Created and Written by Mateo WoodsonWritten and Storyboarded by John Fallout
Ephraim and Salt walked shoulder to shoulder under a lavender dusk, the violence of the Lion's Den behind them and a checkpoint somewhere far ahead. The night air was cool and laced with pine. Their boots crunched softly against the trail of silver-dusted gravel that cut through the woods.
Salt, still blushing from the chaos earlier, couldn't help but speak up. "That was amazing, Ephraim. Where did you learn to fight like that? And what even is an essence technique?"
Ephraim rubbed the back of his head with a guilty grin. "My… uh… brother taught me."
"Really? He must be pretty strong. I'd love to meet him someday."
"Yeah… yeah… that'd be… interesting," Ephraim muttered, his tone suddenly dodgy.
Salt tilted her head. "Why would it be interesting?"
He rubbed the back of his head again, searching for words. "He can, uh… get a bit quirky. As quirky as a man possibly can be."
Salt giggled. "I bet he's just like you."
Ephraim smirked. "Sometimes. Most of the time, we're opposites."
They walked in silence for a bit, stars blinking into existence above them like gods peeking through a curtain. Eventually Salt gave a tired sigh. "It's getting late. We should probably set up camp—it'll take us a full day to reach the checkpoint."
Ephraim nodded. "Fair point. But how about this: you sleep, and I do everything."
Salt smirked. "Fine. But when you pass out from exhaustion, don't come crying to me."
"I don't whine."
"You definitely do whine."
They both laughed as the trees thinned, revealing a soft patch of grass beside a thin, glowing river. Fireflies buzzed like golden sparks in the air. The perfect campsite.
Ephraim dropped his pack and began to put up salts tent. After a few minutes of struggling to find out how to open the tent crystal Ephraim finally gets everything set up. Ephraim backs up stretching his arms, shoulders rolling like gears.
Then he took off his shirt.
Salt immediately covered her face. "Ephraim?! W-w-what are you doing?!"
He blinked innocently. "Huh? Oh—training. Why?"
"Then why are you getting undressed?!"
He stepped out of his pants. "I don't wanna get my clothes dirty."
Salt turned, red-faced, and marched to her tent. "O-o-okay! Training! Right! Goodnight!"
Inside her tent, Salt peeked through her fingers and caught a glimpse of Ephraim's back—scarless. His chest and arms were a battlefield of marks, old wounds, near-death stories... but his back? Pristine.
Weird, she thought. He has so many scars… but none on his back. Why?
[Waterfall Clearing – Midnight]
Ephraim trained beneath the falling water like a monk possessed—each punch controlled, each breath sharp. Essence flowed through his arms like lightning searching for ground. His focus was absolute.
Until a rock the size of a barstool dropped from above and cracked him right in the shoulder.
"AH—damn it!" he shouted, stumbling backward and splashing into the pool.
His head spun underwater. The world became muffled and dreamlike. And then—
A hand reached down into the water.
Pale, veiny. Human.
Instinctively, Ephraim grabbed it.
Then instantly regretted it.
The hand pulled. Fast.
Ephraim screamed, flailing. His hand slipped free and he scrambled back, gasping.
Above the waterline stood a tall figure in a torn trench coat. A speckled red hockey mask covered most of his face—except the wide, too-white grin.
"Hey, Goku…" the man said, voice syrupy and casual. "You got ten bucks I could borrow?"
Ephraim's eyes widened. "M-man… What the FUCK!"
The masked figure cackled, then vanished into the mist like a shadow curling away from flame.
Ephraim washed up screaming beneath the waterfall.
[Back at Camp]
Salt was sound asleep, snoring lightly, wrapped in her blanket like a human sushi roll.
Ephraim crashed through the tent like a tornado, yanking the blanket off her.
"AHH! Ephraim?! What the hell!?"
He grabbed her shoulders, wide-eyed, breathing hard.
"There's something I can't ignore anymore," he said, voice trembling. "It's been on my mind for a while and now I can't deny it."
Salt turned red. "Wh-wh-what are you talking about?! I-I-I'm not ready!"
"We have to. Now. This isn't a yes-or-no thing."
"Okay okay okay! Just let me—let me get ready—!"
"NO. NOW. LET'S GO."
He scooped her up like a sack of rice and flung her over his shoulder.
"Wha—where are you taking me?! Don't you wanna like… do that here?!"
"HUH?! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?! THERE'S A GODDAMN SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE!"
Salt blinked in complete confusion. "Oh… I thought… never mind. What killer?"
Ephraim was already halfway through the woods. "WHO'S AFTER US?! WHO'S AFTER USS?! The Wicked Prince of Hell! The Clout Demon of Tyr! The Crashout Goon of Sheol!"
A bullet zipped past them, slicing the air like a whisper from Death itself.
Ephraim stopped cold. Turned. And saw it.
A shadow stood among the trees. Masked. Grinning. A revolver the size of a trumpet glinted in his hand.
"NOPE," Ephraim muttered.
He flipped Salt into his other arm and magnetized forward, grabbing a branch and slingshotting them into the canopy—web-swinging away like a human slingshot, leaves flying in their wake.
Behind them, the forest watched. And the killer smiled.