After growing up around so much violence, you'd think someone would be use to getting cut and shedding some blood. They'd be use to destroying their enemy where they stood, cutting somewhere below the ribs or slashing at the upper arms or thighs. They'd enjoy the shower of blood painting the pale stone beneath sandles. They'd crave the next battle, licking any iron-tainted red staining their lips.
Only a monster would be use to shit like that.
Rodolfo was not a monster. Just another guy trying to fight his way to another day.
The surrounding crowd cheered as he bowled over his opponent, holding his weapon down against the curve of his throat, just daring him to try and get back up. His sides heaved as he tried to catch his breath, emerald eyes narrowed as he chanced a quick glance at all who had gathered to watch them fight.