Pain dragged Ephraim back to consciousness like fishhooks in flesh.
His eyes snapped open—too fast, too sudden—body jerking upright before his brain caught up with the motion. The world tilted violently. Nausea rolled through his gut.
Where—
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights humming overhead. The smell of antiseptic cutting through the usual prison stench of mildew and violence.
Med bay.
He was in the med bay.
His shoulders screamed the moment he tried to move them—deep, burning pain that radiated down his arms and into his chest. Every muscle felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry in the sun. His ribs throbbed with each breath, bruised bone grinding against bruised bone.
He looked down.
Bandages. Everywhere. White gauze wrapped around his torso, his arms, his hands. Some of it was already stained rust-brown where blood had seeped through. And there, centered around his belly button, was a healing seal—intricate symbols drawn in what looked like dried herbs and ink, pulsing faintly with residual magic.
How long was I out?
He flexed his fingers. They responded, barely. His left hand still felt half-dead, numbness creeping up from wrist to elbow.
Four fights. Crusher. Torch. Echo. Samson.
The memories hit him like aftershocks.
The magnetic vortex. The desperation. The way Samson's body had slammed into the ground when Ephraim magnetized the entire building's infrastructure.
I won. Somehow.
Movement to his left caught his attention.
An old black man sat in the bed next to his, propped up against pillows that had seen better days. He had a grey fuzzy beard that looked soft despite the prison environment, and a short, happy grey afro that defied the misery surrounding them. Glasses perched on his nose—actual reading glasses, somehow pristine—and he held a book in weathered hands.
The book's cover was worn beyond recognition, pages yellowed with age.
The old man looked up from his reading, eyes sharp despite his age. They studied Ephraim for a long moment before a small smile crossed his face.
"Up already?" he said, voice carrying the kind of warmth that didn't belong in a place like this. "Didn't expect you to get up so soon."
Ephraim groaned, the sound scraping out of his throat like gravel. His mouth tasted like copper and ash.
"Who are you?" he managed, words coming out harsher than intended. "Why do you care how fast I get up?"
The old man snorted—genuine amusement dancing in his eyes. He closed his book carefully, marking his place with a scrap of fabric.
"Ah, youth," he said, shaking his head. "So snappy. Can't you just have casual talk, young one?"
The words landed softer than Ephraim expected. Not accusatory. Just... observational. Like a grandfather noting a grandchild's poor manners at dinner.
Shame flickered through Ephraim's chest. He settled back against his pillows—slowly, carefully, everything hurting.
"My bad," he muttered. "Just on edge." He paused, then added with a hint of suspicion: "But for real though, you been watchin' me sleep?"
The old man laughed—a genuine, full-bodied sound that seemed to brighten the sterile med bay.
"Not watchin' you," he said, gesturing between their beds. "But we're right next to each other. Hard not to notice."
"True," Ephraim admitted.
He shifted slightly, trying to find a position that didn't make his ribs feel like they were stabbing his lungs. The healing seal around his belly button pulsed warmly, doing its work, but magic could only accelerate natural healing—not replace it entirely.
A thought occurred to him.
"How'd you know my injuries were bad?"
The old man's smile widened, lines crinkling around his eyes.
"Everyone is talking about you right now, young Boichi," he said, leaning forward slightly. "Not one person in the past three years has even made it past Crusher, let alone is about to sweep the gauntlet first try."
Ephraim sat up straighter—too fast. Pain lanced through his torso. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright.
"Damn, I didn't know..." He paused, processing. "Why can't anyone do it? I mean, yeah, they're all tough, but I fought most of them tired and weakened. Nobody could?"
The old man's expression shifted. The warmth didn't leave entirely, but something more serious settled over his features. He set his book aside completely, giving Ephraim his full attention.
"Although you're an essence user," he said slowly, deliberately, "you barely know anything about it." He paused, eyes studying Ephraim with renewed interest. "Interesting."
The word hung in the air like smoke.
The old man leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"Tell me, boy. What do you know about essence?"
Ephraim blinked, caught off guard by the question. He'd expected... what? Congratulations? More questions about the fights? Not this.
"Uhhh," he started, scrambling to organize thoughts still fuzzy from unconsciousness. "It's basically like in everything. It flows through all things, living or not. And uhhh, usually you use it to make magic, but you can also just use the essence raw without filtering it through your physical reserve."
He said it like reciting from a textbook he'd only half-read. The kind of answer you gave when you knew the words but not the meaning.
The old man smiled—not mockingly, but like a teacher hearing a student get close to the right answer.
"Yesss," he said, drawing out the word. "But there is much more to it than that, young one."
He shifted in his bed, settling in like he was preparing to tell a story. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere down the hall, someone screamed—brief and sharp before being cut off. Neither of them acknowledged it.
"Essence comes from your spiritual reserve," the old man continued, "but where does the spiritual reserve come from?"
Ephraim opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn't know.
"Well, it comes from you," the old man said, tapping his chest. "Your soul draws it from the world. And depending on how much you know your soul—will, confirm how much essence will allow you to use."
"Allow me to use it?" Ephraim repeated, confusion clear in his voice.
The old man nodded, his expression growing more animated.
"Yes. Essence is alive. Getting to know it—the type you harbor, and in turn, yourself—is how you use it." He paused, eyes distant for a moment. "But tell me, young one—how can you know yourself if you never test yourself?"
He refocused on Ephraim, studying him with those sharp eyes.
"I'm amazed you can use it at all, let alone how proficiently you do, without knowing any of this."
He leaned forward, hands clasped.
"Please, show me a magic attack of yours."
Ephraim scratched the back of his head, suddenly uncomfortable. The bandages on his arms pulled tight with the motion.
"I uhhh... can't," he admitted. "I can't do magic."
The old man's eyes widened. His mouth fell open slightly—genuine shock breaking through his composed demeanor.
"You can't???" He sat up straighter, book forgotten. "How is that possible? That could only mean you don't have a physical reser—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
The words died in his throat like someone had physically cut them off.
His expression shifted—shock melting into something else. Understanding? Recognition? Fear?
The old man stood abruptly, moving with surprising speed for someone his age. The book tumbled from his lap, hitting the floor with a soft thud.
"My name is Ish," he said quickly, voice suddenly formal. "Ish Haye. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ephraim Boichi."
He moved toward the door—not running, but not casual either.
"Till next time."
Ephraim turned his head to grab the glass of water on the bedside table—his throat was raw, needed moisture—and when he turned back, Ish was gone.
Just... gone.
The door hadn't opened. There'd been no footsteps. The old man had simply ceased to exist in the space he'd occupied seconds before.
Ephraim stared at the empty bed across from him. At the book lying face-down on the floor.
"I really need to lay the fuck down," he muttered, settling back against his pillows. "I'm fuckin' talkin' to myself and seein' shit."
He closed his eyes.
But sleep didn't come.
FLOOR 500 - THE BOSS'S OFFICEThe corridor leading to the boss's office was different from the rest of the prison.
Cleaner. The concrete here didn't sweat moisture. The fluorescent lights actually worked—all of them—casting everything in steady, cold white. Even the air tasted different. Less blood. Less fear.
More power.
A big man moved down this corridor with the confidence of someone who'd walked it a thousand times. He was built like a refrigerator—six-four, two-fifty, all of it muscle earned through violence. His knuckles were scarred, his nose had been broken at least three times, and his eyes held the flat affect of a man who'd done terrible things and slept fine afterward.
A hitter. One of the boss's personal enforcers.
He stopped outside a heavy door—reinforced steel, not the cheap iron bars that made up most of the prison. Two guards flanked it, both armed with actual firearms instead of the standard batons.
They nodded at him. He knocked twice.
"Enter," came a voice from within.
The hitter pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The office was sparse. A desk—expensive, out of place. A chair behind it, high-backed, facing away from the door. The silhouette of someone sitting in that chair, backlit by a single lamp.
The hitter couldn't see a face. Didn't need to.
"Boss," he said, voice respectful. "I found two schmucks down on Floor 1500 dealin' blades on your turf."
Silence.
Then: "The boss says take care of them. By any means."
The voice came from somewhere to the left of the chair. Another shadow, barely visible in the dim light. The boss's mouth—the one who spoke for him.
The hitter nodded. "Yes, sir."
He turned and left, pulling the door closed behind him.
As he walked away, two women approached from the opposite direction.
One was tan-skinned with braids pulled into an elegant Fulani front—dignified, composed, moving with the kind of grace that spoke of high birth and careful training. Princess Raphina Buelford.
The other was a redhead with a short temper written in every line of her body—Rika Cider, arms crossed, jaw set, looking like she was ready to fight her way through the door if needed.
The two guards by the door stepped forward, blocking their path.
"Wait in the other room," the first guard said flatly.
Raphina offered a polite smile—the kind that could cut glass.
"Of course," she said smoothly.
Rika just glared but followed as they were directed to a side room.
THE WAITING ROOMThe room was small. Clean. A table with two chairs. A single window—barred, of course—looking out over the prison's interior courtyard fifteen hundred floors below.
Rika paced like a caged animal. Raphina sat, hands folded in her lap, posture perfect despite the uncomfortable chair.
"So," Rika said, breaking the silence. "I get why you came for Ephraim. He saved you, you returned the favor. But you wouldn't willingly come here—risk getting arrested—just for him." She stopped pacing, studying Raphina. "So why are you really out here? What do you want out of this?"
Raphina was quiet for a moment. Her fingers traced the edge of the table—an unconscious gesture, like she was organizing her thoughts.
"I want to be free," she said finally. "Truly free."
Rika crossed her arms. "You're royalty. How much more free can you get?"
"A bird in a golden cage is still a bird in a cage," Raphina replied, voice soft but firm. "I've spent my entire life behind walls. Diplomatic functions. Political marriages. Every action scrutinized, every word measured." She looked up, meeting Rika's eyes. "I want to see the world. Not as Princess Raphina Buelford, daughter of Titus Buelford. Just... as myself."
The vulnerability in her voice was surprising. Real.
Rika studied her for a long moment, then snorted.
"Yeah, okay. I get that." She leaned against the wall, arms still crossed.
Raphina tilted her head slightly. "And what about you? What's your goal in all this?"
Rika's jaw tightened. "Me? I want to find my sister. Arika." Her expression hardened. "And kill a certain person who needs killing."
"Who?"
"None of your business yet."
They fell into comfortable silence.
Then the door opened.
A tall man stepped in—slick-back hair, expensive suit that looked wrong in the prison environment, and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He moved with practiced grace, closing the door behind him.
"Ladies," he said smoothly. "I am the boss's mouth. I do all the talking for him."
Raphina stood, extending her hand. Her smile was perfectly calibrated—friendly but not familiar, respectful but not submissive.
"A pleasure," she said. "I am Princess Raphina Buelford, daughter of Titus Buelford, Principality and owner of Mount Pan."
The man's interest visibly peaked. His eyebrows rose slightly, and his smile became more genuine.
"A princess," he said, shaking her hand. "How... unexpected."
Rika stepped forward, less gracefully.
"Rika Cider," she said bluntly. "Can we skip the pleasantries and get to business?"
The man's smile didn't falter. "Direct. I like that."
They settled into chairs—Raphina and Rika on one side of the table, the mouth on the other.
Raphina leaned forward slightly, hands still folded.
"We want to know how to get out of this prison," she said simply.
The man's smile widened.
"The boss can handle all that and more for you!"
Both women smiled—but Rika's was skeptical.
"At what catch?" she asked, leaning back and crossing her arms.
The man's smile deepened, becoming something sharper.
"There's a simple job the boss wants done. If you can do it, he'll give you safe passage out."
"What is it?" Rika pressed.
"Make five thousand Euro," the man said casually. "Very, very simple."
Rika's eyes widened. She shot to her feet, chair scraping back.
"FIVE THOUSAND EURO?!" Her voice cracked with outrage. "IT'LL TAKE US MONTHS TO MAKE THAT!"
But Raphina's voice cut through the tension—calm, steeled, certain.
"Easy. Deal."
She extended her hand across the table.
The man took it immediately, shaking once.
Rika spun toward her. "Whatttt? Princess, come on, think about this a bit?"
Raphina stood, releasing the man's hand, and turned to Rika with a smirk.
"Come on," she said quietly. "I got this."
The man stood as well, straightening his suit.
"Excellent. I'll inform the boss. You have one month." He moved toward the door, then paused. "And ladies? Don't disappoint him."
He left.
The door clicked shut.
Rika immediately rounded on Raphina.
"Five thousand Euro?! In a prison?! Are you insane?"
Raphina's smirk didn't fade. She moved to the window, looking out over the courtyard below.
"I have a plan."
"Care to share?"
"Not yet."
"Not yet?! Princess—"
"Trust me," Raphina said, turning back. Her expression was serious now. "I know what I'm doing. We can make that money."
"How?"
"You'll see."
Rika stared at her, frustration and curiosity warring on her face. Finally, she threw up her hands.
"Whatever. Let's just get back to our cells. Rec time will be over soon."
They left the waiting room, moving down the corridor, past the boss's office, back toward their cells on Floor 500.
As they walked, they passed a window overlooking the prison's interior.
Below—far below—a thousand floors down through the hollowed-out core of Mount Pan, they could see Floor 1500's courtyard. From this height, the prisoners looked like ants, the chain-link fence like spider silk.
The prison stretched down into darkness—level after level carved into the mountain's heart, a vertical city of concrete and violence built in a space that shouldn't exist.
A crowd had gathered in that distant courtyard.
FLOOR 1500 - THE COURTYARD - DEEP IN THE COREThe courtyard was a concrete square fifty feet on each side, surrounded by chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The air here was different—heavier, pressing down with the weight of a thousand floors of stone and steel above. Fluorescent lights fought against the perpetual gloom of the mountain's core.
Prisoners clustered around two figures in the center, forming a loose circle, voices rising in excitement and anticipation.
Money was already changing hands.
In the center stood Johnny Bravenzala and Eliyah Boichi.
Johnny was light-skinned with black hair that bled into yellow at the mid-lengths, then fire-red at the tips—like a gradient of flame frozen in keratin. His eyebrows were thick, expressive, constantly moving as he talked. He wore his jumpsuit with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle.
He was grinning.
Eliyah stood beside him—dark-skinned, a scar cutting across his lip and cheek that pulled his mouth into a permanent half-sneer. His locs fell well past his shoulders, tied back loosely with a strip of fabric. His expression was neutral, almost bored, but his eyes tracked everything.
Between them sat a makeshift table—really just a wooden crate—covered in blades.
Knives. Shivs. Daggers. Even a few short swords. Each one looked handcrafted, edges catching the light, handles wrapped in cloth or leather.
"PAPI!" Johnny called out, voice carrying across the courtyard. He gestured dramatically at the display. "PAPI!" Johnny called out, voice carrying across the courtyard. He gestured dramatically at the display. "Why get a gram of plastic when you could get an eighty of steel? Buy our blades and you'll wish you came sooner!"
Several prisoners laughed. A few moved closer, eyeing the merchandise.
Then the crowd parted.
Two men stepped through—both big, both moving with the deliberate confidence of predators. Hitters. The boss's enforcers.
The one on the left was bald, covered in tattoos that looked like they'd been done with prison ink and a sewing needle. The one on the right had a shaved head with a single strip of hair down the middle—a mohawk gone feral.
They stopped in front of the table.
"Boss says you're dealing on his turf," Baldy said. His voice was flat. Dead.
Johnny's grin didn't falter. If anything, it widened.
"Papi, we're just entrepreneurs! Small business owners! Contributing to the prison economy!"
Mohawk cracked his knuckles. "Boss says that's a problem."
"And," Baldy added, "we're supposed to take care of problems."
The crowd backed up immediately, giving space. This wasn't going to be a conversation.
This was going to be a fight.
Eliyah sighed, reaching down and picking up a blade from the table—a straight knife, maybe eight inches long, edge gleaming.
"Which one you want?" he asked Johnny.
Johnny glanced between the two hitters, then pointed at Mohawk.
"That one looks mean. I like mean."
"Fine," Eliyah said, stepping toward Baldy.
The hitters moved simultaneously.
Baldy lunged at Eliyah, fist driving forward like a piston—aimed at his face, meant to end this fast.
Eliyah didn't dodge.
He absorbed.
His free hand shot out, palm catching Baldy's fist mid-swing. The impact should've driven him back, should've broken bones.
Instead, the force of the punch just... stopped.
Disappeared.
Absorbed into Eliyah's essence.
Baldy's eyes widened. "What—"
Eliyah's blade flashed.
The knife cut across Baldy's forearm—shallow, precise. Not meant to maim. Just to mark.
And where the blade touched, essence flowed.
The knife was imbued with Friction essence—Eliyah's specialty. He could imbue any blade with any essence type he wanted, giving it properties far beyond simple sharpness.
Friction essence made things resist.
Baldy tried to pull his arm back. It moved like he was dragging it through molasses—air itself becoming thick, resistant, wrong.
"The fuck?!" he snarled.
Eliyah said nothing. He just moved—fluid, economical—slashing again. This time across Baldy's chest.
The jumpsuit tore. Skin beneath remained unbroken—the cut wasn't deep enough to draw blood.
But now Baldy's entire torso felt heavy. Every movement required twice the effort, friction building on friction, resistance compounding.
He swung again—slower now, telegraphed.
Eliyah ducked under it, blade flashing twice more.
Legs. Arms.
Each cut added more friction essence, until Baldy was moving like he was underwater, muscles straining against invisible resistance.
"You... fucking..." Baldy gasped, trying to stay upright.
Eliyah finally spoke, voice dry. "You should've left us alone."
He swept Baldy's legs—already struggling under the friction—and the big man went down hard, hitting concrete with a meaty thud.
Eliyah placed one foot on his chest, blade pressed lightly against his throat.
"Done?"
Baldy glared but didn't move. Couldn't move.
"Done," he spat.
Meanwhile, Johnny danced.
Literally danced—hips swaying, feet moving in a salsa rhythm as Mohawk charged him with all the grace of a freight train.
Johnny spun out of the way, grinning. "You gotta move faster than that!"
Mohawk's fist hit nothing but air.
Johnny's hand shot out, fingers spreading wide.
Clear, gelatinous substance erupted from his palm—dripping and viscous, coating Mohawk's fist in a thick layer. Jpalm, Johnny liked to call it.
It ignited instantly.
Not normal fire. This burned white-hot, hotter than lava, consuming oxygen so fast the air itself seemed to warp.
Mohawk screamed, trying to shake it off. But Jpalm stuck. Clung. Burned.
Johnny snapped his fingers, and the flame died—but the Jpalm remained, coating Mohawk's hand like a glove.
"Still want more?" Johnny asked, tilting his head.
Mohawk snarled through the pain and charged again—this time leading with his other hand.
Johnny didn't dodge.
His entire arm turned to Jpalm.
The transformation was instant—flesh becoming clear, dripping substance, maintaining the shape of an arm but losing all solidity. Johnny's essence poured into the technique, focusing on just that one limb.
Mohawk's punch passed through Johnny's Jpalm arm like hitting water.
Then Johnny solidified it mid-contact.
His arm reformed around Mohawk's fist, trapping it, and Johnny pulled.
Mohawk stumbled forward, off-balance.
Johnny's other hand—still flesh—drove into Mohawk's solar plexus.
THUD.
Air exploded from Mohawk's lungs.
Johnny stepped back, letting his Jpalm arm drip away, reforming into normal flesh.
"Stay down," he said, shaking out his reformed hand. "You're done."
Mohawk tried to stand. His legs gave out. He collapsed beside Baldy, both hitters groaning on the concrete.
The crowd erupted—cheering, cursing, money changing hands faster than before.
Johnny and Eliyah turned back to their table, straightening the blades that had been knocked askew.
Two prisoners stepped forward immediately—one holding cash, the other holding cigarettes.
"How much for the friction blade?" the first asked.
Eliyah picked up a knife, turning it over in his hands.
"Twenty-five Euro. Or equivalent trade."
"Deal."
The second prisoner pointed at a short sword.
"That one. What's it do?"
"Gravity essence," Eliyah said flatly. "Cuts feel twice as heavy. Forty Euro."
The prisoner hesitated, then nodded. "Worth it."
"Done."
Money and cigarettes changed hands. The blades disappeared into jumpsuits.
More prisoners approached, questions forming, deals being proposed.
Johnny threw an arm around Eliyah's shoulders, grinning wider than ever.
"Business is booming!"
Eliyah didn't smile. But the corner of his mouth twitched.
Almost.
They packed up the remaining blades, the crowd slowly dispersing as guards started moving in—too late to stop the fight, too early to care about the aftermath.
As they walked away, Johnny was already talking about their next sale, his voice carrying across the courtyard, full of energy and schemes and the unshakeable confidence of someone who'd just won.
Eliyah followed, silent, already planning the next blade.
TO BE CONTINUED...