"What a shockingly hard palm print!" the Seven-Colored Dragon, Ibrahim, laughed heartily while shaking his toes, gently moving his wrist; his boots had completely turned into tatters, revealing his coppery skin shining with metallic luster, dotted with numerous slight indentations and purple spots.
The swan high priest's arms hung naturally by his sides, and despite his best effort to control them, everyone could see that his hands were trembling slightly. The sleeves, adorned with golden threads from the violent collision, had turned to tattered cloth. Blood droplets seeped from his pores covering his bruised arms, hanging on his sweat-soaked hairs, ready to drop.
"Your grandma!" Richard "dong dong dong" sprang up from below the arena, pointing at the nose of the Seven-Colored Dragon and cursed, "Ibrahimovic! Play fair and stop using your magnetic bipolar control—or is this how you get rid of me?"
