The winter air bit sharp as December drew to a close, but inside the grand arena of Riverview Province's capital, the heat was suffocating. Twenty thousand spectators packed the stands, their voices creating a wall of sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building. The first-ever Riverview Province Unified Examination had reached its crescendo.
Russell stood in the center of the arena, his breathing steady despite the chaos around him. Sweat dripped from his brow, mixing with the dust kicked up from the final battle. His opponent lay unconscious thirty feet away, his cards scattered like fallen leaves across the scarred arena floor.
The crowd's roar was deafening. "RUSSELL! RUSSELL! RUSSELL!"
But even as they chanted his name, Russell's mind wandered to the semi-finals. That had been the real fight. Holden had pushed him to limits he didn't know he possessed. Their battle had lasted three grueling hours, each exchange of cards a symphony of destruction and creation. Lightning had crackled against shadow, earth had risen to meet fire, and in the end, only Russell's final gambit—a desperate fusion of three solar-attribute cards that should have been impossible at his level—had secured victory.
This final match? It was almost insulting in comparison. His opponent, talented as he was, had folded like wet paper against Russell's refined techniques. The crowd knew it too. Half of them had been making jokes that the semi-final was the real championship.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The announcer's voice boomed over the arena's sound system, cutting through the noise like a blade. "Your provincial champion—Russell!"
The arena exploded. Confetti cannons fired golden streams into the air. Holographic displays projected Russell's image across every surface. But as he walked toward the podium, his expression remained unchanged—calm, almost bored.
The award ceremony was a joke.
Russell stood on the marble platform, flanked by officials whose faces he'd already forgotten. To his left, three Federation court representatives in their crisp blue uniforms shuffled nervously. To his right, Association leaders in their traditional robes tried to look important. Between them sat a small velvet box.
Inside that box was his reward for becoming the strongest high school student in an entire province: a medal.
A fucking medal.
Russell's smile never wavered as the cameras flashed, but inside, his thoughts were acid. He'd seen street fighters get better payouts for back-alley matches. The Spirit Begging Society—those cultist lunatics—had offered him more money in a single sponsorship deal than the entire imperial government was giving him now.
These bastards are definitely skimming from the prize fund.
The thought came unbidden, but it made sense. The Federation court was practically invisible in most of the province. Outside of Northgate, people barely acknowledged their existence. Real power belonged to the Association—they maintained order, settled disputes, kept the peace. Meanwhile, the court officials lived in their bubble, growing fat on taxes while contributing nothing.
But what did it matter? Soon enough, he'd be Director Blake Whitmore's personal disciple. When that happened, he'd be swimming in resources that made prize money look like pocket change. Political games were for people who had to play them.
After what felt like an eternity of photos, the interview began.
The reporter was attractive in that plastic way that media people cultivated—perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect smile that never quite reached her eyes. She held the microphone like a weapon. "Russell! You've just achieved something incredible—first place in the entire province! You must be thrilled!"
Russell looked at her for a long moment. The crowd had gone quiet, hanging on his every word.
"Honestly?" He shrugged. "I don't feel much of anything."
The reporter's smile flickered like a candle in wind, but she recovered with professional grace. "Well, our champion is certainly... modest! Perhaps you could share some advice for aspiring cardmakers watching at home?"
Russell tilted his head, considering. "Have you ever seen New Metro at four in the morning?"
The reporter blinked. "I... what?"
"Four AM in New Metro," Russell repeated slowly, as if explaining to a child. "The streets are empty except for the street cleaners and the die-hards stumbling home from the clubs. The air tastes like metal and broken dreams. That's when I do my training runs."
Understanding dawned on the reporter's face, along with something that might have been respect.
"Everyone wants shortcuts," Russell continued, his voice carrying clearly across the silent arena. "They want secret techniques, special cards, miracle supplements. But power? Real power comes from doing what others won't. Get up when your bed feels like paradise. Train when your muscles scream for mercy. Practice your forms until your fingers bleed and your mind goes numb. Do that every day for years, and maybe—maybe—you'll reach my level."
The crowd erupted in applause. Several people were actually crying.
The reporter, now genuinely invested, leaned forward. "Inspiring words! Is there anything else you'd like to tell your fans?"
Russell allowed himself a small, genuine smile. "I'm planning to attend a great university soon. Time to realize my full potential."
The reporter nodded enthusiastically, completely missing the wordplay. Russell felt a familiar pang of loneliness. Sometimes being the smartest person in the room was its own kind of prison.
As soon as the cameras stopped rolling, the real circus began.
University recruiters swarmed him like vultures on carrion. They'd been waiting in the wings throughout the ceremony, and now they descended with briefcases full of promises and checkbooks full of zeros.
"Russell!" The first voice belonged to Mr. Shaw from Imperial University—a thin man with wire-rim glasses and a nervous tic. "Surely you remember our conversation from the regionals? The president has been following your progress personally. We're prepared to offer three million credits annually, plus priority placement in all research projects and field expeditions."
Before Russell could respond, another recruiter—this one built like a linebacker despite his receding hairline—grabbed Russell's right hand in both of his own.
"Forget Imperial!" The man's grip was crushing. "I'm President Morrison from Heron Island University. Five million per year, guaranteed, plus..." He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I hear you work with solar-attribute cards. Our Archivist Lex is the finest diamond-level solar specialist on the continent. Study under him, and you'll reach heights Imperial can't even dream of."
Shaw's face went white. Imperial was prestigious, but they couldn't compete with that kind of money or mentorship.
That's when Mr. Stern made his move.
The Northgate University representative was older than the others, with silver hair and the kind of quiet confidence that came from holding all the best cards. He stepped between the other recruiters with surgical precision, his presence forcing them to take a step back.
"Gentlemen," he said with a smile that could have cut glass, "I appreciate your enthusiasm, but Russell has already made his choice." He turned to face Russell directly. "The board met this morning. Six million credits annually, plus unrestricted access to one welfare secret realm of your choosing each year. Any level, any type, within a hundred-mile radius of Northgate."
The other recruiters went silent.
Russell felt his heart skip a beat. The money was impressive, but the realm access? That was priceless. Secret realms were where real cardmakers were forged—where rare materials grew, where ancient techniques were discovered, where power could be seized by those brave enough to take it. Most students had to wait years for a single supervised expedition. He was being offered unlimited access.
The Aurora University representative—a woman with sharp eyes and sharper suit—suddenly stepped forward. "Wait just a damn minute. Can Northgate actually deliver on those promises? Because if you're lying to this young man..."
Russell saw the game clearly now. They could only offer such incredible terms because of his connection to Director Blake. Every other university was bidding blind, not knowing about the trump card he held.
Stern's smile widened. "What's deceptive about honoring our commitments? Besides," he played his ace with casual brutality, "Russell is about to become Director Blake Whitmore's personal disciple. If he chooses any university other than Northgate, where exactly do you think that's going to leave him?"
The effect was immediate and devastating.
Every recruiter present went statue-still. The Aurora representative's face drained of color. Shaw from Imperial actually stumbled backward. The Heron Island president released Russell's hand like it had burst into flames.
Director Blake Whitmore. The name hung in the air like a physical presence.
Russell watched their reactions with interest. Most people knew Blake as the youngest person ever to reach Grandmaster level in cardmaking, the man who'd revolutionized combat theory, the architect of modern defensive strategies. But Russell knew the truth that made even hardened university presidents tremble: Blake wasn't just a researcher. He was a killer. His cards had ended wars and toppled governments. When Blake Whitmore took a personal interest in someone, nations paid attention.
Just as the silence was becoming uncomfortable, a new voice cut through the tension.
"Student Russell."
The words were spoken quietly, but every head turned toward their source. The Kirin University representative—a middle-aged man who'd been so forgettable that Russell had barely noticed him—now commanded the attention of everyone present.
"Master Frank Dragomir will arrive tomorrow morning," the man continued, his voice steady as granite. "Perhaps you'd like to hear what he has to say before making any final decisions?"
The reaction was electric.
Shaw whispered something that sounded like a prayer. The Aurora representative actually sat down on a nearby bench, looking like she might faint. Even Stern—confident, connected Stern—went pale around the edges.
Master Frank Dragomir. The Duke of Wei. The War Sage.
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