The guard's hand hung in the air like a guillotine blade waiting to drop.
Ephraim's heart hammered against broken ribs. Sweat and blood mixed on his face, stinging his eyes. His chains felt heavier than they should—iron weighing him down, pulling at wrists already raw from three fights.
Across the pit, Samson stood motionless. Seven feet of corded muscle and ancient violence. His yellow eyes caught the fluorescent light wrong, reflecting something that looked almost hungry. The brand on his neck—that circular symbol carved deep into flesh—pulsed faintly with each breath he took.
Ephraim tried to steady his breathing. Failed. His essence reserves felt like a candle guttering in wind—fifteen percent left, maybe less. Each time he reached for that familiar hum beneath his skin, it responded slower. Weaker.
Two more fights. Just survive Two more.
The crowd pressed against the bars above, a wall of bodies and noise and greed. Cigarette smoke drifted through the stale air. Money changed hands with the practiced efficiency of men who'd bet on death a thousand times before.
Someone shouted odds. Someone else laughed.
Ephraim flexed his fingers. His left hand barely responded—nerves misfiring from Crusher's ice still haunting him three fights later.
The guard opened his mouth to drop his hand—
A phone rang.
Not a cell phone. Something old. The kind of ring that belonged in a museum, sharp and mechanical and wrong in this concrete hole.
The guard froze. His hand stayed raised as he fished a brick of a radio from his belt, listened to the crackling voice on the other end. His expression shifted—annoyance flickering to surprise, then settling on something that looked uncomfortably like fear.
He lowered his hand slowly.
The crowd's anticipation fractured into confusion.
"Fight's postponed," the guard announced, voice flat and final.
What?
The pit erupted in protest.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!"
"I GOT MONEY ON THIS!"
"LET THEM FIGHT!"
"POSTPONED?! SINCE WHEN?!"
The guard ignored them all, turning to address someone in the shadows beyond the pit—someone Ephraim couldn't see but could feel watching. "Boss has a meeting. Won't be back for a bit." He gestured at Ephraim and Samson without looking at either. "Get them out. Fight resumes when he's ready."
Relief crashed through Ephraim so hard his knees almost buckled.
Saved. For now.
He didn't wait to be told twice. His legs barely held him as he turned toward the gate, each step sending fresh pain shooting through broken ribs. Blood dripped from his chin, pattering on concrete already stained with violence older than memory.
Behind him, Samson's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "Later."
Just that one word. A promise. A threat.
Ephraim didn't look back. Didn't have the energy. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on making it to the gate before his body gave out completely.
Homicide waited there, practically vibrating with restrained energy. The red mask's smile seemed wider somehow, stretching beyond what should be physically possible.
"Ooh!" he sang, bouncing on his toes. "Saved by the bell! How lucky! How FORTUNATE!" He grabbed Ephraim's shoulder—grip too tight, fingers digging in. "I was worried for a second there! Samson's a mean one. Big and nasty and—"
"I noticed," Ephraim muttered, shrugging off the hand.
"Good! Noticing things keeps you alive!" Homicide giggled—the sound echoing wrong off the concrete walls, bouncing back at odd angles. "Rest up, Goku. You're gonna need it. That man's not like the others. He's—" Homicide paused, tilting his head at an unnatural angle. "—primal."
Before Ephraim could ask what the hell that meant, Homicide spun away, humming something off-key and disturbing as he melted back into the shadows.
Ephraim leaned against the wall, finally letting his legs give out. He slid down until he was sitting, chains pooling in his lap.
Fifteen percent essence. Three fights down. Two more to go.
Can I even survive this?
The thought sat heavy in his chest. Heavier than the chains.
He closed his eyes and tried to breathe.
FLOOR 500 - ADMINISTRATIVE WINGRaphina Buelford stood with her hands clasped in front of her, braids pulled back in a Fulani front that framed her face with elegant precision. Her tan skin caught the fluorescent light, making her look almost out of place in the drab concrete surroundings.
She was.
Princesses didn't belong in prisons.
But here she was anyway.
The ranking guard—a stocky man with dead eyes and a scar splitting his left eyebrow—finished writing on his clipboard without looking up.
"Boss is in a meeting," he said flatly. "Won't see you till it's done."
"I understand," Raphina replied, voice soft but firm. Cordial. Dignified. "How long do you anticipate?"
The guard finally looked up. His eyes lingered a moment too long. "Hour. Maybe more."
"Then I'll wait."
"Mess hall's down the corridor. Third left." He made a shooing motion. "Don't cause trouble."
Raphina offered a small, polite smile—the kind that said I am better than you but too well-bred to mention it—and turned on her heel.
The mess hall on Floor 500 was cleaner than she'd expected. Less blood. Fewer rats. The prisoners here wore different colored jumpsuits—gray instead of orange—marking them as trustees or administrative workers.
Still criminals.
Just useful ones.
She found a table in the corner and sat, smoothing her jumpsuit. Even prison clothes couldn't fully diminish her bearing.
"Well, well."
The voice came from behind her—rough, with an edge like broken glass.
Raphina turned.
A tan-skinned redhead stood there, arms crossed, one hip cocked. Her hair was short, wild, like she'd cut it herself with a dull blade. Her green eyes sparked with something between amusement and challenge.
Rika Cider.
Raphina recognized her immediately. Ephraim had mentioned her—his teammate from the Lion's Den tournament. The one who fought like a rabid animal and cursed like a sailor.
"Raphina Buelford," Rika said, pulling out a chair and sitting without invitation. "The princess." She drew out the word mockingly. "Never thought I'd see royalty in a shithole like this."
"Miss Cider," Raphina replied evenly. "The pleasure is mine."
"Doubt that." Rika leaned back, studying her. "So what's a princess doing fifteen hundred floors deep in Mount Pan's finest correctional facility? Slumming it?"
"I could ask you the same question."
Rika snorted. "Got roped into Ephraim's impulsive bullshit, what else? Kid's got a death wish and somehow convinced me it was a good idea to tag along." She picked at her nails. "Still trying to figure out how that happened."
Raphina allowed herself a small smile. "He has a way of... inspiring action."
"That what we're calling it?" Rika's expression shifted, harder now. "So why'd you get yourself tangled up in all this? For a dimwit mudblood like him?"
The slur hung in the air.
Raphina didn't flinch. Her hands remained folded, her posture perfect.
"He saved me," she said simply. "The least I can do is return the favor."
Rika stared at her for a long moment. Then she threw her head back and laughed—genuine, rough, surprised.
"Shit," she said, grinning. "You actually mean that."
"I don't make a habit of lying."
"No, I bet you don't." Rika leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Alright, princess. You wanna help the idiot? Let's talk escape plans."
Raphina raised an eyebrow. "You have one?"
"Working on it. This place is locked down tighter than a nun's—" She caught Raphina's expression and course-corrected. "—tighter than anything. But there's always a crack. Always a way out."
"I have a meeting with the boss," Raphina said slowly. "In an hour."
Rika's eyes lit up. "Do you now? That's... interesting." She tapped her fingers on the table. "If you can get close to him, maybe plant something, cause a distraction—"
"Or gather information."
"Even better." Rika grinned wider. "Alright, princess. Looks like we're teaming up."
Raphina extended her hand. "Agreed."
Rika shook it—her grip firm, callused, nothing like the delicate handshakes Raphina was used to.
"Don't fuck this up," Rika said.
"Language," Raphina replied gently.
"Yeah, yeah."
CELL BLOCK D - FIFTEEN MINUTES LATERThe cell smelled like burnt metal and profit.
Eliyah Boichi sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by half-finished blades. His hands moved with surgical precision—filing, sharpening, testing balance. Each movement was economical. Purposeful.
He didn't look up when Johnny bounded into the cell, grinning like he'd just won the lottery.
"Papi!" Johnny announced to no one in particular, hips swaying as he moved. "Business is BOOMING! We got customers lining up like it's Black Friday!"
Eliyah grunted, filing the edge of a shiv.
"Listen to this," Johnny continued, undeterred. He struck a pose, one hand extended dramatically. "Why get a gram of plastic when you could get an eighty of steel? Buy our blades and you'll wish you came sooner!" He kissed his fingers. "PERFECTION."
"It's terrible," Eliyah said flatly.
"It's MARKETING." Johnny pulled out a small bottle—the clear, dripping substance inside moving like living oil. Napalm essence. He'd been collecting it for days. "Check it, I can coat the blades. Make them burn. Customers gonna PAY for that."
Eliyah finally looked up. "Don't waste it on marketing."
"Papi, it's not waste, it's investment—"
A shadow fell across the cell entrance.
Both cousins looked up.
A man stood there—seven feet of muscle wrapped in a guard's uniform that looked two sizes too small. His face was scarred, his expression unreadable. The badge on his chest read: CHIEF ENFORCER.
The boss's bodyguard.
He didn't speak. Just looked at the blades. At Johnny's bottle. At the makeshift forge glowing in the corner.
Then he turned and walked away.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Johnny and Eliyah exchanged glances.
"That's bad, right?" Johnny said.
"Very bad," Eliyah confirmed.
"Should we run?"
"Where?"
"Good point."
THE FIGHTING PIT - TEN MINUTES LATERSomewhere between then and now, time moved like syrup—thick, slow, inevitable.
Guards changed shifts.
Prisoners placed new bets.
Blood was mopped from concrete, though the stains never really left.
Ephraim sat in the corner, breathing. Just breathing. Homicide hummed nearby, mask catching the light wrong, making it look like the smile was moving.
Samson stretched, joints popping like gunshots.
The crowd grew restless.
Money changed hands.
And somewhere above, on Floor 500, a meeting ended.
The guard stepped into the center of the pit, clipboard in hand.
"ALRIGHT!" he shouted. "Boss is tied up. This is the last fight of the day!"
The crowd roared approval.
"Samson versus Ephraim! Winner moves on tomorrow!"
More roaring. Betting intensified. The air crackled with anticipation.
Ephraim forced himself to stand. His legs shook. Fifteen percent essence. Maybe twelve now. His body was a map of pain.
Across the pit, Samson rolled his massive shoulders. His yellow eyes glowed brighter now, reflecting something ancient. Hungry.
The brand on his neck—a circular symbol that looked like it had been carved with a hot knife—pulsed faintly.
Homicide leaned close to Ephraim's ear. "Primal essence," he whispered, voice unusually serious. "It's rare. Old. Connects you to something... before. Before civilization. Before magic. Before language."
"What does it do?"
"Everything your body should be able to do but forgot how."
Ephraim swallowed. "Great."
The guard raised his hand.
Samson dropped into a crouch—weight shifting, muscles coiling.
His eyes locked onto Ephraim.
Predator.
Prey.
"FIGHT!"
Samson moved.
Not fast.
Wrong.
His body blurred—not with speed, but with wrongness. Like watching an animal move through tall grass. You couldn't track it. Couldn't predict it.
He crossed twenty feet in a heartbeat.
Ephraim barely reacted—pushing off magnetically, launching himself sideways.
Samson's fist cratered the concrete where he'd been standing.
The impact sounded like a bomb.
Cracks spiderwebbed outward. Dust exploded upward.
Ephraim landed, already moving—but Samson was there.
How?
A kick came from nowhere—impossibly fast, impossibly precise. It caught Ephraim in the ribs.
CRACK.
Pain exploded. Something broke. He flew backward, hit the wall, bounced.
The crowd screamed.
Ephraim forced himself upright, coughing blood. His ribs were definitely broken now. Each breath was agony.
Samson approached slowly, deliberately. His movements were fluid. Natural. Like water finding cracks.
"You fight with your head," he rumbled. "Clever. Strategic."
He cracked his knuckles.
"I fight with my body."
He lunged.
Ephraim magnetized the ground beneath him—trying to pull himself away.
Too slow.
Samson grabbed his ankle mid-pull.
The momentum stopped dead.
Samson lifted him like a ragdoll and slammed him into the concrete.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each impact drove the air from Ephraim's lungs. His vision blurred. Stars exploded.
Samson threw him across the pit.
Ephraim skidded, tumbled, finally stopped face-down in a puddle of old blood.
Get up. GET UP.
His body didn't respond.
Ten percent essence left. Maybe less.
Everything hurt.
Can't quit. Can't—
Samson's shadow fell over him.
"Stay down," the massive man said. Not cruel. Almost... kind. "You fought well. But this is over."
Ephraim's fingers twitched.
No.
He thought of Raphina. Of Rika. Of Johnny and Eliyah.
Of everyone counting on him to win.
Not like this.
He pushed himself up—inches, then feet. Blood poured from his nose. His left arm hung useless.
But he stood.
The crowd went silent.
Samson tilted his head, yellow eyes studying him. "Why?"
"Because," Ephraim spat blood, "I don't know how to quit."
Samson nodded slowly. "Then I'll teach you."
He charged.
Ephraim's mind raced, vision tunneling.
Three fights. Three different approaches. Pulled Crusher around. Collapsed Echo's momentum. All variations of the same trick.
Push. Pull. Magnetize. Redirect.
Not enough anymore.
Samson closed the distance—fist cocked back, telegraphing a right hook meant to end everything.
Need something new. Something he can't predict.
Ephraim reached deeper into his essence than he ever had before. Past the familiar hum. Past the comfortable techniques he'd relied on. Down into the foundation of what magnetism actually was.
Not just attraction and repulsion.
Fields.
Magnetic fields were invisible lines of force—flowing, circulating, creating zones of influence. They didn't just pull or push.
They rotated.
Ephraim threw both hands forward and spun his essence.
The air around him twisted.
A magnetic field bloomed into existence—not a simple push or pull, but a vortex. Circular. Rotating. Invisible lines of force spiraling outward from his body like a whirlpool made of magnetism itself.
Samson's fist entered the field—
And curved.
Not violently. Smoothly. Naturally. Like a river catching debris and redirecting it along the current.
His punch bent around Ephraim, momentum preserved but trajectory altered, sending his massive fist sailing harmlessly past.
Samson's eyes widened. "What—"
Ephraim pushed more essence into the vortex, expanding it, accelerating the rotation. The magnetic field spun faster, creating a zone around his body where momentum didn't just stop—it redirected.
Samson tried again—a left hook, faster, harder.
The vortex caught it. Curved it. Sent it spiraling around Ephraim's body like water flowing around a stone.
"Essence Technique," Ephraim breathed, blood dripping from his mouth. "Magnetic Vortex."
Samson snarled and unleashed a flurry—fists and elbows and knees, primal essence flooding his body, making him faster, stronger, more dangerous.
But every attack entered the vortex and curved away. Redirected. Neutralized.
The crowd went silent.
This wasn't just clever.
This was new.
Samson backed off, chest heaving. His yellow eyes blazed with frustration and something else—respect.
"You created that," he said. Not a question. A statement. "Right now. In the middle of the fight."
Ephraim nodded, barely able to stand. The vortex flickered—his essence reserves nearly empty, the technique unstable.
Can't hold it much longer. Maybe ten seconds. Need to end this.
Samson saw it too. Saw the flicker. Saw the weakness.
He smiled—not cruel, but knowing.
"Clever. But new techniques burn essence fast." He dropped into a crouch. "And you're already empty."
He charged again—but this time, he feinted.
Went low instead of high.
Swept Ephraim's legs.
The vortex collapsed as Ephraim fell, concentration shattered. He hit concrete hard, air driven from lungs already struggling.
Samson loomed over him. "Good try."
He reached down—
Ephraim magnetized the ground itself.
Not just the concrete. The iron in the rebar reinforcing it. Every metal beam, every rusty pipe, every structural support holding this entire level together.
He polarized it all with the same charge.
Then magnetized Samson's blood with the opposite.
The attraction was immense.
Samson's entire body slammed into the ground like gravity had suddenly tripled. His chest hit concrete with a sound like a car crash. The impact cracked the floor, dust exploding upward.
He tried to push himself up—muscles bulging, primal essence surging.
But he was fighting the building itself.
Ephraim crawled forward, chains dragging, vision swimming. He wrapped the chains around Samson's throat with trembling hands.
Then he did something desperate.
Something stupid.
He magnetized every drop of iron in Samson's blood and pulled it toward his brain.
Not hard. Just enough to flood the cerebral vessels. Create pressure. Disrupt oxygen flow.
Samson's eyes rolled back.
His massive body went slack.
Ephraim collapsed beside him, essence reserves hitting almost absolute zero.
They lay there together—predator and prey, both broken, both barely breathing.
The crowd held its breath.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Samson's chest rose and fell. Unconscious but alive.
Ephraim's fingers twitched. Still conscious. Barely.
The guard stepped forward, checking both fighters. He looked between them for a long moment, then raised his hand with visible reluctance.
"Winner—Ephraim Boichi."
The crowd erupted.
"HOLY SHIT!"
"HE CREATED A NEW TECHNIQUE!"
"DID YOU SEE THAT VORTEX?!"
"MAGNETIZED THE WHOLE FUCKING BUILDING!"
Guards surrounded the pit, voices urgent, faces serious. This wasn't entertainment anymore.
This was evidence.
Evidence that essence users were exactly as dangerous as everyone feared.
Ephraim lay on the concrete, staring at the ceiling, unable to move a single muscle. His essence was gone. Completely. His body was a collection of injuries held together by sheer stubborn refusal to die.
Won. Somehow. Again.
Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, bringing relief with it.
Then Homicide's masked face appeared above him.
Not excited. Not bouncing.
Just... there.
The smile on the mask didn't move, but somehow it felt wrong. Like looking at something that shouldn't exist.
"You made something new," Homicide said quietly. His voice had lost all the manic energy. Now it was just... flat. Empty. "A technique born from desperation. From necessity."
He tilted his head, studying Ephraim like a specimen.
"I'm... impressed."
The way he said it made Ephraim's skin crawl.
"Two more tomorrow," Homicide continued, voice still eerily calm. "Then we meet the boss. Then..." He paused, mask catching the light in a way that made the smile look hungry. "Then you'll understand why I brought you here, Goku."
Ephraim tried to respond. Tried to ask what the hell that meant.
Nothing came out.
His vision went black.
And the last thing he heard was Homicide humming that off-key tune—slow and deliberate and somehow worse than his usual manic giggling.
TO BE CONTINUED...