Created and Written by Mateo Woodson Written and Storyboarded by John Fallout
The clouds peeled away like silk drawn across the sky, unveiling a towering mountain wrapped in shadows and legend. Etched into its face was the colossal sculpture of a beast — jaws yawning wide, fangs like towers, its tongue unfurled into a vast mist-covered platform.
Mount Pan.
The final threshold.
Ephraim burst from the swirling cloudfall below, muscles burning, knapsack thudding against his spine with every motion. He swam through the thick air like it was syrup, arms slicing the mist until, finally, his fingers caught the ledge.
With a final grunt, he pulled himself up, breath ragged, hair damp with sky-water. He rolled onto the stone, groaned once, then sat up slowly, gazing at the sprawling mountain-top city that stretched out before him.
Terraced rooftops spilled across the cliffs like stacked teeth. Spiraling staircases looped between temples and towers. Bridges arched high, vanishing into fog. The sky above was a bruised violet, and the sun hung behind the mountain like a crooked crown.
Ephraim blinked — once — then grinned.
"MOUNT PAN!" he declared, throwing his arms wide like he'd just punched the clouds themselves.
Without waiting, he bolted forward and leapt off the ferry dock.
He landed with a soft thud on a nearby rooftop and didn't break stride — bounding from structure to structure like a blur of sneakers and magnetized momentum. He zipped between shrines and chimneys, wind curling around his shoulders as he moved.
And there it was — ahead.
Carved directly into the mountainside, a monstrous lion's head roared toward the sky. Its stone mouth stretched open, and at its center lay a platform — the tongue — extending toward the heavens like a dare.
Ephraim leapt once more, soared across a final rooftop, and landed on the lion's tongue.
The jaws of the beast awaited.
He walked forward, unafraid, and stepped into the mouth of the mountain.
The Lion's Den – Entrance Hall
A sudden chill wrapped around him as he passed into shadow.
The hall stretched forward like the gullet of a god — black marble underfoot, flaming torches licking upward in columns of green fire. At the far end stood a pair of enormous doors, weathered and cracked, veined with gold and carved in forgotten languages.
Ephraim walked toward them without hesitation.
He placed both hands against the marble, shoved once, and the doors groaned open.
A spiraling staircase revealed itself — carved directly into the rock, winding upward like a serpent of stone.
And so he climbed.
Check-In Station
At the top, he emerged into a circular chamber lit by floating orbs. A stone desk sat at its center, covered in scrolls, cracked monitors, and an oddly glowing clipboard.
Behind it sat an old man — hunched, gray, and deeply unimpressed. His robes were frayed, his eyebrows wildly overgrown, and his patience long dead.
The man didn't look up as Ephraim approached.
"You look like a mudblood," he muttered. "Who let you in?"
He sighed before Ephraim could respond. "Doesn't matter. I don't get paid enough to care. What god do you wanna serve, and what family do you represent?"
"Solaris," Ephraim replied easily. "And I'm from the Boichi family."
The man's head snapped up.
His eyes locked onto Ephraim's face — searching it for something.
Then, without a word, he opened a drawer and retrieved a small name tag. It shimmered faintly. He slapped it on the table, along with a rolled parchment.
"Map to the waiting room," the old man grunted. "Try not to get killed before roll call."
Ephraim grabbed both with a grin. "Thanks, geezer."
"NEXT!"
Waiting Room – The Lion's Den
The chamber beyond was wider than a coliseum and twice as tense.
Stone columns towered between groups of warriors — some armored in celestial alloys, others shirtless and blood-stained. Voices echoed off the walls: muttered strategies, quiet prayers, and the occasional sharp laugh. Weapons gleamed under the flickering lights. A few combatants sat cross-legged, meditating. Others simply watched. Calculating.
Ephraim stepped in like he was late to a party he didn't want to miss.
He clapped his hands together once.
"That's right," he called out. "I'm gonna be king of kings."
Every head turned. Eyes narrowed. A few laughed. Most didn't.
Near a pillar, a lanky fighter with metal earrings — F1 — scoffed.
"Pfft. Yeah, right."
Another, taller and broader — F2 — sneered. "Who's this mudblood think he is?"
Then F3 stepped forward. Massive. Arms like barrels. A jaw made of cliffs. He grabbed Ephraim by the collar and yanked him forward.
"You're talking out your ass."
Ephraim didn't blink.
He shoved F3 hard — not with panic, but precision.
F3 stumbled backward and slammed into the stone wall behind him with a thud.
Ephraim fixed his collar, then raised a fist to his chest like it was a royal crest.
"I am Ephraim Boichi," he said boldly, "and I will be KING OF KINGS!"
A moment of stunned silence.
Then F3 stood up slowly, eyes burning.
"You won't make it past the first round," he growled. "I'll make sure of it."
F1 and F2 followed him as he walked off, all three glancing back over their shoulders.
Ephraim just shrugged and adjusted his jacket.
"Jealousy's a disease," he muttered. "Get well soon."
A voice echoed from every direction at once — deep, layered, and mechanical.
"Attention all combatants. We're about to enter the first round of the tournament. Are you ready? Remember — to the death. Good luck. May the gods be with you."
The room flashed white.
And then… nothing.
Round One – Unknown City
When the light faded, they were no longer in the mountain.
Ephraim blinked.
He was standing in the middle of a city — or something pretending to be one. Skyscrapers bent at impossible angles. Alleyways twisted like mazes. The sky was low, too low, and curved like the inside of a dome.
Other fighters were scattered nearby, blinking and disoriented.
"Welcome to Round One," said the voice again, this time crackling through hidden speakers. "You must reach the checkpoint in two days. There are 250 of you. Only 50 will advance."
Tension spread like a virus. Some combatants scanned the buildings. Others looked to the sky. Most stared at each other — already calculating, already judging.
"Let Round One begin."
There was silence.
Then — screaming. Blades drawn. Powers released.
The city exploded into chaos.
Combatants bolted in every direction. Some ran. Some chased. Others attacked the nearest thing that breathed.
Ephraim didn't hesitate.
He ran straight for the nearest building, grabbed its ledge with magnetized fingers, and pulled himself up in one smooth motion. He landed on the roof, leapt again, and kept moving — rooftop to rooftop, like a cat built from magnets and nerves.
He crouched low to scan the streets below.
That's when the boot hit him.
F3.
Grinning like a devil on payday.
He'd launched himself from a nearby rooftop and caught Ephraim with a full-body kick to the spine. The force sent Ephraim flying — crashing into a lower-level pavilion.
He hit the stone hard, coughed once, and rolled.
F3 landed a moment later, cracking his knuckles as he marched forward.
"I told you," he said, low and savage, "you ain't getting—"
CRACK.
Ephraim's fist hit his jaw with a sound like a breaking tree branch.
F3 stumbled back, stunned.
"You just punched me… with your hand?" he asked, dazed.
"Yeah. Duh," Ephraim said, brushing himself off. "You just kicked me."
F3 snarled. "You use your hands for magic? Typical. Mudbloods never understand the real art."
Ephraim tilted his head. "Man, what is a mudblood, anyway? I keep getting called that."
F3's face twisted into something ancient and hateful.
"You… you're a dirty peasant. Hated by the gods. Doomed to be stepped on by the righteous."
"Mh."
F3 gawked. "What are you even doing here? Do you even have magic?"
Ephraim rolled his eyes. "Duh, dumbass. I already told you — I'm gonna be king of kings."
F3 barked a laugh. "Don't even bother. That'll nev—"
THUMP.
Another punch — this time to the stomach.
F3 flew backward into a metal door with a satisfying clang.
He wheezed, stumbled to his feet, and drew his wand — a heavy, blue-glowing blade brimming from charged runes arched from the tip.
"YOU INSOLENT BRAT!" he roared. "IT'S TIME TO SHOW YOU WHAT MAGIC CAN DO!"
The blade hummed with heat. The air cracked.
The ground beneath them trembled