THE GAUNTLET
The arena floor was rust-colored concrete, cracked from years of impacts that weren't meant to be survived. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in sick yellow. The crowd roared—a wall of sound that pressed against Ephraim's chest like a physical thing.
Homicide gave him one last shove toward the entrance gate.
"Remember," he said, mask grinning wider than physics should allow. "You win, we talk to the boss. You lose—" He paused, considering. "Actually, if you lose, I'mma just kill you and your friends."
"Comforting," Ephraim muttered, rolling his shoulders. His jaw still throbbed where Homicide had cracked it. Blood crusted the corner of his mouth.
A guard stepped forward, clipboard in hand, eyes dead. "Combatant name?"
"Ephraim Boichi."
The guard made a note, then gestured toward the gate. "Standard rules. Fight ends when someone can't stand, taps out, or dies. Lethal force permitted. Essence and magic use permitted." He paused. "Try not to damage the bleachers. Boss hates paperwork."
The gate groaned open.
Ephraim stepped through.
The crowd's roar doubled, tripled—hunger dressed up as entertainment. Prisoners packed the stands like sardines, screaming for blood they couldn't spill themselves. Guards lounged along the upper rails, passing cigarettes and cash.
Across the pit, another gate opened.
A woman emerged.
She was tall—taller than Ephraim—with shoulders like a boxer and hands wrapped in cloth stained rust-brown. Her hair was shaved on one side, the other half falling across a face marked by old burns. She smiled with too many teeth.
"Fresh meat!" someone screamed from the stands.
"Ten eddies on Crusher!"
"Twenty he don't last two minutes!"
The woman—Crusher, apparently—cracked her knuckles. The sound echoed.
A guard raised his hand.
"FIGHT!"
Crusher moved first.
She crossed the distance in three explosive strides, dirt spraying behind her. No hesitation. No posturing. Just violence.
Her fist screamed toward Ephraim's face.
He twisted sideways, felt knuckles graze his ear. The air cracked. If that had connected clean, his skull would've folded.
Crusher didn't slow.
She pivoted, drove a knee toward his stomach. Ephraim brought his arms down, blocked—felt the impact rattle through his bones anyway.
Christ, she hits like a truck.
He backpedaled, putting distance between them. His chains rattled. They'd left his wrist restraints on—just loosened them enough to fight. Standard procedure. Made it more entertaining.
Crusher advanced, grinning. "What's wrong, fresh meat? Thought you'd dance?"
The crowd ate it up.
Ephraim circled, breathing steady despite the adrenaline trying to drown his thoughts. He could feel it now—the hum beneath his skin, familiar as his own pulse.
Magnetism.
Everything had a charge. Everything had poles. North. South. Attraction. Repulsion.
Including the iron in Crusher's blood.
He flexed his fingers.
Crusher lunged again, telegraphing a haymaker. Ephraim didn't dodge. Instead, he pushed—not with his hands, but with will. Magnetic force rippled outward from his palms.
Crusher's punch slowed.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
Ephraim slipped inside her guard and drove his elbow into her ribs. The impact jarred his arm, but Crusher stumbled. First blood.
The crowd's tone shifted. Surprise rippled through the stands.
Crusher touched her side, fingers coming away with nothing. She looked at Ephraim differently now. "You're one of those."
"One of what?"
"Essence users." She spat blood. "Fancy tricks. Let's see how fancy you are when I break your spine."
She charged again—but this time, her fists glowed.
Blue light wrapped around her knuckles like frozen fire. The temperature in the pit dropped ten degrees. Frost crept across the concrete where she stepped.
Ice magic.
Crusher swung. Ephraim raised his arms to block—
Her fist connected with his forearm and cold exploded through his body. Not just cold. Absence. Like heat was being ripped away at the molecular level.
Ephraim's block held, but barely. His arm went numb. He stumbled back, shaking feeling back into his fingers.
"There it is!" someone screamed. "Crusher's freezing him out!"
She pressed forward, relentless. Every punch trailed frost. Every missed strike left ice spreading across the ground like infection.
Ephraim dodged, weaved, felt the temperature plummeting. His breath misted. His joints stiffened.
Need to think. Need to adapt.
Crusher feinted left, then drove her fist toward his chest—ice wrapping her knuckles in crystalline armor.
Ephraim didn't block.
He pulled.
Magnetic force locked onto the iron in her blood, the metal rivets in her boots, the goddamn fillings in her teeth. He yanked everything forward at once.
Crusher lurched—balance broken, momentum redirected.
Her punch sailed wide.
Ephraim stepped in and drove his knee into her stomach. She doubled over, gagging. He followed with an elbow to the back of her head.
Crusher crashed face-first into concrete.
The crowd went silent.
For three seconds.
Then erupted.
"NO FUCKING WAY!"
"HE PULLED HER! DID YOU SEE THAT?!"
"PAY UP, MOTHERFUCKER!"
Crusher pushed herself upright, blood streaming from her nose. Ice spread from her hands, covering her arms completely now—crystalline gauntlets that looked like they could shatter bone.
"Cute trick," she snarled. "Won't save you."
She slammed both fists into the ground.
CRACK.
Ice exploded outward in a wave—jagged spikes erupting from concrete, spreading toward Ephraim like frozen teeth.
He pushed off the ground with magnetic force, redirecting his body's polarity. Momentum shifted. Gravity became suggestion.
Ephraim launched himself up—ten feet, fifteen—soaring over the ice wave.
The crowd screamed.
Mid-air, he reversed his polarity.
Pulled himself down.
Fast.
Faster.
Ephraim dropped like a meteor, chains trailing behind him, and drove both feet into Crusher's shoulders.
The impact cratered the concrete.
Crusher crumpled.
Ephraim landed in a crouch, breathing hard. Sweat froze on his skin. His left arm was still numb from her first hit.
But crusher didn't get up.
The guard raised his hand. "Winner—Ephraim Boichi!"
The crowd lost its mind.
Money changed hands. Prisoners roared approval or curses depending on who they'd bet on. Guards leaned forward, suddenly interested.
Ephraim straightened, legs shaking.
From the entrance gate, Homicide slow-clapped.
Two guards hauled Crusher's unconscious body away. She'd live—probably—but she wouldn't be fighting again soon.
Ephraim limped back toward the gate, every muscle screaming. Homicide met him halfway, throwing an arm around his shoulders like they were old friends instead of... whatever the hell they actually were.
"See?" Homicide said, voice proud. "I knew you still had it. Just needed proper motivation."
"Motivation," Ephraim repeated flatly. "You beat the shit out of me."
"Exactly. Motivation." Homicide steered him toward a corner where shadows pooled thick. "Rest up. You got Four more fights before we meet the boss."
"Four more—" Ephraim stopped. "You're kidding."
"Do I look like I joke?" Homicide gestured at his mask's permanent grin. "Actually, don't answer that."
From somewhere in the crowd, a voice cut through the noise:
"Who's next? Get the next fighter out here!"
Ephraim leaned against the wall, forcing air into his lungs. Blood still tasted thick on his tongue. His left arm tingled as feeling slowly returned.
Across the pit, another gate opened.
A new fighter emerged.
This one was smaller—wiry, covered in scars that looked like burn patterns. His eyes reflected the fluorescent light wrong, like there was fire behind them.
The crowd recognized him immediately.
"TORCH!"
"OH SHIT, THEY'RE FEEDING HIM TORCH!"
"Kid's dead. Bet the house on Torch."
Homicide leaned close to Ephraim's ear.
"That one's tricky," he whispered. "Heat Magic. Real creative with it. Doesn't just throw flames—he thinks with them."
"Great," Ephraim muttered. "That's just great. First I get a Ice opponent and now fire sooo creative."
The guard raised his hand.
Ephraim pushed off the wall.
Stepped back into the pit.
The gate closed behind him with the finality of a coffin lid.
Torch smiled.
And the arena ignited.
TO BE CONTINUED...
CREATED AND WRITTEN BY MATEO WOODSON
WRITTEN AND STORYBOARDED BY JOHN FALLOUT