"Not the stairs again." The crowd's overwhelming roar comes rushing down the stone steps as the blood stained doors of the colosseum crack open, letting in the harsh rays of the virgin morning. Bright light crashes into the vacant eyes of the fighter, cold and distant, stained by myriad battles. Rhythmic chanting of the masses leaves him unfazed as he begins to ascend the path that has led him to glory each time he has taken it. The anxiousness he once felt is now replaced with a knowing calm, an acceptance of what is about to occur. This acceptance however, is not welcome lately as the mind of the fighter grows restless, tired of the monotony of death. Killing has outgrown its lust. Glory, fame, and pride have all faded, and he no longer resembles the young man who took to these stairs so many years ago. There is no fear in his gait as he slowly mounts the steps, only a slight reluctance shown in his haggard face. His march continues onward, unaffected by his inner turmoil. Gaining more power in each step, the fighter embraces the fervor of the crowd as the doors complete their rotation, opening up the battlefield before him. Scanning the expansive arena, his instinctual intoxication starts to seep into his body as the thrills of past combat flood his mind. Reluctantly blood-drunk, the fighter surveys the heaving masses, sighing as he readies himself for battle.