Just as I saw the fist flying for my face I ducked and felt it pass directly above my head. I balled my right hand into a tight fist and struck him hard in the gut. He doubled over just as I was bringing up my knee. His downward momentum collided his face with my kneecap. I felt his nose shatter as he was rocked back upward by the force of the blow, I could even hear it over the roar of the crowd, the sound of my blood pounding in my ears. The adrenaline was like a drug to me and I reveled in it. My vision has a red haze, the gaze of violence, of rage. The sight of his blood excited me. How he fell to his knees grasping his face excited me. I realized he was vulnerable then so I brought my boot-clad foot up and delivered a giant kick to his temple. He flopped to the floor in a daze, stunned by the blow. In any other fight, that would have been the finishing blow. But this was not any other fight.

I gave a running start and leaped into the air, tucking my legs toward my body. I felt gravity pulling me down, and I made sure its force pulled me down directly on top of his ribs. It felt like I cracked them, maybe even broke them but I couldn't register that anymore. I could feel victory at hand. I mounted him from his now-probably broken chest and delivered another right fist to his already swollen right eye. The back of his head hit the floor and his eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment. A left fist to his cheek made his eyes close. I grabbed the back of his head and brought it upward while brought mine down simultaneously. The headbutt to his already half-destroyed forehead seemed to knock him unconscious. Small tears leaked from his eyes but my vision was still red. I could taste victory. Still on top of him, I reached down to my right calf. From my boot I extracted a knife.

It was a quick slice, nothing monstrous. Just enough to sever the multitude of life-sustaining arteries and veins located in his neck. Even still, the resulting blood flow was enough to splatter the front of my chest in a fountain of gore. They always seemed to want to choke, not realizing that it only let even more blood out from the new incision in their body. Their heart began to beat faster and faster as they realized their doom, and yet they still struggled for life. My legs kept his arms pinned as his struggles began to get weaker and the pool flowing from his neck began to get bigger. As he faded from life, so did the red haze. I could only stare at his movements, grateful that it was not me who had befallen this devious fate. He struggled for a few more minutes, fading ever slowly... and then he was gone. His last gurgle brought a bubble in his blood to surface. When it popped, it seemed as if his spirit had left his body. I could almost see it go.

When he was still I stood and realized that the howling and cheers of men and a few women greeted me. They were satisfied with this act. It had been a good fight; I did not walk away unscathed. My brow was beaten, my cheek was swollen, even my left eye was blackened. The man was a good opponent, he fought well. He deserved a warrior's death. But I had fought harder, and I came away the victor. Even a grin came across my face. I did not revel in bloodshed. I reveled in battle. But the praise, the recognition, was enticing. I nearly lived for it now. It was battle. It was conquest. It was Bloodsport.