Blood, sweat, dirt. The burning sensation and bursting pain on his body was familiar thing to come back to after each fight. He'd learnt to find comfort in it, scars littering the once untamished pale skin, now marred, a constant reminder of that.

Gojo was kneeling on the ground, bloody sword discarded just at an arms reach and exhaustion making his senses dull to a point where he was almost certain that if he got stabbed, he wouldn't've even felt it. Yet the audience was roaring for more. They always were; screaming a tainted name they've placed upon his shoulders, hollering and pointing fingers, some even throwing things towards the center of the arena.

He couldn't hear them clearly, thought. It was faint, almost like a murmur. Head rolling down as a drop of sweat fell off the tip of his nose, or was it blood? It didn't matter. He'd lost the count of how many men he'd speared, crushed, or impaled.

And, ah, right, eyes setting on the emperor's downturned hand, thumb pointing down, he felt the crack before he heard it; another man dead by the touch of his hands, wrapped around the layers of bone, muscle and skin after he got the death confirmation.