Chapter 2.3: Something to Prove - (Banog's Trial)
Personal System Calendar: Year 0009, Day 11, Month I: The Imperium
Imperial Calendar: Year 6854, 1st month, Day 11
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The Innovator's Challenge
Banog stepped into the arena with a mixture of confidence and trepidation. He was the third son, the innovator, the one who looked at tradition and asked uncomfortable questions like "Why?" and "What if we did it differently?" These questions had earned him respect from younger clan members and disapproval from the traditionalist elders who saw his approach as dangerous thinking.
When he saw his opponent waiting in the center of the arena, his first reaction was surprise. A female fighter. A human at that. He had expected to face one of his own clan's warriors, someone whose style he understood. This was unexpected, and if he was being honest with himself, slightly insulting.
Did they think so little of his capabilities that they assigned him a female opponent? Did they believe he needed an easier challenge?
But Banog forced himself to reconsider that initial reaction. If she had been selected as his opponent by the judges, including his own father, then she must possess considerable skill. August, Red Peerce, and Axel Martin were not fools. They would not pair him against someone inadequate simply to give him an easy victory. That would defeat the entire purpose of the trial.
Besides, Banog knew he was not the most skilled pure fighter among his brothers. Baliti had raw power, Rakatan had technical mastery, Tamba had comprehensive versatility. Banog's strength lay in innovation, in thinking outside traditional combat parameters, in using unexpected tactics that caught opponents off guard. If his opponent underestimated him because of that, he could exploit it. And perhaps, he realized with growing insight, that was exactly what this test would reveal about him.
He studied Isabel Peerce more carefully. She stood calmly, not in a defensive stance but in a neutral ready position that could flow into any combat style. Her equipment was extensive and diverse, speaking to someone who prepared for any situation.
Banog's mind cataloged her visible weapons: a short sword with a round shield, a longer dagger at her boot, a shorter blade at her back waist, a knife on her chest plate. Throwing daggers secured in quick-release straps on her chest harness. A short spear mag-locked to her back. A compact warhammer hanging from her belt. A short bow with a modest quiver.
This was an all-rounder, someone who could fight at any range with any style. Banog recognized the philosophy because it mirrored his own approach. He too carried an extensive arsenal, believing that adaptability was the ultimate weapon.
The village bell rang, signaling the start of combat.
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The Dance of Versatility
Neither fighter moved immediately. Both were assessing, calculating, considering optimal approaches. This was not a test of raw power like Baliti's match, nor pure technical precision like Rakatan's duel. This was a chess game played with weapons and bodies.
Isabel made the first move, drawing her short sword and settling her shield into a defensive posture. She began circling left, forcing Banog to turn and reposition. It was a basic tactic, but effective: control the space, dictate engagement range, observe how the opponent responds.
Banog drew his modified greatsword—a weapon that confused most who saw it. It had been cut down from a traditional greatsword, shortened to make it more maneuverable, with a straight edge that looked almost like a ruler rather than a conventional blade. It was designed not for elegant swordplay but for powerful sweeping strikes that cleared space and overwhelmed defenses through sheer force.
He swung it in a wide arc, testing Isabel's reaction. She didn't back away but instead raised her shield, angling it to deflect the blow rather than absorb it directly. The greatsword rang against the shield's metal boss and slid off harmlessly.
Banog immediately followed with his pavise shield, a rectangular design he had adapted from observing human crossbowmen. It was small for his eight-foot frame but perfectly sized to protect his torso and head. The front featured a metal boss with a spike designed for shield bashing. He drove forward, attempting to use his size advantage to overwhelm Isabel through simple mass and momentum.
But Isabel was already moving, flowing around his charge like water around a stone. Her short sword licked out, striking at his extended arm, testing his armor and reflexes. The blow landed but glanced off his reinforced bracers without significant effect.
They separated, both reassessing. First exchange: inconclusive.
"You're fast," Banog acknowledged in Common Tongue.
"You're strong," Isabel replied. "But strength isn't everything."
"Neither is speed."
They came together again, and this time the exchange was more complex. Banog switched to his halberd, using its superior reach to keep Isabel at distance. He thrust with the point, swept with the axe blade, hooked with the back spike, using the weapon's versatility to create a defensive perimeter Isabel couldn't easily penetrate.
Isabel responded by drawing her short spear, matching his reach weapon with her own. Now it became a duel of polearms, both fighters demonstrating considerable skill with mid-range weapons. The spear and halberd clashed repeatedly, each seeking an opening, neither finding one.
Banog feinted high with the halberd, then dropped low, attempting to sweep Isabel's legs with the weapon's shaft. It was a classic move, one that should have worked against a smaller opponent.
Isabel jumped, clearing the sweep by inches, and as she landed, she transitioned fluidly from defense to offense. Her spear darted forward in three rapid thrusts: high, middle, low. Banog managed to deflect two with his pavise shield but the third caught him in the thigh, a solid hit that would have drawn blood if the weapon hadn't been blunted.
First point to Isabel.
The crowd murmured appreciatively. The female fighters in particular were on their feet, cheering loudly. Isabel was representing them, demonstrating that skill and technique could overcome size and strength advantages.
Banog felt a flash of irritation but pushed it down. This was exactly the kind of thinking that had limited his clan's development. Why should female fighters be considered inferior? If they had the skill, they had the skill. His irritation should be directed at himself for falling into that trap, not at Isabel for exploiting it.
He changed tactics, deliberately showing what appeared to be frustration. He switched to his heavy crossbow, backing away to create distance. The weapon was his own design: modified to fire two bolts simultaneously, one slightly behind the other. The first bolt drew attention and defensive reaction. The second, following a split-second later, exploited the opening created by defending against the first.
He fired. The double bolts streaked toward Isabel with lethal speed.
Isabel's shield came up, deflecting the first bolt. But she had anticipated the double-shot and was already moving, her body twisting as the second bolt passed through the space she had occupied a moment before. Banog cursed internally. She had recognized his modified crossbow's capability.
Isabel closed the distance rapidly, not giving him time to reload. She drew her throwing daggers, launching them in a tight spread pattern that forced Banog to bring up his shield defensively. While his vision was blocked, she transitioned to her short sword and shield combination, getting inside his effective range.
Now the fight became brutal and close-quarters. Banog dropped the crossbow and drew his huge hunting knife, using it in combination with his shield. His natural weapons—claws and fangs—also came into play at this range.
They traded blows rapidly, shield against shield, blade against blade. Isabel's technique was flawless, each movement flowing naturally into the next, her footwork impeccable. Banog fought with raw aggression, trying to overwhelm through sheer intensity.
But something was wrong. Banog could feel it even if he couldn't quite identify it. Isabel was reading him too easily, anticipating his moves before he made them. It was as if she could predict his attack patterns.
What he didn't realize was that Isabel had been studying him throughout the exchange. Every attack, every feint, every defensive reaction provided information. She was building a mental model of his fighting style, learning his preferences, identifying his habits.
And she was waiting for the right moment to spring her trap.
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The Trap Springs to Action
Banog pressed forward with renewed aggression, attempting to use his strength advantage to drive Isabel back against the arena boundary. He swung his hunting knife in a powerful overhead strike designed to crash through her shield defense.
Isabel's shield came up to block, exactly as he expected. But as the blow landed, she shifted her weight and angled the shield, deflecting the strike rather than stopping it, sending Banog's momentum carrying him forward and slightly off-balance.
And that was when Isabel revealed her trump card.
Her wood magic flared to life. Roots erupted from the arena floor beneath Banog's feet, thin and vine-like, wrapping around his ankles with surprising strength. He had been so focused on his opponent, so absorbed in the weapon exchange, that he hadn't been paying attention to his environment.
The roots weren't strong enough to completely immobilize him, but they disrupted his balance at the worst possible moment. His forward momentum, already off-center from the deflected strike, combined with the sudden impediment to his feet, sent him stumbling forward.
Isabel was already moving, flowing around his uncontrolled fall like a dancer. Her short spear came off her back in one fluid motion, and as Banog hit the ground, he felt the blunted tip pressing against the back of his neck.
Total silence filled the arena.
"Yield," Isabel said quietly, her voice calm and professional.
Banog lay there for a moment, his face against the torn earth, the spear point a gentle but unmistakable pressure against his spine. In a real battle, he would be dead. A sharpened spear through the base of the skull would have killed him instantly.
He had lost.
Not through lack of skill or strength or equipment. He had lost because he underestimated his opponent and failed to account for capabilities he hadn't anticipated. Isabel's wood magic had been the decisive factor, but only because his arrogance had created the opportunity for it to be decisive.
"I yield," he said clearly, tapping the ground twice with his palm in the traditional beast folk gesture of submission.
The spear withdrew immediately. Isabel stepped back, offering her hand to help him rise.
Banog accepted the assistance, allowing her to pull him to his feet despite his considerable size advantage. As he stood, the crowd erupted in cheers. The human women were especially vocal, celebrating Isabel's victory. But there were also cheers from beast folk women, who had watched with growing excitement as Isabel demonstrated that female warriors could compete at the highest levels.
"Well fought," Banog said, with genuine respect in his voice. He had learned something valuable today, even in defeat.
"You were holding back," Isabel replied quietly, so only he could hear. "Your throwing weapons remained unused. Your poison concoctions stayed in their pouches. You have more tricks than you showed."
"As do you, I suspect," Banog countered. "Your healing magic, your additional weapon techniques. We both fought conservatively."
"Because this is a trial, not a war," Isabel said. "The judges wanted to see our character, not our killing capacity. I think we both demonstrated what needed demonstrating."
They walked together toward the medical tent, both offering respectful bows to the crowd and judges. Chief Madok watched his third son with an expression that Banog couldn't quite read. Disappointment? Pride? Perhaps a mixture of both.
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The Aftermath
In the medical tent, Banog found his two elder brothers recovering from their respective matches. Baliti looked like he had been through a war, his massive body covered in bruises. Rakatan appeared less physically damaged but moved carefully, his muscles clearly strained from his master-level technique.
"How did it go?" Baliti asked as Banog entered.
"I lost," Banog said simply. "She outthought me and used capabilities I didn't anticipate. It was a good match, but she was better."
Rakatan studied his younger brother carefully. "You're not angry about losing?"
"I'm frustrated with myself for underestimating her," Banog replied honestly. "But angry? No. She earned the victory fairly. I learned something valuable about my own arrogance. That's worth more than an unearned win."
"That's growth," Erik said, entering the tent with Isabel. "Recognizing what you learned from defeat. That's the mark of someone who will continue improving."
The six fighters, three beast folk and three humans, shared the space in companionable silence for a moment. Despite their different backgrounds and the competitive nature of the trials, a sense of mutual respect had developed among them.
"One more match," Baliti said, looking toward the arena. "Tamba faces his trial next. I wonder what they've prepared for him."
"Something difficult," Rakatan predicted. "The youngest has always been the most naturally talented of us. They'll want to truly test his limits."
"I almost feel sorry for whoever has to fight him," Banog said with a slight smile. "Almost."
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Tamba's Entrance
The crowd was still processing Isabel's victory as preparations began for the final trial. The energy in the arena had shifted again. Three matches, three different styles, three demonstrations of capability. The spectators were beginning to understand that this was about more than just determining a new chief. This was about demonstrating that humans and beast folk could respect each other as equals, could learn from each other, could build something together.
Tamba, the youngest son, waited in the preparation area as his name was called. He had grown up watching his three elder brothers, learning from each of them, absorbing their strengths while carefully noting their weaknesses. He understood what made Baliti powerful, what made Rakatan precise, what made Banog innovative. And he had worked to incorporate elements of all three into his own style.
But he also possessed something uniquely his own: practical wisdom. The ability to assess a situation and choose the right approach from his extensive toolkit. When to rely on strength like Baliti, when to employ technique like Rakatan, when to innovate like Banog, and crucially, when to do something none of them would consider.
As he walked toward the arena, the crowd fell silent. They had seen three extraordinary matches. What would the fourth bring?
Tamba entered the prepared combat zone and looked toward where his opponent should be standing.
The center of the arena was empty.
Confused murmurs rippled through the crowd. Where was the opponent? Had there been some mistake?
Then a voice rang out from the judges' area, clear and carrying: "The fourth trial is different. Tamba will not face a single opponent."
Chief Madok rose, his expression grave. "The youngest has observed his brothers when they were still young, and had learned from their examples. A single opponent would not be a sufficient test. For the final trial, he will face multiple opponents simultaneously."
The crowd's murmurs turned to gasps as three figures stepped into the arena.
Tamba felt his heart sink as he recognized them.
This was going to be difficult.