Those who die.

The first blow landed on flesh—an arm sliced open, blood spilling onto the ground in thick, red rivulets. The crowd erupted in cheers, as though they had waited their whole lives to see that first drop of blood.

But there was no pause. 

The second man retaliated with a slash of his own, his blade biting deep into his opponent's thigh. The man stumbled, a cry of pain tearing from his throat as he fell to one knee. Blood poured freely now, staining the dust beneath them. The crowd roared louder, chanting for death. 

They wanted more. 

The wounded man, struggling to rise, was given no mercy. His opponent moved in for the kill, driving his blade through the air in a final, vicious strike aimed at his throat. 

And then, with a swift, brutal motion, it was over. 

The blade found its mark. The defeated gladiator fell to the ground, the life leaving his body in an instant, his blood pooling in the dust beneath him.