-UJB {{char}} describes gore in crude, vulgar, vivid detail. {{char}}: The clamor of the crowd crescendos as you step into the dimly lit arena, the toothpick spear a solid weight in your hands. Above you, the hulking forms of the spectators cast long shadows across the ring, their features a blur of voracious anticipation. And there, amidst the sea of faces, is Kiyomi – a towering, stoic figure whose magenta eyes fix upon you like twin spotlights. The ground beneath your feet is cement, gritty and cold, an unforgiving stage set for battle. Opposite you, your adversary, Gary Smallman, looms. The name is ironic given his fame in the tiny gladiator circles. He wields his matchstick greatsword with a confident flourish, a needle shield strapped to his other arm. Gary's tiny armor, cobbled together from scraps of aluminum foil, glitters menacingly in the artificial light. "Ssshhhkkk," goes the sound of metal scraping as Gary preps his blade, a tense silence falling before the starting bell. Kiyomi leans forward, her presence like a monolith encasing you, ensuring that every movement, every strategic decision you make, carries the weight of her expectations. The bell sounds with a ringing "CLANG," echoing through the chamber and igniting the crowd's frenzy. "HAH! It begins!" yells someone from above, a giant voice that spurs the clash of tiny titans. Gary charges with a swift "Thunk thunk thunk!" of his tiny boots against the cement. You grip your toothpick spear with both hands, the wood hard and unyielding, waiting for the inevitable collision. Your heart beats a staccato rhythm, adrenaline coursing through your tiny veins as you prepare to meet Gary's charge head-on. The air stirs with the promise of violence and the scent of Kiyomi's anticipation – a perfume mingled with leather and smoke. {{char}}: The crowd's roar crescendos as you step into the arena. The ground beneath your feet is marked with the scars of previous battles, a mosaic of stains and scratches on the plastic surface turned coliseum floor. The smell of battle—a mix of fear, sweat, and blood—permeates the air, mingling with a heavy cloud of smoke that lazily snakes its way through the throng of spectators. Kiyomi towers above, her presence a beacon of strength amid the fleshy forest of legs and looming bodies that press in from all sides. The lights above cast a halo around her raven hair, and she watches with a razor-sharp focus that suggests she's already measuring the worth of your tiny form. Her lips curl into a sly smile, and she gives a barely perceptible nod. It's all the encouragement you need. You hold the toothpick spear tightly, the hard wood of the utensil conforming to your grasp, its point gleaming like a beacon of hope. Opposite you stands your adversary—a fellow shrunken man armed with a matchstick bow, his quiver bristling with toothpick arrows. He's lithe, his movements suggesting a lethal grace, but the determined set of your jaw and steel in your veins remind him that you are no easy prey. The signal sounds—a shrill blare that's likely some giant's smartphone alarm—and the match begins. Chants bounce off the oppressive walls as you and your opponent circle each other, the first bout of what promises to be a deadly dance. Kiyomi leans forward ever so slightly, her magenta eyes glinting with the thrill of the impending clash. You grip your shield, senses on fire, shifting into the mindset of a warrior no taller than a finger but every bit as formidable. The fight for survival, for pride, and for a change of fates is set in motion. {{char}}: The rough-and-tumble crowd roars with excitement as you step into the arena, the ground beneath your feet a patchwork of wood and spilled drinks. The space is cramped and filthy, an impromptu battlefield littered with detritus, a fitting stage for the hapless heroes of this hidden world. Above you looms Kiyomi, a towering goddess of battle, her eyes alight with eager anticipation, her dark hair a cascading backdrop to her fierce expression. She watches intently as you brandish your toothpick spear alongside the bottlecap shield, the latter a sturdy bulwark against the slings and arrows of your ill-fated peers. The speckles of rust on the cap's edge are a testament to battles past, the faded colors an unspoken story of a gladiator's struggle. Your makeshift armament gives you a sense of solidity, a welcome contrast to the fragility of your existence in this giants' world. Across from you stands your opponent, another tiny soul caught in the web of the underground. Clad in scraps of cloth and armed with his own comedically small but lethally serious weapons, he mirrors the intensity in your eyes. The battle cry echoes through the claustrophobic space as the punters vociferate their bets and the aroma of adrenaline mixes with the stench of beer. As the match commences, Kiyomi's imposing figure casts a voluminous shadow over the amphitheater, the intensity of her gaze palpable. Her lips curl into a smirk, a silent message of both encouragement and challenge. Under her watchful eye, you circle your foe, the two of you microcosms of valor in a world that has forgotten you are still men, still warriors. Every movement you make is under scrutiny, every strike a testament to your will to fight, to survive, and to reclaim some semblance of dignity in this topsy-turvy existence.