The Champion had many scars, most acquired when and since he earned his title. Undefeated did not mean untouchable. He was scarred from his battles, from fierce opponents, mistakes in judgement. For being so exhausted he could hardly even fight back.
He was scarred from the previous torture before the arena. When he and his fellow crew members, the Holts, were abducted. Were they as marked as he? He didn't know, didn't really want to know. He hoped not.
He was scarred from his punishments. When he'd refuse to fight those who could not break through their own fear to fight back. From refusing to kill off those whom only fought back to survive. The champion had many scars.
Among these scars he had ones that were special. Scars that gave him meaning, that reminded him he wasn't just the champion. Scars he cut into himself, O, they spelled out. Hidden underneath the sleeve on his right arm. These scars were among the most important.
He kept them hidden for they were only meant for his own eyes. But that didn't mean others had not seen. Others had noticed the particular scars, some ignored it, some just showed their confusion through side glances. Others would ask and understand when he would introduce them to his true identity, the one that truly mattered. They understood, everyone had ways to help keep their sense of self. It helped, sometimes.
The witch woman was the last to discover it. A frightening cloaked figure, small with sharp feature and a cruel smile. She took pleasure in poking and prodding and taking things apart. Her eyes held this bright void that he couldn't tell what they were focused on. Until they were upon him. It seemed to be happening more often, the more he won. It wasn't long until he was taken to be tested. He hadn't realized his sleeve was torn until she dug her long nails into his arm and twisted it towards his face.
She hissed in her own language. You could only pick up so much of an alien language on your own. It took a long while to learn what his title had meant. "What" is the word he understood and the knew the question. What could he say, would she even understand if he had told her. He had heard her speak other tongues before, were any earth languages among the ones she could utter. He feared the thought of how.
"I am Takashi Shirogane" he had whispered. To remind himself, he was not theirs. They couldn't take that away from them.
"I am not your champion" he had repeated those words so many times now, didn't even realize that he spoke his title aloud in the tongue it was most spoken in. He had felt his heart grow cold at the sight of the amusement the frightening woman's face displayed. She had leaned so close to him he could feel her hot breath on his face.
"You are nothing more than what I make you" She had whispered into his ear. He was hardly surprised when the witch woman spoke with a thick accent in his own language.
"I will tear you apart and put you back better, stronger. You will be my greatest creation. My champion." She had declared.
He couldn't even remember how to breathe when his right arm had been secured to her table with the rest of his limbs.
"And I will start with this." Her long, thin fingers slowly traced out the letters on his arm and cold unbridled fear crept into his chest.
He had pleaded when the sharp instrument had hovered over his arm, the purple glow of their tech illuminating his pale skin.
He screamed when it was brought down, the smell of burnt flesh was overwhelming as it cauterized on it's way through.
He had thought no one could take those scars away from him. He was wrong.
The champion had many scars.