• Muscle must have outgrown bone by far, and the man was an impenetrable wall of flesh. These kinds of people were disgusting, working their bodies to ridiculous sizes, wasting natural advancement on things done easier with magic or steam. Yet, still, they body built themselves into giant, gloating packages of steel abs and glorious buttocks.

    Another one greeted the ground with their shoulder blades. As the huge, raven haired man boomed laughter, the crowd backed up a little more. The smaller man scampered away in the first direction he saw, vowing never to return to that particular cafe again.

    "Ah-ha-HA!" cried Mr. Muscles, "Do not forget it! Anyone else care to argue with theeeeeese?" His challenge was in the droll tone one might expect of generic idiot as he. He flexed his grotesque muscles under his huge tank top with such arrogant grandeur that it could provoke the most patient scholar. Still, nobody from the crowd that gathered around the cafe to watch the fight was too eager to step forth.

    Then, a boyish voice.

    "You shame yourself, spacewastrel."

    The big man's face dove from cocky to outraged.

    "Who DARES speak to me, the Grand Grappler Berrak, in such a manner!? Show yourself!" He punctuated the challenge by dramatically whipping out his arm to point in the general direction of the insult.

    Though there had been no sign of him in the crowd, a short figure now stepped forth. His broad-brimmed and pointed hat was a rich violet, as were his robes. Green locks were visible, but the boy's eyes were shrouded by the magician hat. Said hat had white embroidery, and it provoked much gasping and muttering. It was the unmistakable emblem of Blight, element of shadows. He appeared to have no weapon, and Berrak was at least twice his size in both height and width.

    "Strength decides all, little man, and you don't seem to have much of that," Berrak guffawed, "but I will accept your challenge! Prepare to taste sweet defeat!"

    "Bitter, you mean," the magician replied quietly.

    "Huh? I mean what I say, wimp!"

    "Bitter. Because blood kind of tastes like copper," the kid clad in purple insisted, dropping into something not quite martial arts and not quite inexperienced. He slowly extended one fist towards Berrak.

    "Here, let me show you."

    The huge man would have none of that. Berrak charged with surprising speed, bringing in an enormous right hook that made the air whistle. The magician simply stood. Surely, he'd be obliterated on the spot! The crowd declared their thoughts with a dramatic mass gasp.

    Suddenly, the shorter man just wasn't. Berrak hit nothing but air, and struggled to keep his balance. Sensing foul play, he whirled around. There was the magician, unscathed.

    "You're fast," growled Berrak.

    "Not really," the boy replied with that smug grin, "you're just a lumbering oaf."

    Berrak charged again, bringing in both fists. "RAAAAAGH! I'll pop your head like a grape!"

    The shorter man leapt aside and raised his fist, as if he were holding something. In the little guy's wild imagination, he might have made a flurry of calculated strokes, but to onlookers and Berrak, it was foolish flailing.

    Berrak turned to look at the purple guy smugly. "And what was that supposed to be, wimp?"

    The "P" in "wimp" became the precursor to a killer shriek. For, somehow, an impossible cut wound itself around Berrak's left arm. The spring cut was shallow, but it oozed plenty of blood. More gasps and outcries from the crowd. What a wondrous feat! The giant was less than impressed. His arm shook, and Berrak grabbed tight near the shoulder in vain hopes of halting the bleeding.

    "Augh! You little PUNK! Fine! You wanna play like that, have a gander at THIS!"

    The thing had remained belted to his back thus far, but now it was time to bring it out. The crowd instantly gave double space. In Berrak's hands was a huge steamgun. The grand weapon hissed and clanked as it started up, the gears spinning wildly, belts thrumming. The whole case looked like an exaggerated rifle, too bulky for normal hands. It was all painted red, and the barrel, made to resemble a dragon's maw, had an opening as big as a man's head.

    Berrak bellowed joyous laughter. NOW the little punk would get it! "The finest steamgun ever made," he exclaimed, "Dragonsbreath Mark VI! This thing can move three hundred pounds and melt stone! Feel the wrath of a scorned dragon!"

    The mage cackled loudly, whipping out his arms wide in challenge. "Your little toy is nothing! Let's see if the strength of your machine is as decisive as you say!"

    The muscled man planted his feet firmly and hauled back on the trigger. The crowd behind the violet robes parted instantly in terror. Surely, it would be over! The gout of steam rocketed forth with immence force. Nobody could stand up to that- they'd be torn asunder.

    Berrak laughed wildly and sprayed steam to match. The cobblestones were torn and hammered as the crowd decided to really get some distance from the destruction. No harm came upon the cafe outside of which they were fighting, but a building across the street was battered, chipping the bricks, threatening to knock the whole thing over.

    Finally, a loud click, and the gun's tank was dry. Berrak had two more tanks on his belt, but why bother? That little kid was nothing but a stain on yonder wall by now.

    And as the steam cleared, to the man's shock and rage, the young man in purple stood there, arms still outstretched.

    "B-b-but HOW?!?" roared Berrak, "how could anyone stand the highest pressure output ever to come from steam technology?"

    "There's a wall here," the magician said matter-of-factly, indicating the air before him.

    "W-w-what!?"

    "It's true," he said, flattening his hands against nothing.

    Berrak refused to believe it. He thumped forward and swiped at the young man. His hand collided with nothing.

    "What kind of joke is this?" he demanded fiercely.

    The man in purple made a few jerky movements, and suddenly he tugged back on a rope that wasn't there. Berrak felt something tighten around his ankle.

    "One at your expense," tittered the mage.

    He knew he was in trouble.

    Berrak was thrown to his back as his opponent hauled on the imaginary rope. The giant man landed hard, and the ground shook with muffled thunder. The magician wasted no time in leaping onto the man's chest and pinning him down. He lashed out his hand and cut the strap to the big steamgun, then pointed the most menacing non-existent sword straight at Berrak's throat.

    "I don't get it!" the huge man wailed, "How- why- wha- what the hell are you!?"

    The young man's grin didn't falter. "Mime. Magician. Fencer."

    The comment brought cries of realization from the onlookers. Various exclamations reached Berrak's ears:

    "Goddess! Could it be?"

    "It's gotta be, I've never seen that outfit anywhere else!"

    "The Invisible Rapier! That can only be the specialty of..."

    "It is! Bran the Blight! The Invisible Swordsman!"

    The mystery fighter tilted his hat back and stared down at the conquered muscle man with blue eyes clearer than the sky framed in bronze skin.

    "Brandon Mechima," the one called Bran said. It was a haughty introduction full of laughter.

    "I reserve the right to... pop your head like a grape if you show your face here again. After all, strength decides all. Got it?"

    "Y-yeah, yeah, I got it, man! Don't hurt me!" shrieked the big man like a baby.

    "Tops," said Brandon. He got off the big guy's chest, and Berrak ran screaming like those he bullied before, the defeated Dragonsbreath gun scraping along after him. He bulldozed through the crowd, running with all his speed, desperate to put distance between him and the mage.

    The air exploded with cheering and applause.