[Locker Room]
Ephraim, Rika, and Buddy were teleported back into the locker room with a brilliant flash of light. The air smelled faintly of sweat and ozone. The metallic clang of their boots hitting the floor echoed as they stumbled in, and then—cheering.
"WOOOOOO!" Ephraim hollered, spinning around in place, arms raised. "Man, that Slickwick guy was weak as hell! I know a guy who does exactly the same thing and is way better at it."
Rika smirked faintly from across the room, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. "Didn't look so weak when he almost took your head off."
Buddy chuckled softly from the bench as he wiped his brow with a towel. "It was a good match. We worked well together."
Ephraim clapped his hands together. "I think Salt's match is next. I hope she's doing good."
He walked over to the mirror mounted on the far wall. The surface was dark and still, more like a pool of black water than a screen. "How the hell you turn the TV on in this bitch?"
Buddy and Rika just shrugged simultaneously.
Ephraim let out a dramatic sigh and plopped onto the bench, only to immediately bounce back up again with restless energy.
[Arena – Salt's Match Begins]
Outside, the roaring crowd filled the massive coliseum with a thunderous energy. The announcer's voice boomed across the arena.
"Now entering the arena... Raphina Buelford and her teammates!"
The crowd exploded with cheers as Salt stepped forward, her long coat trailing behind her like a comet's tail. Her expression was cool and focused.
"Facing off against her… Team Tucan! Led by Frank Tucan, his brother Louie Tucan, and the enigma with the fire in his soul—Johnny Bravenzala!"
Frank and Louie Tucan looked like they had stepped out of a 1950s noir film. Sharp suits, slick hair, and stone-cold glares. They moved like practiced predators.
Johnny, though—he was different.
He was light-skinned, short but sturdy, almost unnaturally built. His jet-black hair was spiked violently, yellow at the base and bleeding to a fierce orange at the tips like a blazing sunrise. He wore an amber-orange track suit with pristine white stripes running down his sleeves and pant legs. The white tank underneath flexed over his muscular chest.
And his essence—thick and strange. It clung to his body like a living oil slick, gelatinous and slow-moving, yet heavy and dangerous. Vaporous gas swirled around him, occasionally dripping like molten lava.
The horn blared.
The match began.
Raphina wasted no time. She unleashed dazzling bolts of star essence that shimmered and sliced through the air like shooting stars.
But Johnny didn't dodge.
The energy passed through him.
Right through.
Salt's eyes widened. She flipped and twisted midair, sending hammers of starlight and whips of cosmic energy crashing toward him—but again, they phased through his body. The gas that composed his essence moved to let the attacks pass harmlessly, as if he were nothing but an illusion.
He grinned.
She gritted her teeth.
Hammers hit nothing. Chains shattered in the smoke. It was like fighting steam.
Then Johnny countered—his hand morphed into a dark, gelatinous shape, and he swung it like a mace. It connected with Raphina's side and sent her flying into a nearby wall. Her teammates tried to support her, but Johnny and the Tucan brothers overwhelmed them.
The match peaked in a dazzling display of essence and force—until Johnny stood triumphant.
Salt lay crumpled against the arena wall, chest heaving, star essence dimming.
[Locker Room]
Back in the locker room, Ephraim and Rika were in the middle of a push-up competition. Sweat dotted their brows, and a small pile of snack wrappers lay in the corner from their pre-battle feast.
Buddy sat cross-legged in the corner, eyes closed, hands resting on his knees in meditation.
Suddenly—the mirror screen flickered.
Static.
Then the announcer's voice crackled through.
"And heavy thanks to the boy with the head of fiery hair!"
Ephraim froze mid-push-up. "What?"
He stood and slammed his fists onto the nearby bench with a loud BANG.
"I'm gonna beat the hell outta whoever this fiery-haired guy is."
Rika snorted. "Anger issues much?"
He ignored her. The adrenaline was already spiking.
The announcer continued: "Next up… the FINALS! Team Ephraim versus Team Tucan! Get your seats ready—the match begins in five minutes!"
Five minutes felt like five seconds.
[Finals – Arena]
The trio was yanked from the room in a swirl of light. When they landed in the arena, Ephraim skidded a little, hands clenched, chest out.
The crowd roared like a tidal wave.
The announcer's voice rose above it all.
"First up—we have the underdogs of the last match! Buddy Wang, the serene monk! Rika Cider, the unstoppable warrior! And the one you've all been waiting for—the mudblood underdog—Ephraim Boichi!"
The stadium shook.
A figure on the opposite end twisted his neck toward Ephraim.
Johnny's grin widened.
The announcer continued: "And now—our crowd favorites! Frank Tucan and Louie Tucan! And the wildfire himself… Johnny Bravenzala!"
Ephraim's face shifted from excitement to disbelief.
"JOHNNY?!"
Johnny: "PAPI!"
They both ran toward each other like long-lost brothers reunited on a sitcom set.
Ephraim: "What are you doing here?!"
Johnny (thick Dominican accent): "Ah, you know me, Papi—I take a little bit of dis, a little bit of dat…"
Ephraim: "Are you even supposed to be here?"
Johnny: "…Papi. You know I suppose be here."
He tried to salsa his way out of the conversation.
Ephraim: "Don't try to salsa that shit off. Where's your name tag?"
Johnny threw his arms up. "Come on, Papi, you no believe your cousin? We cousins!"
Rika raised an eyebrow. "Cousins?"
Johnny: "Of course. Look at him, look at me—you no see the resemblance?"
Ephraim narrowed his eyes. "Wait a minute. You're the one with the fiery—… You beat up Salt."
Johnny grinned. "Your girlfriend? I beat her like a mighty lion hunts a gazelle."
Ephraim's face hardened. "I'm gonna beat the SHIT outta you."
Johnny smiled. "Oh Papi, you will try. But I will be the feasting lion, and you… starving gazelle."
[The Final Match Begins]
Johnny walked to his position with the rest of his team, fluid and cocky.
The horn blared.
Louie charged Rika. Frank went toe-to-toe with Buddy.
Ephraim had one target.
He dashed at Johnny and threw a punch—straight through his head. The petroleum essence fizzled as his hand burned.
"Gah—!"
Johnny reached for Ephraim's face, but he ducked under and delivered an uppercut. His hand passed through again, burning worse this time.
He twisted, using his scissor-kick move to wrench himself free.
Johnny laughed as his form re-solidified. "What's wrong, Papi? Can't take the heat? Get out the kitchen."
Ephraim ripped off his jacket. "Let's go then."
Johnny exploded into movement, fists whipping like lava whips. Ephraim blocked, dodged, but the vaporous blows seared him every time.
The ground split beneath their feet.
Buddy and Rika's battles were neck-and-neck—blurs of force and energy.
Then—Johnny slammed his palm into the ground. A tower of napalm erupted.
He whipped his arm.
The napalm shot sideways like a flaming geyser, slamming into Ephraim and sending him crashing into a stone pillar. Rubble buried him.
"Looks like we've got a four-man knockout situation!" the announcer bellowed. "But wait… wait! Johnny's taking out Buddy and Rika!"
In a flash, Johnny blitzed their side and dropped both with a fiery barrage.
Only Ephraim remained.
He stood. Burnt. Bloodied.
But not broken.
"I can't beat him," Ephraim muttered. "No… I have to. Cause if I don't… then who will?"
He dashed forward—"Bullseye!"—and swung a punch that phased through. But behind Johnny—CLANG!—a hidden panel shot out and clocked him in the back of the head.
Johnny reeled.
Ephraim struck again. Another panel. Another burn. Another scream of "BULLSEYE!"
Strike after strike, Ephraim manipulated his magnetic panels to slam into Johnny from random directions. The attacks confused his phase timing.
Johnny began to crack.
"I guess you don't know yourself as well as you think you do," Ephraim muttered mid-charge. "Can't phase out when you don't know where the attack is coming from."
With a mighty uppercut enhanced by essence, Ephraim struck Johnny in the gut.
BOOM!
Johnny exploded out of the ring, crashing through stone and sending shockwaves through the arena.
Ephraim: "LET'S. FUCKING. GOOOO!"
The crowd went berserk.
He raised his arms and cupped his hands to his ears.
Ephraim: "ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?!"
Announcer: "My, my, my! We have our champion! The underdog! The MUD-BLOOD! Ephraim BOICHIIII!!"
[Winner's Locker Room]
With the crowd still howling outside, Ephraim was suddenly pulled from the arena in a flash of white light. He landed alone in a pristine locker room—no Rika, no Buddy, just silence and the soft hum of enchanted lighting. Marble floors. Plush benches. This wasn't the same teleport pad they used before.
He blinked around, confused, until the door creaked open.
A tall, thin man in formal white robes entered, bowing politely. "Congratulations, Champion. I'll be escorting you to Suite Victory."
Ephraim stood up slowly, eyes narrowing. "Where's Buddy and Rika?"
The man offered a gentle laugh. "They're in the other locker room. Loser's quarters."
"Losers? I thought we were a team."
"They were incapacitated during the match," the man said with a shrug. "Per tournament rulebook, they were disqualified. Happens more often than you'd think."
Ephraim ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Damn... makes sense, I guess."
The man gestured toward the hall. "Come. Your suite awaits."
[Suite Victory]
They ascended a spiral staircase winding along the edge of the coliseum. At the top: twin golden doors that creaked open to reveal luxury unlike anything Ephraim had ever imagined.
The suite was all velvet and gold-trim, with hovering refreshment trays, enchanted massage chairs, and a massive canopy bed in the center. Ephraim's burnt jacket had already been neatly folded on the edge, freshly repaired.
He collapsed onto the mattress, groaning with satisfaction, before sighing and turning to the window. The city outside sparkled under the starlight.
Yet despite the glory, despite the win, a gnawing loneliness crawled up his spine. He wanted to celebrate.
With Salt.
[Capital City Streets – Night]
Ephraim wandered the streets, shoulders squared like he was the king of the world—but the world didn't seem to care.
Taverns barred their doors. Merchants waved him off. Strangers spat at his feet. "Mudblood," they hissed behind their hands. "Half-breed."
Every scoff hit like a slap. His joy cracked with each rejection until he found himself walking, almost on instinct, back toward the one place that still had meaning.
[Coliseum – Salt's Tower]
He zipped up to Salt's window with a faint grin, only for his knuckles to freeze mid-knock.
It wasn't her who opened the window—it was her mother, Terra.
"Oh," Ephraim said, stepping back. "I—I'll just go."
But Terra held the window open. Her gaze was firm, unreadable. "You're the mudblood, aren't you?"
He hesitated. "I'm here to see Raphina. Just wanted to celebrate with her. I… won."
Terra chuckled, soft but icy. "You're so silly. She's a princess. And you're a mudblood. That's not something any title's going to change."
"I—I like her."
"If you truly liked her," Terra said gently, "you'd let her go."
The window closed softly, leaving Ephraim staring at his reflection in the glass—unsure of what stung more: the words, or how much they rang true.
[Suite Victory – Later That Night]
Ephraim returned quietly, collapsing on the bed again, jacket clutched to his chest. The ceiling spun slowly overhead. He didn't cry. He just lay there—drained.
[Morning – Ceremony Grounds]
The sun rose bright and blistering over the capital. Horns blared from the balconies. Citizens flooded into the stands again.
Ephraim arrived at the ceremony platform, freshly dressed, chin lifted. In the crowd, he spotted Salt—but he looked away. Her mother's words echoed too loud.
Instead, he approached Buddy and Rika with a small grin. "Yo."
Buddy bowed his head. Rika grunted. "Nice hit with that panel trick."
Before they could respond further, the announcer's voice roared through the air.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Before we begin, let's give our deepest thanks to the gracious Titus Buelford, principality of Soluar, for allowing us use of this sacred coliseum!"
[Elite Booth – Titus's Return]
Titus emerged into view, regal and composed, his violet robes pristine. He waved to the audience, then sat beside his advisor.
"When is my daughter receiving her title?" Titus asked coldly. "This whole affair has dragged long enough."
The advisor swallowed. "S-sir, about that, there's been a—"
The announcer interrupted: "Now… the moment you've been waiting for. Introducing your NEW Victorious Fighting King—Ephraim Boichi!!"
The crowd erupted into bedlam.
Titus went still.
He didn't move.
Didn't blink.
"…What," he said, low and venomous.
Gasps rippled through the elite box. Servants and assistants fled. Only Terra remained, expression unreadable.
Titus stood. Then smashed his chair.
He punched the TV screen showing Ephraim's face. Glass exploded in every direction. He tore the metal base from the floor and hurled it out the window, snapping his wand across his knee.
"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK EVERYTHING!"
He raged like a storm let loose.
"I SHOULD HAVE KILLED THAT GODDAMN MUDBLOOD! HE RUINED MY DAUGHTER, MY HOUSE—AND NOW MY FUCKING ARENA!!"
He pointed a trembling hand at Terra.
"I TOLD YOU. I TOLD YOU WHAT WOULD HAPPEN!"
Terra merely sipped her tea. "Darling. This is supposed to be a special moment for the mudblood."
Titus breathed hard, jaw tight. Then—
SMASH.
He resumed breaking everything.
[Ceremony Platform]
Back on the arena stage, Ephraim stepped forward to receive his crown—when a voice like oil and gravel whispered through the air.
"Goooookuuuuu… goooookuuuuu…"
The crowd fell deathly silent.
Ephraim froze. Every nerve screamed.
He turned.
Standing at the edge of the platform, where no man should be, was the corpse of Osiris Bellsbottom.
Or what remained of him.
But he wasn't decayed.
He stood tall, cane in one hand, the other resting cockily on his hip. His smile was too wide. His eyes were too knowing. And his voice—his voice was two at once. Osiris.
And Homicide.
"Oh, Goku, Goku, Goku," he purred. "You didn't think I forgot about our little woods encounter, did you?"
Ephraim couldn't move. Couldn't speak.
"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? No warm welcome after all this time?"
A referee approached cautiously. "Hey, you're not allowed to be he—"
Osiris clapped both hands.
SHI-YAKA-ZING!!
CLAP!!
The referee combusted from the inside out. A scream of liquid fire echoed through the coliseum.
Osiris held his hands above the flames like he was warming himself by a cozy fire.
"Much better," he said. "This skin gets chilly."
He looked back at Ephraim, that wicked grin deepening.
"Well, I know when I've overstayed my welcome," Osiris said. "So I'll bid you adieu, Goku."
He bowed theatrically.
And at the exact moment his back curved—
KRSSSSHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
A massive plane—metal, ancient, impossibly large—came hurtling down from the heavens and crushed him flat. The entire coliseum rocked. Half the stage vaporized.
Ephraim stared at the twisted wreckage. Smoke. Dust.
He looked up.
Salt was safe.
He stepped back.
Collapsed.
Unable to comprehend what just happened.
CREATED AND WRITTEN BY MATEO WOODSON
WRITTEN AND STORYBOARDED BY JOHN FALLOUT