This is the story of an alien warrior known as Zalto. Go with it.
The alien warrior stood on his two feet, scaling his opponent. Tattered red rags draped from his back and he wielded a thick, spear, as tall as he was, as his weapon of choice. The Rod of God was his specialty and nothing was a match for it.
A slave to politics, the warrior had no name, only a crude symbol cruelly branded into his skin to identify him, though, the others called him Zalto, after their merciless war god and truly believed he had some deep, spiritual connection with the god. He began his training only twenty years ago, but rose quickly in the ranks. Fighting him went from a mere fight, to punishment, to a sentence of execution for the other.
The opponent sported the same primitive armor issued by their lord and wore the same ugly scowl, decorated in scars from previous battles. The opponent was new, but proved to be a stealthy fighter, having won his first hundred fights, sometimes five or six a day. This was no execution for him, but a mere test of skill to put him against the unbeatable Zalto.
The warrior and his opponent stepped into the arena by the command of their lord. Being a mere child to this way of life, the warrior grew weary of it quickly and everyday decided to throw the battle and lose, consequently resulting in his death. But everyday something burned inside of him – a rage, a fear, a passion, he didn’t know what to call it – it came alive, tearing through his arms and legs, ripping apart his heart and brain, and, ultimately, ripping apart his victim’s very soul. Sometimes, he wondered if the others were right, if the god Zalto really did live within him.
He stared at his opponent, knowing he would win, even though he chose to lose. The slavery he felt from his own body forcing him to kill was worse than the slavery he received from his lord forcing him to fight.
The alarm sounded and the warrior and the opponent began their duel to the death as the spectators watched closely, knowing both fighters’ reputations. It didn’t take long to see the opponent’s winning streak had been mere beginner’s luck. He and his Goswatch were no match for the warrior and his Rod of God.
Zalto stood over his victim and removed the armor from his arm. He used the opponent’s Goswatch to gash his scarred skin, marking another flawless kill. The body was dragged off and the warrior was led back to his cell with a trophy meal to rest for his next battle.
The warrior thought several times of rebelling, but he knew he would never get away with it. He thought of doing it for the sheer fact of making the guards kill him in their defense, but they wouldn’t – he was too important: too good a fighter, too much an asset. They would do what they could to restrain him, but not seriously injure him. His primitive armor and weapons were no match for theirs. This will be his life until he dies, which could be another hundred years if he continues to win every fight.