The day was cool and breezy. Not too hot and not too cold, just right. It was luck that this day would be perfect weather. The audience, consisting of at least a thousand, had assembled in the arena and were cheering. Amazing how people live vicariously through athletes. It was as if they could  feel the thrill of victory themselves. An odd characteristic. I never really wondered about it until I stepped into the arena. It wasn’t something you think about, really. You live and do what you’re told to do and never wonder why until a certain point. It is truly odd.
I straightened out my shirt, a white, sleeveless shirt that allowed flexibility and range of motion. Both would be something I would need in this particular sport. I wore white pants as well, breathable, and equally flexible as the shirt. I then glanced across the arena at my opponent, dressed in nothing but black. The difference in color was obviously for the audience. Easier to follow. I brushed my black bangs away from my eyes as I walked over to a small pedestal on which a long, silver sword lay. It gleamed in the harsh light. I smiled slightly, having trained with this blade for ages. Ever since I was large enough to wield it, in fact. It had be forged for this very purpose, this fight. I wrapped my hand around the black leather hilt and tested its balance. Perfect, as always. The blade felt like an extension of my arm rather than a weapon. It felt good. It felt powerful. But most of all, it felt deadly.
I looked across the arena to see my opponent warming up, allowing his blade to dance in the light as he twirled it around his body masterfully. I had seen him do it a thousand times, and it never ceased to amaze me how much control he had. My own blade skills were just as impressive, I knew this in my mind, and yet his seemed more intimidating than usual. I began to warm up, twirling the blade around my body, allowing the blade to whistle through the air. It was natural and easy. It felt right and beautiful. I smiled as the blade danced around me, loving the feeling it gave me. I looked at my opponent as I warmed up, watching his shaven head gleam and his hawkish features as they were intent in utter concentration. I knew my own face would appear distracted, but in truth, I was just as concentrated as he was.
A trumpet blared and snapped me out of my reverie. I slammed the blade under my arm and walked towards the center of the arena. My opponent did the same. We had rehearsed this a million times over. A quick bow of our heads and swords were at the ready. The next few minutes would be rehearsed as well, a display of our talent and skill. Then the true battle would begin, to determine the victor so the crowd could feel victory.
CLANG! Our swords met and we smiled at each other, the rest was habit. Parry, parry, thrust, cut, parry, cut, parry, parry, thrust, cut, cut. The metallic rings created by our blades meeting was a symphony of power and art. True beauty. Then we broke the attacks and parries and twirled our blades around and around our bodies finally ending in another loud CLANG!
The true battle began. It was nothing like I imagined it would be. The music died, reduced to blows and parries, attempts to gain the upper hand. Sheer force and dexterity. The art of it was gone, it was now a contest of survival. Parry, cut, parry, thrust, twirl, cut, cut, cut, CUT! All my mind could do was react, there was no time to plan, simply react. It seemed to last forever until finally I heard no CLANG of a parry from my opponent. The crowd roared. My opponent screamed, his severed hand with the sword in its clutch on the ground, my blade dripped red blood. It was beautiful, the blood dripping. So organic, so violent, so passionate. He reached for his blade, pried it loose from the severed hand and took another swing at me. A second later, he screamed again. I then looked at my opponent, now on his knees, both hands severed, bleeding heavily on the ground.. I looked him in the eyes, eyes like my own. I saw shame, suffering, pain. But above all those things, I saw defeat. I looked at him, my best friend, my confidant, my comrade, my very brother and smiled a sad smile. It was the way things went. We both knew the way. Never questioned it. We had fought to gain passage into the world, to raise families, and I had won that right. Survival of the fittest. He nodded at me and smiled, granting me my victory. I would walk away and become a man, learn my way in the world. It was the way, the only way, to survive.
The air whistled. The blood flew off my blade. And with that one motion, his head rolled to the floor. The crowd cheered, sharing in my victory. Again I looked at the blood on my blade.

Beautiful. Truly beautiful.