.

"These two are both from The Ironclad Order."

Fusand’s whispered comment drew her focus back to their nearest match. On the eastern ground, two competitors with lightweight practice blades took their positions. The center and western circles filled with their own pairs as the first qualifying matches began.

Judges raised their white flags and six sets of blunted practice weapons caught morning light as everyone settled into ready stances. A sharp whistle cut through the morning air and all three matches began simultaneously. The pair of lightweight weapon users circled each other cautiously while more aggressive exchanges could be heard from the other fields.

They kept their distance as they probed each other’s reactions. Their blades moved in testing arcs without fully committing to overcome the defense. Instead, they seemed like they were trying to draw one another into making the first ’mistake’.

From the center field, the loud clash of heavier weapons gave off a very different feeling. Nohre observed faint ripples of light between the sigil-marked poles each time the blades came close. The judges kept their scoreflags ready, positioned to signal different point values based on clean strike locations or tactical pressure.

One of the lightweight blade users finally pressed forward with a series of quick thrusts. His opponent deflected each fast strike, but the aggressive movement forced them to give ground toward the field’s edge. The back judge lowered his flag to horizontal, marking the tactical advantage.

Another loud impact from the western field drew scattered cheers from that section of the crowd. Their region’s match continued its new faster pace and Fusand chose to explain as the retreating fighter worked to angle back to the center.

"Positioning matters as much as strikes. They lose points for getting pushed out or-"

His comment cut off as the currently aggressive fighter overextended. His opponent slipped past the thrust and tapped the rounded tip of his practice blade against the other’s shoulder. All three judges raised their flags in unison, as the posts also lit up with a glow.

The hit was considered confirmed and the scorekeepers marked their cards. The two fighters reset their positions quickly... but their dynamic had shifted. The one who scored now pressed their advantage while their opponent’s movements grew much more cautious.

The fighter on offence forced the defender to give ground in small increments. Each exchange ended with the pair of cultivators slightly closer to the field’s edge than before. The judges’ flags stayed level, though each tracked the consistent pressure.

Another cheer rose from the western field as that particular match concluded. The center field’s heavier weapons continued. The sound of their impacts was steady, but neither gained a clear advantage or landed a clean strike.

The pressed fighter from their region attempted to circle back toward center like the other had done when they scored. Their opponent anticipated the movement and swung the practice blade in an extended sweep of their arm to catch them mid-step. The quick tap against a hip drew flag signals from all three judges.

"That’s their second clean hit. One more and they’ll win."

Almost as soon as the two reset, the now desperate fighter lunged forward suddenly. Their blade struck true against their opponent’s chest, but the sigil posts flashed repeatedly - marking that they’d both landed hits in the process.

Three flags dropped sharply downward. The match was called.

"Winner by three-to-one point advantage."

The senior judge’s clear voice carried across their section as the ground-bound staff marked the final score. Both competitors lowered their practice weapons and bowed formally to each other and to each of the judges. One headed toward the racks to return his gear.

"Next pair for this eastern field, prepare yourselves."

While the next set got ready, a braided haired teenager let her attention drift back to the medical station. The staff were still waiting to be needed, but she expected that none of them wanted to be required.

’At least, I wouldn’t think they want people to get hurt just so they can show off too. Right? Master...’

A familiar ’sweet’ smile caught her attention, looking right her way. The Goltbred heiress made a show of touching near her eyes before gesturing toward the dueling grounds. The gentle admonishment drew a flush to Nohre’s cheeks as she quickly turned back to watch the matches.

The ancient cultivator’s expression flickered briefly under her facade as she arranged more supplies. Everything was in place if someone got seriously hurt... but her real focus remained on studying how each fighter’s spirit flowed during combat. After all, what better way to learn about potential enemies or allies than watching them struggle against each other?

’At least until my fortress takes the field. Then I might forget to bother paying attention to anything else. Hope no one gets hurt at that time, or they might be relying on these... *healers*.’