human
Narrator:  Everyone finds a death match entertaining when it isn’t their life on the line. That might sound like an extreme statement, but from where he was standing, it had a distinct ring of truth. It wasn’t something to be laughed off as a silly exaggeration. He heard wild cheering from overhead as he rolled back across the hard ground. The cheering turned to jeering at his cack-handed escape, but he didn’t give a shit.
gpt
Man:  "After all, I’m the one risking my goddamn life here!" he spat—along with some phlegm—before he brought the huge sword in his right hand up in front of him.
human
Narrator:  It was enough to check his opponent, who had been about to follow up with a bare-handed blow. The pale, bald man coming at him adopted a lazy posture, both arms dangling as he sneered. The bald man held no weapons, an unusual choice around these parts. But in one sense, something much worse than any sword or spear resided in the man’s swaying arms. There was a technique called the Poison Hand. A means of murder that involved soaking one’s hand in poison, storing it up until just before the point of death. Eventually, the impregnated toxin gathered in the fingernails, meaning the slightest scratch could kill an enemy. The bald man’s purplish-red fingers and nails were the evidence that he possessed this technique.
gpt
Man:  "Looks like we’ve got a shinobi who screwed up some important murder."
human
Narrator:  The hands, and the man’s unflinching readiness to kill, were enough to guess at his background. Shinobi were killers who had undergone the most rigorous possible training and submitted to unimaginable augmentation of their bodies. Some people doubted they really existed—said they were just an urban legend—but if so, they were an urban legend worth believing in. They were hired by the great and powerful as elite troops in the game of kill-or-be-killed that such people lived in. No telling how this one had ended up here, but now he was trapped, just like the rest of them. For this was…
gpt
Narrator:  A disgusting little hole called Ginonhive, the sword-slave island, where its captives are forced to fight each other. The sword slaves were literally enslaved—and this was the status of the two men fighting at the moment. The words represented the lowest of the low; every day, much of their blood was spilled, many of their bones broken, and many of their lives lost. And this, the so-called sword-slave island, where these fights to the death passed for entertainment, was the perfect place for the awful crowds of imperial subjects to slake their bloodlust. It was the kind of place one would naturally expect to find in a land as thoroughly brutal as the Volakian Empire.
human
Man:  "Not that it makes it any better to have them pulling our strings!" the man growled, standing slowly, the heavy sword in one hand.