This story was written by User:The Bitter Cold when he was eleven years old. If you cannot reach this level of quality, your writing skills are bad, and you should feel bad.
My knife is in hand and my eyes are set on my target. I patiently wait, and wait, and wait, and wait. I wait until it seems that I have waited for an eternity - and then some. Finally he steps into the arena, clutching the implement to his chest like a child to their teddy bear. He stomps once, then twice; I follow in pursuit. I visualize the glory that might await me if I triumph over this man; the king of Asgarnia. Racing back to reality, I hear the trumpets break the silence and fill the atmosphere with their rhythmic strains. The fight has begun; I take my stance.
He wields his flail with great expertise, advancing on me with deep, regular strides. Before long he is upon me with great agility, and it will not be soon until he surmounts me like times before. I backhandedly slash him across the arm with great audaciousness, his eyes burning with wrath and mine swimming with fear and determination. He is relentless - he isn’t going to let a scratch relieve him of his title. He threshes the side of my helmet to the left, my neck flexing to the metal’s will. Iridescent red sparks form from the impact, illuminating the night with songs of fire and its fury.
I tumble further left, my legs betraying me as I attempt to get on my feet. My head seems to spin around in circles, along with my body and the world around me. I fall to the ground, my knife escaping my grasp and sliding across the rock to an unreachable distance. My feet fail me, and my arms are putting up a rebuttal against my mind. My enemy stands over me, the spiked ball dangling from the chain drooping from his shoulder, his fiery eyes burning through my soul. He raises his weapon into the air, the moonlight falling on his armor and reflecting into my eyes. The blinding light forcing me to close my eyes to block it out - a fatal mistake.
A curdling gust of wind pierces my eardrums, followed by a sickening crack and a warm sensation spreading across my abdomen. Then there is nothing but darkness. That sweet spell of peace cast upon whoever summons it in their time of need. Almost as if asleep, I toss and turn about my cold hard bed, a sharp pain growing steadily stronger about me. I awake in the battle arena, my armor split and my torso drenched in chromatic red. I scream. I scream so loudly that the whole world could hear me without a doubt about it. The man drops his flail and removes his helmet, straightening his hair with his right hand.
“Maybe next time, brother.”
I rest my arms by my side, trying to force the pain out. Two young men dressed in green tunics run to my aid, their capes bobbing up and down while swinging little white boxes by their waists. They remove my breastplate to reveal a nasty wound that cuts half an inch deep into my belly. It starts at my pelvis and ends just above the beginning of my rib cage. I am burning with pain and rage, channeling my anger through deep breaths. He will not have the throne for long.
Sooner or later I shall kill him and take over the kingdom for myself. I rest my head on a pillow set before me. We are synergetic, my brother and I; one cannot fight without the other. That will all end soon. One of these days I will smite him to the ground and slay him before the congregation of the city and become the new king. I will kill him. I will have order. I will be king. I will not give up. I will be victorious.