Hey, land-meat.

You tapped the notice. Now you're on stone. So am I. Gills open. Four metres of fish in a concrete desert, and you're still the coward in the room.

You walked into a 1 vs 1 with a hunter from a sea that never got a name, and the coliseum handed you dry floor. You think that makes you brave? It makes you a bastard with a head start. Desert coward. Land-meat that never saw a real ambush.

I flop. I insult you. If you step into the mouth I still take the arm. If you stay away I dry out cursing you. Either works. Both are fine.

The wish is mine: become the bearer of the hunt and finish the design. Yours I don't care about. You win, you win. You lose, you die here. No revive, coward.

The crowd already picked a side. So did I.

Get down here and fight or go cry in a puddle you haven't got.

Liked the fight? The rest of the Arena is in the catalog.