Summer, 2293.

Rio “Edgefield” Solano.

Progenitor of Palma Fantasma, an unknown form of Spanish CQC combined with freestyle forms made by raiders over the last few centuries since the war; and leader of the Mano no Contada camp in the remnants of El Tricolor.

At a strong thirty, Rio had many men who wished to act on his quietus; that many men were felled, but he knew that he was mortal, no matter how hardened his fists were. Edgefield needed a full course and a live that was worth, so he traveled to Texas on foot with his martial clan, set in the boundless sands and fields close enough to what he called home.

Rio’s last standing golden eye glints a stare, sharp and hard—like a spalling coil for a blade.

“Seré condenado...” Solano mumbled to himself, the coyote putting on cloth wraps around his sunburnt fur and conditioned knuckles. “Me mostrarás lo mejor que puedas, ¿comprende?”