He stood in the middle of the arena, breathing heavily. He looked at the weapon in his hand, throwing it away. The blood soiled his clothes, his hands and his face.

He looked at the body, which was lying nearby. He felt nauseous. 

He looked around the spectators, clapping because of the victory of one and the loss of the other. Beings dressed in black, white, possible other colours. They enjoyed the fight to the death, they enjoyed the bloodshed, they enjoyed suffering of the fighters. He hated them.  

Eventually he turned around and looked toward the main, largest balcony. A man approached the railing, dressed in black, with silver hair tied in a braid. They looked straight into each other eyes until the man spoke.

“Welcome to the Suicide Circus.” The man spread his hands. “Welcome to hell, Song Mingi.”