27. Emilia

27

EMILIA

W ith bated breath, I stare at the referee as the ball magically descends into the ground. In a few moments, the match will begin. And I can hardly think straight.

Around me, the screams and yells of the fans are loud enough to deafen me, and even still, I can hear the beat of my own heart. As much as I want to cover my eyes and shield myself from the game's outcome, I can't tear my eyes away.

Once the ball erupts out of the ground, the game begins. Jurto's Bloodcrushers clash against Gargash's Stonebreakers in a mess for possession over the ball. One of the Stonebreakers elbows a Bloodcrusher square in the face, eliciting stunned gasps from the crowd.

With every strong hit, I flinch from the intensity. Jurto roars as he flings off an orc from off his back, sending the player crashing into the ground as the crowd yells their approval.

"Jurto," I whisper, clasping my hands together. "Please be careful."

The Stonebreakers are relentless today. Perhaps, they've been training as hard as Jurto and his team, too. Their tactics are dirtier than the ground under our feet. Each elbow jab and concealed hit echoes a brutal intent that stirs up a rage in me. As they rain down illegal blows upon the Bloodcrushers, the air fills with the sharp scent of aggression and the raw shouts of pain. Yet, amidst this chaos, the Bloodcrushers—my Jurto's team—hold their ground with a fierce valor that swells my heart with pride.

Jurto is a tempest in the center of the storm. He moves with an animalistic grace, a warrior dance that is both terrifying and awe-inspiring. His commands cut through the noise of the crowd, sharp and clear, guiding his teammates with the precision of a seasoned general. As he dodges a sweeping arm, his body twists with such power, muscles rippling under his sweat-slicked skin, a testament to the countless hours of grueling training.

I can't tear my eyes away from him; he's magnetic. Each time he plows through an opponent, my pulse quickens, mirroring the frantic beats of the drums that some enthusiastic fans pound on in the stands. The ground seems to quake with each collision, each grunt and groan from the players mixing with the roars of the crowd.

"Jurto!" I find myself whispering over and over again, my hands clasped so tightly that my knuckles turn white. But he doesn't need my pleas; he's a force of nature, unstoppable.

As the game intensifies, so does my anxiety. The Stonebreakers, frustrated by their inability to dominate, escalate their aggression. I wince as one of them delivers a particularly vicious elbow to a Bloodcrusher's side, the sound of impact a sickening thud that draws a collective gasp from the spectators. The referee seems blind to these infractions, keeping the play moving instead of pausing for the bleeding player on the ground.

No external force can stop a play once it's in motion. Only the players can.

Yet, Jurto doesn't falter. He's everywhere at once—defending, attacking, a relentless leader who inspires his team to push past their limits. With every move, he seems to grow larger, his presence dominating the field.

"Fight on!" he bellows, his voice booming over the chaos. The Bloodcrushers rally to his call, their movements synchronized in a swarm of bruised flesh and determined spirits. They are warriors, every last one of them, driven by a shared will to overcome, to win.

They're doing this for Jurto. And for me.

As the match drags on, the brutality escalates, but so does the determination of the Bloodcrushers. With Jurto at the helm, they transform pain into motivation, each illegal hit fueling their resolve. They are not just playing for victory in the game, but for their pride, for the respect they command on this field.

Despite the ferocity of the Bloodcrushers, the match is anything but one-sided. Gargash, the imposing captain of the Stonebreakers, orchestrates his team with calculated ruthlessness. His strategy is clear and sinister—target the keystones of Jurto's lineup, aiming to dismantle their formation by sheer force. My stomach knots as I watch their focused aggression unfold.

Jurto, amid this tactical assault, takes a hit that sends a jolt of fear through me. It's a heavy, resounding impact that echoes across the field, drawing a collective wince from the crowd. I see his body tense, the momentary ripple of pain across his features. But then, astonishingly, he shakes it off with a grunt, his resilience as palpable as the sweat glistening on his brow. His determination doesn't just show; it resonates, vibrating through the air like the deep bass of the drums around us.

He's not just playing; he's battling, leading his squad with the ferocity of a wild beast yet the sharp mind of a seasoned leader. "Keep pushing forward!" he shouts, his voice a call that seems to lift his team's spirits and bodies alike. They rally to him, their movements reflecting a renewed vigor, as if his unyielding spirit infuses them with strength.

Each time Jurto drives his team forward, I find my admiration for him deepening. The way he reads the field, anticipates Gargash's maneuvers, and counters with strategic precision is nothing short of masterful. Yet, there's an elegance to his brutality, a poetry to the way he moves—fluid and explosive, a dance of power and determination.

But Gargash is not to be underestimated. His eyes, cold and calculating, miss nothing. With a sharp gesture, he directs his team to intensify their assault, focusing on the Bloodcrushers' weak spots. Jurto's team can hardly advance the ball forward before being thwarted and wrestled to the ground by the Stonebreakers. It's a relentless pursuit, each move deliberate and damaging. The Stonebreakers seem to embody their name, aiming to shatter not just the spirit but the very bodies of their opponents.

Watching this, I feel torn between awe and horror. The game is brutal, yes, but also mesmerizing in its intensity. With every clash, every takedown, the stakes climb higher. The crowd's roars swell to a crescendo, mirroring the escalating tension on the field. My hands are clenched so tightly in my lap that my fingernails dig into my palms, each moment stretching my nerves taut.

Jurto, for all the hits he takes, never shows signs of faltering. His resilience is like a beacon on the field, shining amidst the storm of the game. Even as Gargash lands another strategic blow, sending a key Bloodcrusher limping off the field, Jurto's resolve only hardens. He rallies his team, his presence galvanizing, pushing them to transcend their limits, to transform pain and fatigue into fuel for victory.

The match sways like a pendulum, terrifying in its unpredictability. Each possession exchange is a battle, a war waged in fleeting seconds that stretch into eternity in my clenched heart. Jurto's team shines on the offense, a well-trained machine of power and aggression. Yet, it's their defense that betrays their vulnerability, gaps appearing like wounds that the Stonebreakers exploit mercilessly.

From where I stand, I watch Jurto with my heart lodged firmly in my throat. His every move is a note in a symphony of chaos, his presence on the field both a reassurance and a source of nail-biting anxiety. I can't bear the thought of being torn away from him, of losing the strong bond that has formed between us amidst the clamor of the crowd and the brutality of the game.

As the Stonebreakers launch another fierce offensive, my hands find each other, fingers intertwining in a silent prayer. "Please," I whisper to any gods that might be listening over the roar of the stadium. "Let Jurto emerge victorious. Please, I'll do anything…"

My words are barely audible, drowned out by the sudden uproar as the Bloodcrushers gain possession of the ball during a critical play.

Jurto seizes the ball, his movements a blur of speed and precision. The crowd surges to their feet, a tidal wave of anticipation and excitement. "Go, Jurto!" I scream, my voice joining the collective roar, my fears momentarily overtaken by adrenaline.

On the field, Jurto charges forward, dodging a tackle. "Hold the line! Borka, take down that fucking orc!" he shouts back to his teammates, his voice booming across the field, a commanding presence that rallies his team. They respond in kind, solidifying their formation, their weaknesses momentarily fortified by sheer willpower.

Borka, the one he called for, comes to his aid immediately. By ramming his head into the chest of the opposing orc, he knocks the air out of his lungs and the orc slumps to the ground.

Still, the Stonebreakers are relentless. Gargash, their captain, is a looming shadow over the field, his tactics as ruthless as they are effective. He shouts orders, pointing and gesturing, orchestrating his team. They respond with a vicious counterattack, their movements mirroring the desperation and determination that the game demands.

My breath catches as Jurto narrowly avoids a sweeping leg that would have sent him tumbling into the rough ground, the miss so close I could see the brush of it against his legs. The ball is a beacon between them, each team drawn to it, a magnet of victory and defeat.

"Jurto, watch out!" I find myself shouting, my voice hoarse, as a Stonebreaker lunges towards him from the side. But he's already moving, always one step ahead, his body swaying with practiced ease as he sidesteps the assault.

Each second is agony, each play a potential heartbreak. As the game nears its climax, my prayers become a mantra, repeated over and over. "Please, let him win. Please…" My hands clench, my eyes never leaving the figure of Jurto, who, even in the face of overwhelming odds, never stops fighting. Never stops believing.

And neither will I.