3 The Final Day Of Training & The Tournament

I steadied my breathing as I went through the kata, both my forearms with wristblades attached and slashing through the air at a calm pace. Calm for a Yautja, anyway.

The metal sang through the air almost silently, whistling so quietly even my ears couldn't pick up on it. My feet moved in sync with my upper body, constantly keeping balance and putting my considerable bulk behind each deceptively agile strike. The weights attached to my wrists, ankles shoulders and waist shuffled silently with my movements, the ground indenting slightly but not fully as I never stayed in one spot for long.

My breathing was still slow and methodical as I sensed an entrance into my tent. A tent I'd made myself from logs, branches and the skinned hide of my kills all stitched together. I ignored the distraction and pushed myself harder.

Every muscle had to be in sync. Every muscle had to be under control. Every joint and bone aligned perfectly. My body mastered by my mind, and me the master of both.

I repeated the mantra over and over as I went through the katas again and again. Sometimes I slashed with the wristblades, other times I kicked and sometimes I punched or slashed with my claws. If there was one thing instructor Adiken'de had taught me - something that had really stuck to the very core of my being - it was that the whole body was a weapon. Even unarmed, a Yautja still had all the weapons he could ever need.

In my quest for self-perfection, I'd learned as much about the unarmed martial art of the Yautja people. It had no name but it did have one goal; to make the body a conduit for the Hunt. A vessel for combat. And this martial art led to all other training for all the other weapons the Yautja used. Becoming well-practiced in it was a prerequisite to learn a weapon, and while others had stopped their training after gaining their weapon specialisation...I had continued with it alongside my further delving into using wristblades and my pair of scimitars. They meshed well, which helped of course.

My practice came to an end soon after my thoughts finished, my first training session for the day over and done with. I turned to the intruder into my tent, a frown turned snarl as I saw the runt of the pack.

Eon'di stood there, nervously wringing his hands behind his back as he regarded me with his dull brown eyes. He was short, about 6'4", which was basically akin to being a dwarf in the Yautja community. So when in front of my 7'9" frame, he barely came up to my shoulders. Not only was he short, he was a snivelling little coward. Destined to become an Unblooded and stay there for the rest of his life.

"What do you want, runt?" I gruffly asked, my canine teeth - the teeth I used when clicking together mandibles would be needed for words - having hardened decades ago and giving me what was akin to a deep voice in the Yautja language.

"The instructor asked for everyone's presence..." he stumbled his words out of his mouth like a pup speaking to a Blooded but I couldn't blame him. I was the top of this Pack, and I'd shown again and again what people got for going up against me. But Eon'di? Even if he spoke somewhat disrespectfully, I wouldn't do anything. There'd be no need to do anything because the others would hold up the hierarchy in the Pack.

Besides, what Honour would I get from disciplining a runt? He wouldn't even be a challenge to put down. Either temporarily or permanently.

"Fine," I grunted before waving my hand in a 'shooing' motion, "Leave me."

Eon'di nodded and gave a low nod of his head before rushing from the tent. I pushed him and how much an eyesore he was out of my mind, turning instead to my trophy case.

I say case, but it was more of a carved rock with handmade shelves hanging off of it, secured with the the dried tendons of my past hunts tied together into rope. A trophy in their own right. Placed across the wooden shelves and secured to the carved rock were skulls of all shapes and sizes. From the Burrow Rats I'd killed on my first day all the way to a Terror, a jungle cat the size of a Rhino with fangs bigger than my wristblades. The jagged scars across my left shoulder showed just how sharp those teeth were.

Smirking, I thought about how those teeth and it's thick hide hadn't stopped me from killing it. While thinking about my past hunts - that occurred once a decade in the Pack Training camp as a test for the progress of the younglings - I went through the process of taking my body weights off. If I used these while human, I wouldn't ground the lubrication between my joints to nothing and ruined my body...but as a Yautja, it was an unnecessary worry. My body healed from the damage and became stronger before it could permanently harm me.

Mirthfully, I looked back on the first few years of this life where I'd tried to think up ways of trying to escape this place. I was took mentally feeble back then. Too anxious. Now I only wanted to leave so I could explore and hunt worthy prey.

Placing the weights down next to the monument of skulls and spines, I stretched my body and picked up the scimitar add-ons to my wrist gauntlet. Clipping them on, I used impressive muscular control to only flex certain muscles which caused the three and a half blades to shoot out of their collapsible form. They didn't shine, the dark grey metal only looked sharp but wouldn't give away my position if any light hit them. The instruments of death on either wrist gauntlets were thick and wide, easily capable of carving through the toughest of hides and most definitely capable of cutting through Xenomorph exoskeletons.

Relaxing my muscles, the blades returned to their collapsed state and I was finished. My mesh suit was already on alongside parts of the metal armor I'd earned through showing my worth on Hunts.

I still didn't have a bio-helmet but one would be mine soon. Soon.

Today was the last day of training with the pack. The day of the tournament which would show the fruits of fifty years of bone-breaking, muscle-tearing and blood-curdling training. I'd pushed myself so hard over the decades just for this moment, for myself and to some extent for my mother. I knew I could become great and so did she. My training was to prove that. To prove I wasn't just some half-breed, a Yautja with no mandibles, a Human lookalike. This tournament was as much to prove the worth of my training to others as it was to myself.

Stopping, I closed my eyes and took in a deep inhale of the hot and heavy air of Yautja Prime. The oxygen in the air was thin. Thinner than it was even at the highest altitudes on Earth. The gravity of the planet was oppressive and worked on every fibre and cell of my being, trying to drag me to the ground and crush me in the process even as I simply stood there.

And yet I loved this place. The heat, the air, the jungles filled with predators that would make a tiger piss itself--I loved the life I'd been given.

So I wasn't about to disappoint myself by not winning this pack tournament.

I exited my tent, the leather flap hitting dully against my own hide as the somewhat fresher air of the outside hit my face. I saw the stage the tournament would take place on, surrounded by all the other tents made by my packmates. None as big or as well-made as my own but all beautiful in their own right. Honour and strength symbolised by simple tents. I nearly scoffed at the thought - how would my old human self react to this?

It'd been so long since I was in my last life that I was beginning to forget things. How I looked, who my parents were, if I had any siblings, what was my job, what was my name...the questions went on and on but I'd stopped caring. Now is all that matters. This life. This wonderful, glorious life.

Confidently, I strode over to the rest of the younglings and they made space for me. My height and bulk, things that mattered a lot to Yautja, were higher than any of the others. The nearest to my height was a guy called Ak'ta and he was only 7'4", meaning I could look right over him if I so pleased. He was also a wiry guy with little bulk considering his height with shoulders that looked a little narrow on his frame but his long arms were deadly with the spear he held at his side almost constantly.

Standing to attention, I saw the instructor come from his own tent. A construction which dwarfed even mine and was adorned with the spines, ribcages and femur bones of gigantic beasts. The tent itself was only three pieces of leather stitched together and considering the tents size...that must've come from a Graka, an elephantine beast which are as big as giraffes but with the muscle mass to back up their height. From what I'd read and seen, they're kinda like massive gorillas but with elephant heads - if an elephant had four tusks instead of two and they were carnivores. Nasty fuckers, from what I've heard.

I now stood eye-to-eye with the instructor and definitely within the same weight-bracket. But I have no doubt he could still kick my ass. The older a Yautja, the better they are at fighting. And considering I've yet to hear of a Yautja hitting a physical plateau, if a Yautja keeps training they'll be able to improve their already naturally monstrous physicality as they get older.

I'm 60-years-old this year but the instructor is definitely several centuries old and I know for sure he's continued training, even as a Leader.

"Alright, let's not fuck around," the instructor started easy and with a normal volume but no one made a noise so his voice easily spread to everyone present. He looked to me, "Deken'de, get up on the stage. Fight as many as you can," he finished and looked to the rest of the pack, "Attack him whenever you see an opening."

I nodded and turned to the raised platform, hopping up onto it. I flexed my forearms and sent my wristblades out, my mouth open and baring my teeth - a common way of challenging another Yautja.

My first challenger soon arrived. Ak'ta. He strode forth with his spear ready, center of gravity low and body tense. Yet his movements were graceful. I lowered myself, steadying my body for the challenge. He burst forward fast, like a rocket, his spear thrusting even faster but I caught the spear tip in between my blades, trying to twist the spear out of his hands. His foot came up to slap his spear out of my hold but I slashed at the incoming attack, cutting a smooth line across the sole of his foot and his foot retreated. I followed.

Pulling on the spear with my blades, I thrust forward my other arm trying to spear him in the throat as he was pulled in. He tilted his head to the side and I grinned internally.

My blades cut across his check but he gave me access to the back of his neck. My hand unclenched and grasped the back of his head, under his dreads, and pulled his upper body down to meet my knee that rose up. The air was knocked from him, dazing him for a moment - but a moment was all I needed.

I twisted further with the blades on his spear and wrenched the implement from his hands. I flipped it skillfully even when using the wristblades to handle it, letting them retreat back into my gauntlet as I grasped the spear with my hands. The tip now faced it's previous owner and an instance later, it was buried in the gut of it's previous owner. Ak'ta wasn't down though and he pressed a foot against my lower abdomen and put some space between us.

The spear came free from his flesh, covered in green blood that subtly glowed. Ak'ta retreated back, flexing his fists as his own wristblades shot out. I looked to the spear in my hand before throwing it to the side, letting my own wristblades extend once again.

Ak'ta charged for his spear but I placed myself in front of it no matter what he tried and he was forced into a close-quarters fight with me. His long limbs helped with the reach difference but he was too unskilled in the usage of wristblades and unarmed combat to really push me. We dodged and pivoted around each others attacks, more like a lethal dance than a fight.

He tried to cut me. He failed. I tried to cut him. I didn't fail.

His reflexes were good, but mine were better.

Like all Yautja, he was strong. But I was stronger.

I sliced across his inner elbow, cutting something important and he let out a hiss of pain. I sliced again after dodging his counter, slicing across his chest and onto his stomach, cutting through his mesh armor. One arm limp and nearly gutted, Ak'ta glowered at me, mandibles flaring and clicking as he huffed both from pain and the slight exhaustion he was feeling from our short but intense fight.

Rushing him, I led with a feint thrust and he flinched to the side, trying to sidestep the attack without catching the actual attack - a hook led by two sharp and jagged blades. They cut into his upper chest and skewered him. He roared in pain before I threw him to the side, easily lifting up his body and flicking it away and off the platform.

Smiling, I looked to the rest of the crowd and raised my arms in challenge. At that moment, I felt the air change behind me ever so slightly, catching a noise with my keen ears just barely.

I spun around with preternatural grace and celerity, extending one of my scimitars as I sliced at whatever was coming for me. A metal arrow clinked off of my weapon and ricocheted to the side, bouncing harmlessly off the floor before rolling a little further. I turned my eyes to one of the more average in stature and appearance Yautja. He was called Jak'da, if I recall correctly. The best ranged Hunter in our Pack.

How fun.

Bringing my other scimitar out, I held them up diagonally and their tips pointing to my new opponent. Jak'da was already drawing another arrow and I just stood there - there's a reason archery isn't a preferred weapon specialisation amount Yautja. The arrow came flying and it was swatted out of the air quite easily.

The bows lack power. They will never pack as much a punch as plasma caster. Nor as much power as a melee strike from a physically mature Yautja. And seeing as my opponent had no way to get plasma-arrows...well, it was a stalemate until I could get close enough.

Which is exactly how it played out.

He'd shoot, I'd block it and dart forward, he'd hurriedly fire off another shot while backing up and the cycle would repeat itself.

Not waiting for him to try anything new, I retracted my scimitars and palmed an incoming arrow from underneath and sent it spinning in mid-air. I grabbed it the the non-pointy end and flowed forward as I tensed my muscles and chucked it back like I was playing a horrific fusion of darts and the javelin throw.

It blitzed back the way it came with more force than Jak'da's bow could ever produce while using normal metal arrows. The arrow head dug deep into his shoulder but not enough to stop him from drawing another arrow. If he had the chance, anyway.

Because I'd followed closely behind the arrow.

I gave a lightning fast jab to his face and a second, even quicker one to his throat and a final right uppercut right to his gut. My right leg soon swept his own and then dug into his side as I sent him careening off the platform. My gaze flowed over the rest of my packmates, smaller in amount than the first day of training. These were the best fifty years of intense training could produce, the survivors of many hunts in the jungles and plains of our planet.

And I found them wanting.

Where had the determination I'd been infected by been for them? Why hadn't they trained harder? Did they truly believe they could coast along Hunts with the natural abilities of a Yautja? Was it my training and my genetic mutation that made me stronger than them...or was it the burning inferno inside of me that thirsted for self-perfection that set me apart from my packmates? Useless questions, at the end of the day.

I bared my teeth once more and roared my challenge. Another stepped up and took up the gauntlet. I released a scimitar from it's holdings when I saw he had one of his own.

Another fight began within seconds.

. . .

{POV Switch - 3rd Person, Adiken'de}

It was easy to see the difference between Deken'de and the rest of his Pack for Adiken'de. Even with his unique appearance and genetic...disadvantage, he was leaps and bounds beyond the others. Whether in stature and strength or technique and the art of fighting.

He'd seen the youngling training. While his packmates rested after group training and brutal sparring, Deken'de had always had the fire and energy to train more.

It was admirable. Respectful, even. As respect-earning as a youngling could get from a past-Elite.

Adiken'de knew that at the same age, he'd only a fraction of the fire and determination the youngling had...and he'd grown to become an Elite and then finally a Leader. He wondered how far the youngling of Clan Des'teka would go. His exploits would bring honour to both him and, as his trainer, Adiken'de too.

And as he watched him masterfully parry a thrust and return it with a skilled slash that carved a bloody line across his opponent's abdomen, Adiken'de knew Deken'de would go far. The following thrust through the same cut only solidified the thought.

He, as an instructor, felt proud to have reared such a potential Hunter. As he watched him fight the rest of his packmates, never taking a break or stopping. Like an unrelenting, untiring machine, he carved up all who decided it was a smart thing to stand across from him as an opponent. Adiken'de watched as the last of the remaining pack was cut down with broken limbs and split flesh before he was thrown to the wayside.

Adiken'de nodded at this. Ruthless in a way every Hunter should be, but still bound by the Code of Honour. If his opponent lost his weapons, Deken'de would forgo his own. And even at such a disadvantage, he'd not once lost. Even the few wounds upon his body were light and would be healed in the coming minutes.

The instructor clapped, slowly, impressed at the display in front of him.

He'd heard of younglings beating all of their packmates in the last tournament before their first hunt as Unblooded. But it was far from common. Even less to do so with so little injuries.

A visible steam rose off of Deken'de's hide as he turned to him, his bright yellow eyes flashing with a killer instinct that nearly fooled Adiken'de into thinking he was already Blooded. The ominous light in his eyes retreated, replaced by respect and Adiken'de nodded; good. He wasn't letting his winning get to his head like so many other younglings would. The fire still burned fierce inside of the child. Adiken'de jumped up onto the platform and walked to the side of Deken'de, raising the younglings arm into the air and roaring.

Regardless of their state, the younglings surrounding the stage roared in response. A different roar to one of challenge or disrespect. A roar of respect one from warrior to another. Deken'de met their roar with his own, easily overpowering them in volume, but still respectful in nature.

Adiken'de could see the slight disappointment, however. The lack of challenge had disturbed him, obviously. He leaned in closer to the youngling, "Fear not, child. There will be plenty of challenging prey in the coming future. Plenty of hardship for you to put your strength to the test. Never regret your skill - instead, seek out beings worthy of it."

Deken'de looked at him in surprise, before nodding. A certain change in his eyes as he turned back to the crowd of younglings; hope, Adiken'de realised. Hope for worthy prey, of a worthy battle.

He smiled, thinking back to one of his first thoughts of Deken'de, the half-breed.

'Maybe this half-breed isn't so bad.'

Ha. Isn't so bad? He was more than that. He was great, and he had the potential to be something even more. A warrior so perfect, even the Black Warrior* would be unable to claim him. Adiken'de could only hope, anyway. He was getting old and he lived vicariously through his students for that was his right, with only the odd hunt here and there to sate him.

(*A/n - Just in case people are wondering, the Black Warrior is the representation of Death in the Yautja culture. We have the Grim Reaper, they have the Black Warrior, yada yada yada.)

The job of being a Leader, of teaching the next generation, was never an easy one to begin with. But students like Deken'de made it almost worth having such limited time to Hunt off-world.

Pushing the thoughts out of his mind, Adiken'de looked to the crowd and spoke again, overriding the roars with one of his own before he spoke, "Listen up!" he bellowed, "You've got a day to rest and recover. Before dawn, we move to the Ancestral Forest. Prepare yourselves, for if you pass you will be Unblooded! Capable of off-world Hunts! And if you don't pass? You will die Unblooded and without the chance of gaining any real Honour!"

The words sunk into the crowd and cut their previous energy in half. They realised the implications of failure, the dishonour of it. The Black Warrior had never felt realer to these younglings, Adiken'de knew. He'd been in their place before. The transition between youngling and Unblooded was quite an...intense shock. Going from sparring and the occasional Hunt in the relatively less lethal jungles to a Hunt in one of the deadliest was a sudden and abrupt change, even if they were aware it was going to happen.

You can know something is coming, yet not be prepared for it when it arrives. Adiken'de had been told that by his own instructor and it still rang true to this very day, multiple centuries later.

"Rest," he said, voice gravelly and stone hard in seriousness, "For you will need it."

Finished with his piece, Adiken'de left the platform and watched the younglings disperse. Deken'de wasn't as effected as the rest but what little it had effected him had obviously spurred him on. Adiken'de could see the youngling thinking about ways to improve himself. He was off to train, no doubt.

That's the way, Adiken'de thought to himself as he watched the youngling walk back to his tent. The neverending path of a Hunter, he smiled to himself as he pushed past the leather of his tent and entered to train himself.