"No! We can't take risks!"

They all groan but agree, either by understanding or because they have ****. They all quietly munch on the bread and vegetables and sip their water. Few were obviously irritated but the others understood. I am John Doe, I was born a peasant, but I have risen to the top. I am a twenty-two year old person whom has done nothing but fight their whole life, now I'm the best at what I do, and that is fight.

Ten years ago, I fought in a tournament. The winner gets to make a request equivalent to a life debt. The catch was, it was a fight of honor and title. If I had lost, my whole family would've been stripped of their land. But, luck would have it, I am naturally gifted with a weapon, any weapon. It has always felt right to wield a weapon and use it to survive. My blood rushing and heating up, the screaming and chaos, my mind blanking thinking of nothing more than my opponents. As Richardson once said, 'you're a damn demon in battle.'

But even though fighting always got me excited, I could never tell. Was it the power, money, glory?! Or maybe . . . the kill . . .