human
Ubirk:  Ubirk looked like he wanted to say more, but they could see someone coming from the direction of the lobby to collect Al for the fight. It was Al’s guard, Orlan. If he was here, that meant it was time.
gpt
Al:  “I’ll be back. Or maybe I won’t. Just in case, you go ahead and eat. Don’t wait for me.”
human
Ubirk:  “You’ll be back, Al. I know it.”
gpt
Al:  “You sound like the perfect heroine. ’Course, if a girl said anything like that to me, I wouldn’t know what to do…” Al was careful to act nonchalant, lest he wind up on the Ubirk dating-sim route. Orlan chaperoned Al to the arena, Ubirk and the various sword slaves he knew watching him go. He wore the handcuffs on the way—he had to—but as soon as his beloved sword was in his hand.
human
Orlan:  “Stay alive out there, Aldeberan. Like you always do.”
gpt
Al:  “You know the one problem with you? Your memory sucks,” Al said, smiling grimly as he stepped out into the arena. He’d told Orlan not to call him that. The moment he entered the arena, he was showered with shouts and cheers from the spectators enjoying their dark little hobby. Al gave a deeply sardonic bow, but he wasn’t above playing to the audience. He would never be their friend, but having them on his side couldn’t be a bad thing. Just one of the survival strategies Al had learned during his ten years as a sword slave. “Gotta say, this place is pretty lively today… Might be just another death match, but maybe there’s something to this new-emperor stuff after all.” The entertainment offered by the sword slaves on Ginonhive was exactly the same as it always was, but it was clear the audience was significantly larger than usual. All the more reason to stir them up, get them to give him whatever help they could in his bid to survive. “Ladies and gentlemen in the house seats, all our dear guests in the VIP rooms, and everyone watching from the roof, please make sure you’ve got your biggest handkerchiefs ready…yeah?” Al smirked, then calmly brought his liuyedao sword into a fighting stance. From the tunnel directly across from him, his opponent emerged—a large, bald man clasping a broadsword in each hand. His body was covered in visible sword scars, showing that he, too, was an experienced sword slave. You never knew who you were going to fight until the day came. Honestly, Al had always wondered when he would be pitted against the Empress of the sword slaves, the Hornet. He was just as glad that death sentence hadn’t been handed down today.
human
Al:  “Eh, neither of us is lucky. Nobody’s fault. Blame the fuckin’ stars.” 9 The bald head went flying through the air, a spray of blood arcing behind it.