Ephraim's legs felt like concrete as he stepped back into the pit.
The crowd's roar washed over him—a living thing made of hunger and violence. Money exchanged hands in the stands. Prisoners leaned forward, eyes gleaming. Guards smoked and watched with the detached interest of people who'd seen this dance a hundred times.
His left arm still tingled from Crusher's ice. The numbness was fading, replaced by a dull ache that spread from wrist to shoulder. He flexed his fingers, testing. Functional. Barely.
Blood crusted the corner of his mouth. His ribs screamed with each breath—not broken, but bruised deep. The kind of pain that would stay for weeks.
He rolled his shoulders and looked across the pit.
Torch stood motionless, head tilted, studying him like a specimen. Those eyes—backlit wrong, reflecting light that shouldn't exist—tracked every movement. His scarred skin told stories of fire survived or fire wielded. Hard to tell which.
The gate slammed shut behind Ephraim with the finality of a coffin lid.
No way out but through.
Homicide's voice drifted from the shadows: "Don't die, Goku! I still need you!"
Helpful.
The guard raised his hand, cigarette dangling from his lips.
"FIGHT!"
His hand dropped.
Torch didn't move.
Just stood there, relaxed, arms loose at his sides. Waiting. The arena's yellow light cast his shadow long and thin across cracked concrete.
Ephraim circled left, putting distance between himself and the wall. His chains clinked with each step—wrist restraints still locked, just loosened enough to fight. Standard procedure. More entertaining that way.
Read him first. Don't rush.
Torch smiled slowly.
Then exhaled.
The breath came out as steam—visible, rolling, hot enough to distort the air. His skin flushed red, veins standing out like rivers of lava beneath the surface.
"You know what's funny about magnetism?" Torch said conversationally, voice rough like gravel in a blender. "It doesn't work on fire."
He snapped his fingers.
Flame erupted from his palm—not wild, not explosive. Precise. A sphere of orange fire hovering inches above his hand, rotating slowly, casting dancing shadows across his face.
But that wasn't what made Ephraim's stomach drop.
The concrete beneath Torch's feet was glowing.
Heat radiated downward, turning stone cherry-red in a perfect circle around him. The air shimmered. Wavered. The temperature in the pit climbed ten degrees in seconds.
He's not just creating fire. He's raising the ambient temperature. Everywhere.
Torch took a step forward.
The glowing circle moved with him.
"Heat magic isn't just flames, fresh meat. It's energy. Molecular excitement. I can make things hot." Another step. The fireball in his hand grew—apple-sized, then grapefruit. "Real hot."
He threw it.
Ephraim dove right, chains rattling. The fireball screamed past his shoulder—close enough to singe hair—and impacted the wall behind him.
But it didn't explode.
It burrowed.
Flames ate into concrete like acid, drilling deep, leaving a molten crater that continued glowing even after the initial impact. The stone bubbled. Melted. Dripped.
He superheated it. Changed the molecular structure.
The crowd roared.
Torch was already forming another fireball—faster this time, both hands working in tandem. Two spheres manifested, spinning in opposite directions.
He threw them simultaneously.
Ephraim pushed off the ground with magnetic force, redirecting his momentum upward and backward. His body launched six feet into the air, arcing over the fireballs.
They hit the ground where he'd been standing and detonated in sequence—WHOOM WHOOM—twin craters forming, heat washing upward in a wave that made Ephraim's eyes water.
He landed hard, rolled, came up already moving.
Torch didn't stop.
Third fireball. Fourth. Fifth.
Each one slightly larger than the last, tracking Ephraim's movements with disturbing accuracy. They streaked across the pit like comets—orange-white and hungry.
Ephraim wove between them, using magnetic pulses to adjust his trajectory mid-stride. Pull left. Push right. Redirect momentum. His essence flowed through him like water finding cracks, steady and responsive.
But the pit was getting smaller.
Each impact left molten scars. Glowing patches that radiated heat like miniature suns. The temperature climbed—thirty degrees now, forty. Breathing became work. Sweat poured down Ephraim's face, stinging his eyes.
Torch stood in the center of it all, grinning, forming another fireball.
But his shoulders rose and fell now.
Just slightly.
His breath came faster.
There.
Magic burned through physical reserves like kindling. Fast and hot and expensive. Torch was throwing power around like he had infinite fuel.
He didn't.
Nobody did.
Ephraim stopped retreating.
Torch noticed immediately. His grin widened. "Done running?"
"Just getting warmed up."
"Cute."
Torch clapped his hands together.
Everything changed.
Heat exploded outward from his body—not as flame, but as a wave. Visible distortion rippled through the air like a stone dropped in a pond. The temperature spiked another twenty degrees instantly.
The crowd actually pulled back, prisoners closest to the pit fanning themselves, faces flushed.
But it wasn't just heat.
The concrete around Torch began to glow. Not just beneath his feet—the entire floor within ten feet of him turned cherry-red, then orange, then white-hot at the edges closest to him.
He was creating a zone.
"This is Heat Release: Kiln," Torch announced proudly, spreading his arms wide. "Welcome to my kitchen, fresh meat. Everything inside gets cooked. No exceptions."
He took a step forward.
The molten zone moved with him.
Ephraim backpedaled. His boots were already smoking from the residual heat on the ground. The air tasted like copper and burned rubber.
Can't get close. Can't touch him. Can't even get near him without melting.
Torch advanced steadily, each step leaving glowing footprints that stayed white-hot for seconds afterward. "What's wrong, magnetic boy? All that fancy essence and you can't do shit when the ground's melting under your feet!"
The crowd ate it up.
Ephraim's mind raced.
Think. What conducts heat? What amplifies it? What can I use?
Metal conducted heat beautifully—but that would just make things worse. Water would boil. Earth would crack.
But heat didn't exist in a vacuum.
It needed something to move through. Air molecules. Matter. Pathways.
And pathways could be redirected.
Ephraim looked up—at the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. At the metal framework holding them in place. At the rusted iron bars lining the pit's upper edges.
At the chains on his own wrists.
Everything is magnetic. Everything.
He reached out with his essence—not pulling or pushing, but charging. Magnetic fields bloomed around the iron bars overhead, polarizing them, turning them into temporary magnets. North poles. South poles. Attraction and repulsion mapped across metal.
Torch kept advancing, oblivious. "You gonna do something or just stand there?"
Ephraim extended his hands and pulled.
Not on Torch.
On the air.
Oxygen molecules had weak magnetic properties—paramagnetic, attracted to magnetic fields but not strongly. Under normal circumstances, you'd never notice.
But Ephraim wasn't working with normal circumstances.
He created a powerful magnetic gradient—polarizing the iron bars overhead into concentrated magnetic fields, then pulling against them with everything he had. The air molecules responded, drawn toward the ceiling, away from Torch's heat zone.
The effect was immediate.
Torch's kiln flickered.
Not much. Just a slight dimming around the edges as the superheated air was pulled upward and away, replaced by cooler air rushing in from the sides.
Torch frowned. "What—"
Ephraim pulled harder.
Created rotating magnetic fields around multiple points overhead—north-south-north-south in rapid sequence. The air began to circulate, forming a crude convection current that siphoned heat away from Torch's zone and dispersed it upward.
The kiln dimmed further.
"Clever," Torch admitted, sweat now visible on his brow. "But you're just delaying the inevitable."
He slammed his palms together again—and the heat doubled.
The kiln roared back to full intensity, overwhelming Ephraim's convection current through sheer output. The concrete beneath Torch actually began to liquefy, stone turning to glowing slag.
But Torch was breathing hard now.
Really hard.
His shoulders heaved. His skin had gone from flushed to pale, veins standing out like cords. Sweat poured down his face.
He's burning through his reserves trying to overpower me. Big tap, but the bucket's draining fast.
Ephraim needed a different approach.
He looked at the molten patches scattered across the pit—dozens of them now, glowing orange and red. Still superheated from Torch's earlier fireballs.
Metal lost its magnetic properties when heated past its Curie point. But it regained them when it cooled.
And Ephraim could control when things were magnetic.
He reached out to the chains on his wrists—iron, crude, perfect—and magnetized them. Strongly. Then he magnetized patches of the molten concrete around the pit, imprinting magnetic fields into the liquefied stone.
When it cooled, those fields would remain.
But he needed it to cool now.
Ephraim grabbed the air again—this time pulling it across the molten patches in concentrated streams. Forced convection. Rapid cooling.
The glowing slag darkened slightly—still hot, but not molten.
Hot enough to retain the magnetic imprint he'd just given it.
He pulled.
Every magnetized patch across the pit responded simultaneously—north poles he'd imprinted in cooling slag pulling against the south poles in his chains.
Ephraim was yanked forward with tremendous force, sliding across concrete like a stone skipping water, chains screaming as magnetic attraction accelerated him.
Directly toward Torch.
Toward the kiln.
Torch's eyes widened. "You're insane—"
Ephraim twisted mid-slide, reversing the polarity at the last second.
Attraction became repulsion.
His momentum redirected violently, launching him up and over Torch's heat zone in a tight arc. He soared overhead, chains trailing, body spinning—
And as he passed over Torch, he reached down and pushed.
Not on Torch's body.
On the iron in his blood.
Every human body contained roughly four grams of iron—distributed through hemoglobin, proteins, enzymes. Not much. But enough.
Ephraim seized that iron and pushed it all in one direction.
Down.
Torch's legs buckled as if an invisible hand had shoved him. He dropped to one knee, heat zone flickering as his concentration shattered.
Ephraim landed behind him, rolled, came up already moving.
Torch tried to rise, heat surging—
Ephraim magnetized the concrete beneath Torch's feet and magnetized his own chains with opposite polarity.
Then pulled with everything he had left.
The magnetic attraction was tremendous. Ephraim's body launched forward again, chains first, screaming across the ground—
He drove his chained wrists into the back of Torch's skull.
CRACK.
Torch pitched forward, face hitting concrete. The kiln died instantly. The superheated air dissipated as his magic cut off.
Ephraim landed in a crouch, breathing hard, essence humming weakly beneath his skin. Not empty. But definitely feeling it.
Torch groaned, tried to push himself up. His arms shook violently. He managed to lift his head, face bloody, eyes unfocused.
A weak flicker of flame sparked in his palm.
And died.
Nothing left.
His bucket was empty.
The guard raised his hand. "Winner—Ephraim!"
The crowd erupted.
Not just excitement this time.
Awe.
"DID YOU SEE THAT?!"
"He magnetized the fucking AIR!"
"Pulled himself around like a goddamn missile!"
"I LOST SO MUCH MONEY BUT THAT WAS AMAZING!"
Guards leaned forward, talking rapidly among themselves. Even they looked impressed.
Two prisoners hauled Torch away. He was conscious but barely, legs dragging, chest heaving like a bellows.
Ephraim limped back toward the gate, every muscle screaming. His essence reserves were low now—maybe thirty percent. Still functional, but he'd need to be smart.
Three fights left.
Homicide met him at the gate, and the mask's smile seemed to stretch impossibly wider.
"BEAUTIFUL!" he cackled, clapping his hands together like a child at a puppet show. "Your really showing out for ol Pop Pop!"
"Don't call yourself that," Ephraim muttered, leaning heavily against the wall. His hands trembled. His vision swam at the edges.
"What? Pop pop?" Homicide tilted his head at an unnatural angle. "But I raised you! Fed you! Taught you how to throw a proper punch! Remember that time in—oh wait, you don't want to remember, do you?" He giggled, the sound echoing wrong off the concrete. "Anyway! Three more fights, then we meet the boss! Isn't this FUN?"
"You're insane."
"Says the man who just magnetized someone's blood." Homicide leaned in close, mask filling Ephraim's vision. "We're all mad here, Goku. I'm mad. You're mad. The difference is—" His voice dropped to a theatrical whisper. "—I'm honest about it."
He spun away, humming something off-key.
"Rest up, rest up! Can't have you dying before the finale! That would ruin my whole plan, and I HATE when plans get ruined. Makes me do... impulsive things." He paused. "Actually, I'm always impulsive. Never mind!"
"What's the next fighter?" Ephraim asked.
Homicide giggled again. "Oh, you'll see! It's a surprise! I love surprises! Do you love surprises, Goku? Probably not. You always were so serious."
From the pit, the guard's voice echoed: "NEXT FIGHTER!"
A gate opened on the far side.
Someone stepped through.
The crowd's energy shifted—curious now, leaning forward.
The fighter was unremarkable at first glance. Average height. Average build. Shaggy brown hair that fell over tired eyes. He wore the same prison jumpsuit as everyone else, but his was covered in strange stains—not blood, but something darker. Like oil mixed with ash.
When he walked, he left footprints that lingered.
Not physically.
But visually.
Like afterimages burned into reality itself.
"That's Echo," someone shouted from the stands. "This gonna be weird!"
"Fifty eddies says the new kid goes insane!"
Homicide perked up, practically bouncing. "Ooh! ECHO! Oh, Goku, you're gonna LOVE this one!" He giggled maniacally. "He uses Momentum magic—can store it, redirect it, layer it on top of itself! Every movement he makes STAYS!"
"What?"
"You'll see, you'll see!" Homicide sang, spinning in place. "It's like fighting a person AND their entire history at the same time!"
Echo stretched lazily, joints popping. Then he smiled—not threatening, just... tired.
Like he'd done this too many times before.
The guard raised his hand.
"FIGHT!"
Echo took a single step forward.
His body blurred.
No—not blurred.
Multiplied.
The step didn't end. It remained. A translucent after-image of Echo still stood where he'd been, continuing the motion of that first step in an endless loop. Then another image. Then another.
He wasn't moving fast.
He was moving persistently.
Each step left behind a ghost of itself, and those ghosts kept moving, creating a cascade of Echo walking forward—five versions, ten, twenty—all occupying the same space-time but offset by fractions of seconds.
The crowd roared.
Echo grinned wider.
And all twenty versions of him charged.
TO BE CONTINUED...