Red would be greeted with an ambient murmur from the spectators - a crowd standing right up against the 4-sided, rugged built ring made of jute rope and thick wooden posts driven deep into the sand. Hungry eyes started at him with curiosity and interest, eager for the evening's show, excited blurbs and heated opinions were exchanged, and if he listened closely, he might've caught his name being spoken - or were those just remarks on the color of his shorts? "Fighter in red - Red!" In reality, some of the people gathered had come from across the neighboring area to see him fight live; his career, not only as a sportsman, but as a fighter, attracted many admirers of the brutal art.

As he stood though, waiting for his opponent, their cheering only grew, mixing in laughs and grins as attention now slowly gathered around a figure standing in the front rows. Dusty tuxedo draped over his shoulders, white turned sun-eaten gray by travel, the man lounged with a half-empty plastic cup of water, squinting at the dimming sky and fiddling with the waist of his baggy cargo pants. Lowering his head, he slowly swept across a decisive, confident gaze, pausing with his eyes set at the ring; as he did so, a bright, reflective gleam ran across his forehead, bringing attention to a strip of steel fixed over it with a padded headband, the letters P.R.I.S. stamped into the surface.

"Get your ass out there Pris!"

Beaming a smile, the other combatant of the evening squatted down, setting his drink on the ground, and finally headed into the ring, ducking through the ropes and then tossing his upper garment over one of the posts with a showboating flourish. The rest of his wear was rather practical: other than the loose cargo pants, he had sleek boxing shoes on and a tank top over the torso. His hands were bound in a similar fashion, albeit, with a roll's worth of ductape beaten into a flat pad covering the knuckles.

The organizers of the event made good effort in finding Red a match: same height, just a couple pounds up in weight, and his name would've soon become a mainstay among kickboxing legends, if not his turn for no-holds barred brawling.

Hopping from foot to foot, he danced his way to one of the corners, still facing Red. Lifting an arm to point at him, only to say nothing, and instead, give a cocky nod, smiling. At this point, all they were waiting for was for the referee to officially start the fight - and the hosts of the gladiatorial event had no business in keeping their patrons waiting.