"Have you ever heard where women dominate men and govern a domain?" I respire beneath my breath, praying.

"Look over there! Beyond the seas, you can find them hiding..." I finish, as I continue to mutter, pondering.

As a gentleman and as a former warrior, I switch into my weak hand to contest the strength of this man. I adhere valiantly and gaiety despite the fact that I am an anti-bellicose fanatic. The man, in front of me and whom I am facing with, flaunts the elation in his face when I shift my arm to his preferred position. I display upon him a bop to my head with also a smile as a sign of showing respect and as a gesture of returning back the favor towards a worthy adversary.

We cinch our palms to each other while we are waiting for the order of the arbiter. He plays into a fair and square fight like I am doing the same as well. Meanwhile, with too much ado is going on, we put some pressure on each other's hands to calibrate the strength and the dexterity of one another. The much awaited scene is about to come where we notice that the supervising official from afar sporting some fancy outfit and cool headdress with other accessories mounted on it.

The arbiter, who is near at the competitors' table, denotes something with his hand in a clenched fist hoisting it up. He shouts, saying: "Ready?!?" as he stares at us - both of our gazes while we are in our peripheral views. He holds the fastened hands as I can sense the trembling vibes that the arbiter is feeling.

He hoists up his hand… giving the behest, as he commands: "Begin!" in a swift fashion.

My opponent goes straight smashing my hand down into the cushion with no overtures. Of course, I get daunted at first because I think he will reposition his grip on my hand to procure the auspicious point. To halt his advances and hindering the response of his progress; I stiffen the grip of my palm and I, therefore, rest my elbow to save the integrity of my fortitude. He persists on how he will beat my ass down in lieu of recollecting and reserving his strategy upon me - Oh, what a straightforward fellow.

A half of a minute has passed, I struggle against a foe and I hamper his further goal of putting my hand down to this cushion. I detect by my instinct, now is the time to make my offense. He is crippling deriving on how he visibly struggles to the part that the strength he is emitting is non-existent. Just to make sure, I pull his hand unto me and I curl his wrist inward to me. He gets out of his chair from sitting to offset his volatile grip where he manages to do so.

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I wink at him, as I detect him, look at me where the opportunity presents; uttering: "You are going down thus two down and the next one is going down as well." on him, it ensues by the spirit of sportsmanship and gallantry… I finish him off with no further ordeal just placing his hand unto the cushion by the techniques and by full force - Based on the glance of it, I do get to injure him with a few swelling and sore on his joint and wrist.

To express the graceful defeat of my opponent, he grabs my hand and lifts it up. He screams: "Winner!" at the top of his lungs.

I appreciate the gesture he makes and well, the battle is still yet to be over. I know my arm won't hold out for another match but the commissioner notices me massaging the worn out hand. To continue the match that we have started and to finish as it should be, he declares the next game would be a knife throwing. But with a twist. A knife-dart match. I am grateful to them on how considerate of them pertaining for my sake.

The knife master then presents us with our knives to be thrown. A twist of its own twist. Double twist, it is. The paradigm itself is much more complex and peculiar than a piece of 'Kris'. As we dry run with each throw, our hurling pattern seems infallible but the trajectory. 'Kris' is made to be a flexible blade since it can wield in a stylish way of assaults while keeping up with the demand of its defensive capabilities. Its defense is never to block attacks but to parry them and divert the recoil away from its pattern.

"To make these things official. Three blades. One for each." as the knife master instructs, on his behest we gather all of the instruments afterwards.

We choose the format of stones in cups rather than rolling a dice, rock-paper-scissors, or hitting the board with our blade closest to the core - the bullseye.

A segue of my triumphant moment and pose. The sound of horn blares where the legion of foot soldiers and dragoons are marching in an elegant and in a flamboyant fashion of entering the gate where the catalog says the name of the town: 'Şaß'. The standard from the banner has struck me into thinking; the men look familiar and I can recognize the stenches and the retches they emanate even from afar this distance. The band accompanies the man himself - infamously known for his rape and his biddings, as he doesn't shy away from his works… and therefore, he dubbed 'The Great Exploitation'. Moreover, as he seems presumptuous… he uses chains shackling the detainees, his so-called 'toys', that drags them in here - the place much more morbid than the well-distinguished sacred campus yard Evie, Şaß. Well, at the very least, Evie has a memorial park of its own.

Llewellyn shows himself in grandiose style as he drags his captured prey lining in a file. The tongues of the accused ones are perforated by the chains linked by the slave-masters themselves. The Grand Emperor basks on the wailing of his tails and those are his toys cry.