The blast from the orb had knocked Blue Boxer into another world—or so it seemed.
Where once there was polished marble and velvet ropes, now there were sandstone columns, swirling golden sand, and the heavy scent of myrrh and warm spice hanging thick in the air. The museum was gone. Or transformed. Or maybe he was just in someone else's playground now.
At the center of it all, reclining on a throne the size of a delivery truck, was a mountain of a man.
Big Daddy Pharaoh.
He wore layers of fine silk and shimmering linen, each fold etched with golden thread. Rings glittered on each sausage-thick finger, and a golden chestplate hung loosely over his vast, hairy torso, barely containing his sheer opulence. A thick black beard, curled at the ends and flecked with sapphires, framed a wide grin that sparkled with too many teeth and too much confidence.
“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice like velvet soaked in molasses. “What treasure has fate delivered to my hall tonight? A bold little brawler? With… blue gloves?”
Blue Boxer landed in a crouch, fists up. “You picked the wrong guy to mess with, Tut.”
“Oh-ho-ho!” the Pharaoh clutched his belly, which jiggled like a royal pudding. “He’s got sass! I like sass. Keeps the toys spicy.”
Without waiting for another word, Blue Boxer lunged—fast, precise, brutal.
THUD. A jab to the ribs.
BAP. A cross to the jaw.
WHAM. An uppercut to the chin that should’ve launched a lesser man skyward.
But Big Daddy Pharaoh didn’t so much as wobble. He simply looked down at his chest, brushing off an invisible speck of dust.
"Did you… did you just punch me?” he asked with theatrical concern. “Oh heavens, I didn’t bring my fainting couch.”
“I’ve fought mob bosses, mutants, and a guy with lava for blood,” Blue Boxer growled, launching another volley of fists. “You’re just a fat magician in a bathrobe.”
“Oooh! Now we’re body-shaming?” the Pharaoh gasped, mock-offended. “You kiss your museum curator with that mouth?”
Blue Boxer reeled back for a full haymaker—
—and froze mid-punch.
He hovered several feet off the ground, limbs locked, spinning gently like a rotisserie chicken.
Big Daddy Pharaoh rose from his throne, the floor trembling with each step. He circled Blue Boxer slowly, humming to himself and examining him from every angle like a master sculptor studying raw marble.
“Such fine muscle tone,” he murmured. “Sharp jawline… oh, and the little mask! That’s just precious. Did your tailor throw in the utility belt for free?”
“I swear, when I get down—”
“You’ll do what? Punch me again and scuff my manicure?”
The Pharaoh raised his thick arms, and a golden aura encircled Blue Boxer like a glowing snake. Strange hieroglyphs shimmered in the air. The scent of jasmine and sandalwood grew stronger, wrapping around him like incense.
“Now let’s see… should I turn you into a mutt? Banish you to a mirror realm? Ooo! What if I made you a living statue?”
“Pick one,” Blue Boxer snarled, struggling in the air. “But when I’m free, I’m breaking your nose.”
“Such spirit,” Big Daddy Pharaoh cooed. “I adore it. Makes the punishment all the more delicious.”
He leaned in until they were nose to nose, his warm breath carrying the scent of cinnamon and mischief.
“I think we’ll start… with a little humbling.”
His jeweled hand pressed flat against Blue Boxer’s chest.
The glow exploded.
Symbols danced wildly across Blue Boxer’s body. He gritted his teeth as warmth flooded his limbs, too much warmth. His gloves shrank tighter. His boots loosened. His belt began to rattle.
“Wait—what the hell are you doing?!”
“Oh, just softening the edges,” said the Pharaoh sweetly. “Deciding what shape best suits my new prize…”
Blue Boxer’s eyes widened.
Everything began to shift.