My next fight was against a fellow with a tongue forked like a serpent's. The moment I saw him step into the combat field, tongue darting in and out, I nearly laughed.

He was lanky, his head shaped like an oval ball, bald and shining under the sun as though freshly polished. A curtain of beards and a drooping moustache hung on his face, the kind I had only seen in illustrations of old British monarchs. It was so out of place here that I couldn't help the smirk tugging at my lips.

The man didn't prance about like my first opponent. He simply stood, stopping his tongue motions–probably because...