Louis quickly donned his armor.
His choice was rather sparse, just a light headgear and a chest plate.
The expression on his face easily betrayed the fact that it was his first time in the arena.
Eyes darting furtively as he scanned his surroundings, he crouched into a defensive posture, awaiting the orders that would determine his next move.
His thoughts traveled back to his hometown, where his wife anxiously awaited his return.
His son had been three days old when the letter had found him, happily supping with the two of them by his side.
Now, two weeks later, he stood in the battlefield, clutching onto his weapons with a sense of unfamiliar, unexpected discomfort.
He nervously shuffled his feet.
What was wrong?
This was what he loved doing.
He was quite proud of himself for how skilled he was with his blade, hacking and chopping through flesh, drawing blood without flinching even once.
Carefully, he assessed his comrades.
They looked much more composed than him.
Could they see through his mask?
Would they be able to see through his calm exterior, see the tsunami of emotions he was within?
He hoped not.
They looked so much tougher then he had imagined they would be.
How was he supposed to defeat them?
They seemed weathered and confident, the experience clearly showing in their callused palms.
He realized he was trembling.
He had never known fear, definitely not when he was in the field.
The horn blew, indicating the commencement of the face off.
He lowered his gaze, then looked up again.
It was time.
Now or never.
He could picture his name engraved in gold.
Louis Santana: Masterchef 2015.
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