Created and Written by Mateo Woodson Written and Storyboarded by John Fallout
Ephraim stepped out of the restaurant, wiping the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand. A full belly and a bruised ego — not a bad combo.
He stretched, cracked his neck, and took a breath of the heavy mountain air. The stone-paved streets shimmered faintly beneath the sunset haze, the sounds of the Lion's Den tournament echoing faintly from beyond the cliffs.
Then—
"Hey little lady," a greasy voice slithered through the square. "Why don't you join our team? We'll keep you nice and safe… but you'll have to contribute in some way."
Ephraim's head tilted. His eyes found Salt — standing alone as three men surrounded her. Their sigils marked them clearly: the Leonice Familia. Notorious. Rich. Rapists.
Salt's voice was icy. "No. Fuck off. You guys aren't worth my time. You aren't even real men."
One of the brothers stepped forward, pissed. "What did you say to me, bitch—"
Before he could finish, Ephraim swung down from a nearby lamppost like some upside-down acrobat. He landed smoothly in front of Salt, dangling for dramatic effect.
"Heyyy, Saltttt," he grinned. "Told you I'd meet you up here, didn't I?"
She blinked, surprised—then smiled, a soft blush warming her cheeks. "How's the tournament treating you, Mr. King of Kings?"
"Bad," Ephraim replied, dropping from the pole. "But I can't complain."
"Oh? Why's that?"
"Well," he said, scratching his head, "that bastard bartender wouldn't serve me... so I kicked his ass."
She raised an eyebrow.
Ephraim shrugged. "Hey, I'm not the racist. Get mad at him, not me."
He tilted sideways, looking past Salt to the three goons.
"Your friends look pissed. Is it 'cause I'm a mudblood?"
Salt deadpanned, "They're not my friends. That's the Leonice Familia. Rapist familia. They're rapists."
Ephraim blinked, then gave a long, drawn-out "Nooo shot," before smiling. "Nah I'm just playin'... yeah, I figured."
He landed beside them, dusting off his boots.
"Thank you, Lord, for this ass-whooping I'm about to hand out to Captain Limpdick and his crew. Amen."
Yorkal, the oldest of the trio, sneered. "Guess a mudblood wants to die today. When I'm done with you, the girl's next."
Ephraim calmly took off his jacket and draped it around Salt's shoulders.
"Hold that for me. This won't take long."
The Leonice brothers spread out—Yorkal in front, flanked by Orkal and Borkal.
The fight began.
Yorkal struck first, snapping his wrist. A volley of crystal needles launched through the air like bullets. Ephraim weaved left, right, then ducked—effortless, fluid. The needles hit the stone behind him with a sharp ping-ping-ping.
He closed the distance fast.
Just as he leapt to kick Yorkal, the man burst into a puff of smoke. From that smoke, a swarm of bees erupted, rushing Ephraim with a mechanical hum.
"Whoa!" Ephraim ducked, spun, and leapt backward, barely avoiding the swarm.
He rebounded off a nearby tree, grabbed a branch, twisted, and landed with perfect control.
Orkal rushed him now, twin daggers glowing faintly with essence.
Ephraim blocked one strike, dodged the next, then rolled under a slash. As he came up, Borkal sent serpents of smoke and barbed vines slithering toward him.
Ephraim pivoted, stomped one snake into smoke, elbowed a vine, and kicked the last away.
Then spikes shot up from the ground—everywhere.
He jumped, flipped sideways, kicked off a wall, twisted his body like a ribbon, and narrowly avoided being impaled.
Yorkal was waiting when he landed—another spike formed on his cheek.
Ephraim feinted a punch, then turned it into a magnetized grab. He planted his foot against the spike, spring-launched off it, and kicked Yorkal in the stomach midair.
Yorkal skidded back, gasping.
"You've been injected," Yorkal sneered, "with the most toxic poison in all of New Eden."
Ephraim blinked. "Oh, cool."
Then he laughed—like a damn hyena.
"If I'm gonna die anyway, then fuck it!"
He flash-stepped forward.
Yorkal tried to raise a shield of needles, but Ephraim smashed through it with a thunderous punch, slamming him into the ground.
The others attacked again.
Orkal lunged with glowing daggers. Borkal summoned a storm of bees and black ash. Ephraim spun between them—dodging one, kicking the other, punching the third.
It was beautiful chaos. Essence crackled from his limbs.
Ephraim crouched.
"Essence Technique…"
His fist pulled back.
"Meteor Crash."
He shot upward, then came down like a meteor. Yorkal launched a massive spike up at him.
Ephraim punched through it.
The impact shattered stone, sent Orkal stumbling.
"Essence Technique: Second Form…"
He zipped toward Orkal.
"Bullseye."
His punch hit like a divine decree. Orkal went down, face-first.
Borkal tried to counter with a whip of smoke, but Ephraim flipped off the wall, spun, and knocked him out with a spear-kick straight to the face.
Only Yorkal remained.
The poison should've been working by now—but Ephraim showed no signs.
He stumbled for a moment. Yorkal smiled.
"Yes! The poison finally got you! I win!"
A long, gleaming spike formed into a sword in his hand.
Yorkal ran forward, swinging hard.
He sliced—
And Ephraim vanished.
Yorkal froze.
To his left: Ephraim, completely fine, patting his own chest and checking his pockets.
"I don't think your poison worked," he said casually.
He charged again.
Yorkal slashed—Ephraim deflected.
He comboed: jab, cross, cross again—then a tornado kick to the jaw.
Midair, Ephraim magnetized Yorkal's head to his leg.
CRACK.
He landed, rebounded, headbutted him.
Yorkal stumbled. Ephraim grabbed both arms and dropkicked him, sending him flying.
Needles fired again.
Ephraim was already there.
He landed a final Bullseye punch straight to the chest.
Yorkal dropped.
Silence returned.
Ephraim walked over to Salt, picked up his jacket, and slipped it on without missing a beat.
He pointed at himself with both thumbs and said, "Told ya that wouldn't take long."