My breathing is out of control right now, but I can't help it. God. It's just, these types of sensations are hard to come across, you know? People always hype things up in life, whether it be getting your paycheck, falling in love, or having sex. Hell, some people even argue that the worst thing in the world is dying a virgin.

But if you asked me? Then I would say dying without feeling what's going through my body right now would be even worse.

Before the battle begins, I jab my finger at my target and cast identify.

PROFILE

NAME: George STATUS: ALIVE TITLE: Haughty Brat CLASS: NONE RACE: HUMAN LEVEL: 1 STR: 7 DEF: UNKNOWN VIT: 4 DEX: 5 RES: 0 CHA: 5

Good. Oh, it's so good. I don't know why, but just knowing he has lower stats than mine makes me all the happier. And only four HP, too. Just knowing that alone gives me the strength to compose myself. As a final measure, I shut the window, and do my best to focus on the fight. After all, it's unbefitting of someone like me to be panting like a dog before the fight even begins. So, before this goes any further, I inhale a deep swirl of oxygen in and out of my lungs. Cold and prickly, it's the exact sort of light pain that pushes me to focus.

"You here to avenge your dad or something?" The young man says with a grin on his face. Completely devoid of any humility or shame, it's the exact sort of smile that I need.

"Nope. I'm just here to teach you a lesson."

I yell that as a means of provocation. The target, though, doesn't take it seriously. On the one hand, I feel a burning rage tugging at my chest, begging to be acknowledged. On the other, I know that destroying his pride will be all the more sweeter. My body enters into its usual stance. Even with all the years that flew by, it's not something that I've forgotten. The basic principles ring themselves in my mind as strong as ever.

Tuck in your elbows and chin, keep your feet shoulder-width apart, all the usual nonsense. The important part to understand is that it's a stance made for striking. There's no real reason to not do it, after all. Sure, I could disrespect my opponent and just walk in completely unguarded.

But, before that, I need to test the waters first.

"Fine, but don't think I'll take it easy on you just cause you're a woman."

The man doesn't hesitate to go in. Now that there's no need to hide his gadget, I suspect that he'll try to rely on it. In a few moments, the distance between us gets smaller and smaller. He steps forward while hit metal like arm goes for my face. Throwing several flicker jabs, there's no force behind his blow. Even with all its weight, it's nothing without speed!

Predicting his move, I step back. Just in the nick of time, I realize his plan. Using small unpowered jabs from his left as bait, his intent is to use that as a cover-up for his right. Basic as it may be, I feel a bubble of air escape my lungs.

A slight burn from friction at the tip of my nose, I understand what just happened.

Dammit. I've gotten rough. That punch of his almost scrapped my nose. Insignificant as that exchange was, though, I see the man adopt more care into his movements. Gaining a certain amount of tension in his body, I can see that his smile loosen. Then, he strikes again. Two flicker jabs from the left and one hook from the right. It's all too easy. Without so much as a sweat, I step backwards.

He's frustrated now. He's on edge. He can't understand how he hasn't landed a single strike. And most important of all, he's losing stamina. I smile in acknowledgement of that fact. It's lovely really, to see him slowly break down and wither with each coming second.

"What's wrong?" I ask in proclamation. "Can't rely on that toy of yours anymore?"

Good, his face Is flushed. That's all it'll takes to stir him into action. He's overly emotional, that's much for sure. From being unwilling to shake his opponent's hand, to going into full gear and shattering their arm. It's all building up to this moment.

In a single second, his posture shifts to that of anger. Using his right foot as balance, he subtly lifts his left. That's all the confirmation I need to what he's going to do. The joy of reading him like a book guides my next move. Once again, I dodge. Though, this time, I go under his left hook. Because he's to my right, I know I can execute the move without fault.

My left-hand grasp the floor for balance while my left leg hooks his hamstring. Then, in one grand finale, my right leg wraps around the top of his knee. Scissored between my legs and without a place to escape, I bring him down.

You know. In most sporting venues, this move is illegal. Because of just how hard someone can hit their head or suffer leg injuries, it's a move that I hadn't been able to test until now. In a second, his back is thrown to the floor while his head knocks against the concrete pavement. I get on top of him in no time. With this downtime, I'll pound him into submission.

I begin to continuously hit his face. So long as I don't kill him, I don't care. The moment he broke the old man's arm was the moment any shred of pity had left my body. Only one thing dominates my desire. And that's to make him suffer. That's all I need. To make him cry, to make him bleed, to make him cry in pain. It's euphoric, it's so good I feel like I'm about to lose my consciousness from the pleasure.

It's not like it's morally wrong. The moment he decided to break that old man's arm, he removed me from my responsibility. Yeah, that's right. Nothing I do is my fault. Nothing. It's his fault for being weak and contemptible. Of course. So I can do whatever I want. Whether it's to strangle him, crush his ribs, or jam my fingers in his eyes, it's all his fault. That's the world we live in. The strong take what they want while the weak grovel, right?

Those are the thoughts that penetrate my mind. Though, I don't know if it's what I believe. I don't know anything besides this pleasure anymore. I don't even know if what I'm doing is right. So I continue, only this time, not caring about the consequences. I don't know how long it lasts, but after a while, I can't take it anymore.

I close my eyes and stop my body. My opponent does not even react anymore. I'm not sure, but I think I've been beating on an unconscious man for about three minutes now.

How peculiar. I don't know why, but I pick myself off his body. There's no real reason behind it, but I feel as if I'm finished. As if I'm just comprehending that I won a million dollars at a lottery, everything feels so distant. The blood, the brutality, the satisfaction, the everything of it feels numb.

My heartbeat stabilizes. Now that I can think straight, I realize just how dirty I am. Not that I really care but, I think it's funny how I'm all in red. I'm struck with the desire to laugh at that fact. It's just really funny for some reason. I really can't explain why. It's not like I've just heard a really good joke or anything, so it's pretty weird. People normally don't laugh, when they haven't heard a joke, do they?

I scratch my chin as I think it over. More importantly though, I'm done with the fight aren't I? I've finished my quest, and defeated an opponent. I can finally go back.

"I'm going home." I say to myself.

There's no reason I need to tell the other people there what I want or need to do. In the end, their opinions don't really matter. No matter what they think or say of me, it won't change what I'm going to do or how I think about myself. So instead, all I offer them is a final wayward glance.

Heh. The way they look at me is funny. Their shocked expressions, the slight tremble of their frames, and the way their eyes stare without purpose or conviction. It's funny because they came here to see violence and yet they're still surprised that they saw it.

Funny, but stupid mind you. God, these people are so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. They'll never achieve anything with their pathetic lives but they still look at me as if I'm the bad one here. As if I'm sort of of animal.

They treat the idea of watching a fight and doing it as two different things. As if just watching alleviates you of some moral responsibility. As if it makes you a better person. But in the end, who was it that went in? Who, decided to go and actually do something? The answer is that it's me.

Camille. Not anyone else, not a single one of you limpdick pieces of shit, but me.

What a joke. If they really wanted it to go a different way, then they should've done it themselves. The hypocrisy of it all really makes me want to laugh. Though this time, I actually do it. Coming from the depths of my heart and lungs, it's such a relief. And also quite loud. According to Morgan, my laugh was always a bit creepy, so maybe I seem like some kind of deranged psychopath or killer right now.

If that makes them more afraid of me. If that makes my existence burn all the more into their mind. Then I don't see the problem with it.

Without even looking back, I move onwards through the streets. There's nothing more to be done here. Even as the sirens of an ambulance ring in the distance, my heart contains not a trace of feeling.

No matter what became of the people in that arena, I can move on knowing that I have won.