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The final bell echoed through Northgate University's halls with the weary resignation of a Monday afternoon finally surrendering to evening. Russell gathered his materials methodically, noting how other students gave him a wider berth than usual—not the panicked scramble of prey avoiding a predator, but the calculated distance one might maintain from a known explosive substance.
He checked his phone again as he packed. Still nothing from Coach Carter. The silence felt wrong, like the calm before a storm that refused to break. After demolishing Grant so thoroughly on Friday, Russell had expected at least a few challenges from ambitious sophomores convinced his victory was a fluke, a lucky shot that couldn't be repeated.
"Could it be that Unohana's performance was too scary?" Russell muttered, scratching his head as he navigated the crowded corridor. Students parted before him like water around a stone, their whispered conversations dying as he passed.
What he didn't realize was that his assumption was only partially correct. Yes, word of Unohana's terrifying transformation had spread through the student network like wildfire—from gentle healer to history's most efficient killer in the span of a heartbeat. The grainy phone footage circulating on message boards didn't do justice to the killing intent that had dropped spectators like wheat before a scythe.
But more importantly, the physical evidence remained.
The half-collapsed ruins of the mountaintop battle platform hadn't been repaired yet, serving as a monument to what happened when someone pushed Russell too far. The maintenance department claimed they were "waiting for the residual energy to dissipate," but everyone knew the truth—they were leaving it as a warning.
Ambitious students had made pilgrimages to the mountain over the weekend, studying the destruction with the intensity of archaeologists examining ancient ruins. . The shattered stone where Unohana's final strike had been intercepted showed stress patterns that made engineering students question their understanding of material physics.
Most challengers had quietly reconsidered their ambitions after that field trip.
Besides, as more pragmatic students pointed out, Russell wasn't even the biggest fish in the pond. Grant's position had been fourth among the five main team members. Anyone wanting to prove themselves would need to defeat Grant first, then work their way up the hierarchy. The logistics alone discouraged casual attempts—why challenge someone who'd already proven themselves when easier targets existed?
Standing at the school gates, Russell paused to consider his evening plans. The crisp February air carried hints of approaching spring, though winter hadn't quite released its grip. Students streamed past him toward various destinations—study groups, part-time jobs, social gatherings that would inevitably devolve into card dueling.
His thoughts drifted to the morning's events in [Night's End Banquet]. Wade's face floated through his memory, that practiced smile never quite reaching calculating eyes. The "coincidental" meeting had been anything but—Commander Linus's transparent nervousness made that clear. Someone had wanted to see what would happen when Blake Whitmore's newest disciple met a court faction scion.
"Information first," Russell decided, already adjusting his route. "Then paranoia."
If anyone in Northgate had intelligence on Wade and the broader political landscape, it would be Misty. The Spirit Begging Society's information network put government intelligence to shame, even if they had to operate from brothels and bars to maintain cover. The fact that visiting such establishments might damage his reputation was a small price for valuable intelligence.
Besides, in a world where power mattered more than propriety, who really cared if a talented cardmaker visited brothels?
The taxi ride to Everspring Clinic gave Russell time to organize his thoughts. The driver, a middle-aged man with the comfortable paunch of someone who sat for a living, seemed determined to fill the silence with wisdom.
"Top students from Northgate University also go to brothels," the man observed, catching Russell's eye in the rearview mirror. "Though usually they wait until after graduation. More discrete that way, better for job prospects."
Russell kept his expression neutral, watching the city blur past. Northgate's architecture told the story of its growth—ancient stone buildings predating the demon emergence huddled next to gleaming towers of glass and steel, while middle-aged concrete structures bridged the gap like awkward teenagers at a family reunion.
"People have their reasons," Russell replied noncommittally.
"True, true!" The driver warmed to his theme, apparently taking Russell's response as encouragement. "Just last week, I drove a professor there. Married man, too. Though between you and me, his wife probably knows. They always know. It's like a sixth sense they develop after the wedding."
The Everspring Clinic came into view, its facade a study in calculated indiscretion. Red paper lanterns hung from every window, casting warm light that promised comfort and anonymity in equal measure. The building itself straddled the line between respectable business and obvious brothel with practiced ease—tasteful enough to avoid official censure, obvious enough that customers knew exactly what services were available.
Russell paid the fare and stepped out, immediately noting the security upgrades since his last visit. New cameras covered every angle with overlapping fields of fire. What looked like decorative dragon statues flanking the entrance probably concealed defensive cards—their eyes tracked movement a bit too smoothly for mere stone. The Spirit Begging Society was taking no chances after recent upheavals.
"Mr. Russell!"
The familiar madam materialized at his elbow before he'd taken three steps, her approach so smooth it bordered on supernatural. Heavy makeup couldn't quite hide the calculating intelligence in her eyes—this was a woman who'd survived in a dangerous business by reading people like card descriptions and giving them exactly what they expected to see.
"Welcome back! It's been too long!". "Shall I arrange companions for your entertainment? We have several new girls, very talented, very discrete. There's one from the Eastern Provinces who does this thing with ice magic that—"
Russell waved off the suggestion . "I'm here to see Director Misty. Business, not pleasure."
"Of course, of course!" The madam's smile never wavered. "Director Misty is in her office. I'll notify her of your arrival."
"No need. She's expecting me."
The lie came smoothly, delivered with enough confidence to discourage questions. In Russell's experience, acting like you belonged was ninety percent of infiltration. The other ten percent was being strong enough to survive when someone called your bluff.
The madam bowed, gesturing toward the entrance with rings that clinked like wind chimes. "Please, go right up. You know the way."
Russell navigated through the main floor with practiced ease, ignoring the artfully posed girls who watched his passage with professional interest. Some recognized him from previous visits, offering smiles that promised discretion along with their other services. He nodded politely but kept moving, making for the elevator tucked discretely in an alcove.
As the doors closed, he caught a glimpse of the madam pulling aside a heavily made-up girl, her expression shifting from obsequious to stern. Whatever instructions were being delivered came with the intensity of someone explaining survival rules to a novice.
The elevator rose smoothly, each floor bringing subtle changes in atmosphere. The garish decoration of the lower floors gave way to more subdued elegance, then to something approaching corporate sterility by the time he reached the penthouse level. The transformation was deliberate—clients seeking simple pleasures stayed below, while those with more complex needs rose to where business could be conducted without distraction.
"Why are you here?"
Misty's greeting carried all the warmth of an arctic wind. She didn't look up from her tablet, swiping through what appeared to be intelligence reports with the bored efficiency of someone who'd rather be doing literally anything else.
"I need information," Russell said, settling into the chair across from her. The leather creaked slightly, still stiff with newness despite months of use. "Wade. I don't have a family name, but you probably know who I mean."
The tablet stopped moving. Misty's eyes, fixed on him with sudden intensity. "What? Did you run into him?"
The surprise in her voice sent warning signals through Russell's mind. If Misty was caught off-guard, the situation was more complex than a simple rivalry between young cardmakers.
"As expected," Russell said, his heart sinking. From her reaction, she hadn't just heard of Wade—she'd had actual contact with him. Professional contact, the kind that left impressions beyond casual acquaintance.
He recounted the morning's events in [Night's End Banquet], from Commander Linus's transparent scheduling manipulation through the material exchange and card duel. He downplayed Artoria's devastating victory, focusing instead on Wade's behavior and apparent connections. The way he'd known exactly what materials to offer. The confidence that suggested this wasn't his first time manipulating a situation to his advantage.
Misty listened in silence, her expression cycling through several interesting variations of concern. When he finished, she set her tablet aside with deliberate care.
"I really didn't expect you to meet him so early," she mused, fingers drumming against leather in a rhythm that suggested complex calculations. "Should I say you are lucky or unlucky?"
She studied Russell with those dangerous eyes, weighing factors he couldn't guess at. Finally, she seemed to reach a decision. "Lucky. You got free materials out of it, and Wade revealed his hand early. Better to know your enemies when they're still underestimating you."
"Do you want to know why he is hostile to you?" she asked, though they both knew the question was rhetorical. That's why Russell had come, after all—that and to probe whether the Spirit Begging Society had connections to the court faction.
Russell nodded, playing along with the dance.
A sly smile played at Misty's lips—the expression of someone about to extract payment for valuable information. "Beg me and I'll tell you."
"Is it fun to always play this routine?" Russell's exasperation was only partly feigned. "Don't you really want an older woman to get with a younger man? Because there are therapies for that kind of complex."
She rolled her eyes with theatrical disgust. "Tsk, you're no fun. Fine, I'll tell you for free. Consider it a public service." She paused for effect, ensuring she had his complete attention. "Wade tried to become Blake Whitmore's apprentice a few years ago, but failed."
The words hung in the air like a revelation. Russell felt pieces clicking into place—Wade's barely concealed hostility, the specific materials he'd offered, the confidence that came from long preparation.
"You can find out if you ask around," Misty continued, picking up her tablet again though her attention remained on Russell. "Quite a lot of people know about it. Wade made quite a scene when Blake rejected him. The kind of tantrum that becomes gossip for years."
Russell nodded slowly, processing this information. So when Blake had taken him as a disciple, he'd unknowingly painted a target on his back. In Wade's mind, Russell had stolen what should have been his—never mind the years between Wade's rejection and Russell's acceptance.
"You'd better be careful," Misty added, her tone shifting from playful to serious. "Wade is a petty person. He won't let today's loss go. He'll repay it tenfold if given the chance."
"I'll keep that in mind," Russell said. Then, carefully casual: "There is indeed one more thing. Is there a rift between the court and the Association? Is there any chance we can do something?"
Misty's fingers froze mid-swipe, her entire body going still with the careful control of someone avoiding sudden movements. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken implications.
"How did you know?" she asked finally, her voice dusty as old parchment.
Russell couldn't help but roll his eyes at the transparency of it all. "It's so obvious, you'd have to be a fool not to see it, right?"
He recounted his observations from the provincial examination—the committee members who could barely maintain civility, the pointed comments about "different philosophies," the way certain names made officials flinch. Then his experience with dimension access—fast-tracked specifically because of his Association connections, while court bureaucrats were transparently bypassed.
"They're not even trying to hide it anymore," he concluded. "It's like watching a married couple heading for divorce who think the kids don't notice the fighting."
Misty listened to his account with growing concern, muttering something under her breath that Russell's enhanced hearing barely caught: "Don't they even want to pretend anymore?"
So the Society has been monitoring this situation, Russell filed away. They'd known about the growing rift, had been tracking its development. The question was what they planned to do about it.
Putting down her tablet with exaggerated care, Misty fixed him with a serious expression—the intelligence operative showing through the brothel director's mask. "The higher-ups will make decisions about such matters. Your job is to keep quiet and avoid getting caught in the crossfire."
The response told Russell everything he needed to know. If the Spirit Begging Society wanted to exploit the division, his position as Blake's newest disciple would make him invaluable. The fact that Misty wanted him silent suggested either they were already aligned with one faction or had bigger plans requiring stability.
"I understand," Russell said, rising to leave. "There's nothing else, so I'll go."
"Russell," Misty called as he reached the door. "Be careful who you trust. Times like these, today's friend is tomorrow's knife in your back."
Outside Everspring Clinic, the early evening air carried the scent of approaching rain. Russell walked several blocks before hailing another taxi, using the time to process what he'd learned.
The Spirit Begging Society knew about the court-Association conflict—had known for some time. Their response was silence rather than exploitation. That suggested alliance with one faction or plans requiring both to remain stable. Given the Society's methods and goals, either possibility was concerning.
"It's just that my identity is a bit dangerous now," Russell muttered, drawing curious looks from passing pedestrians.
Blake Whitmore's disciple—that marked him as Association property in most eyes. But also a Spirit Begging Society traitor, even if they maintained the fiction of him being a mere informant. Now potentially a target for court recruitment. Three loyalties that couldn't possibly coexist peacefully.
"I feel like if I'm not careful, I might get crushed." The image was apt—caught between millstones, ground to powder by forces beyond his control. In the final analysis, he was too weak. Silver level meant something among students, but against the real powers? He might as well be iron.
"Let's first find a way to upgrade Arrogance," he decided. The symbiote was his most reliable defense, and strengthening it took priority.
He mentally cataloged the materials the Society had given him: Silver-level [Star of Calamity] (Gold), [Demon Hunter] (Purple), [Blood of Resurrection] (Gold), and [Power Demon] (Gold). Quality materials, proof they'd had high hopes for his development before circumstances changed.
"That's quite a lot," he mused. The [Blood of Resurrection] and [Power Demon] would work perfectly for Arrogance's advancement. "That still leaves me one piece short."
Russell pulled out his phone, thumbs flying across the screen:
[Russell]: Mr. Warren, do you have any materials related to copying or imitation? I have a silver-level [Lesser Demon] (Blue) and six million in cash. See if you can add them together to exchange for a purple silver-level material.
The response came quickly—suspiciously quickly, as if Warren had been waiting:
[Mr. Warren, AAA Material Wholesale]: Yes, a Silver-level [Horror Imitator] (Purple). The ownership is with our company, but...
That hanging "but" carried weight. Russell could practically feel the hook being baited.
[Russell]: Mr. Warren, please state your conditions first. I will see if I can meet them before making a decision.
He wasn't someone who could be easily manipulated. At worst, he'd swallow his pride and ask Hazel or his teacher for materials, though that would raise questions about his plans.
[Mr. Warren, AAA Material Wholesale]: An interview.
Of course. Nothing was ever simple in this world. But Russell needed that material, and his options were limited. Better to deal with Warren's conditions than explain why he needed copying-related materials to his teacher.
The flight to Warren's building took twenty minutes through increasingly congested airspace. Evening meant commuters heading home, delivery services making rounds, and patrol cardmakers changing shifts. Russell wove between them with practiced ease, though Pidgeot's iron-level limitations showed in how harder it worked to maintain speed.
.
"Russell is here, sit down!" Warren's enthusiasm filled the office like an overpressured balloon. The man himself rose from behind his desk—a process requiring several seconds given his considerable bulk—and gestured toward plush chairs arranged around a low table.
Russell settled into the offered seat, noting how it positioned him slightly lower than Warren's eventual position. Subtle power play, but not subtle enough. "Mr. Warren, if you have any conditions, just tell me directly."
"So straightforward! I appreciate that about young people." Warren poured tea with movements suggesting practice at ceremony. The pot was expensive, the tea more so—casual displays of wealth that said 'I have resources' without being crass about it. "But this matter is delicate. You understand."
Russell understood perfectly. Warren was going to draw this out, make him ask, establish who needed whom. Standard negotiation tactics that might work on someone who hadn't spent months dealing with the Spirit Begging Society's mind games.
"Mr. Warren, I appreciate the theater, but if this is about more than materials, perhaps we should skip to the interesting part."
Warren's jovial mask slipped momentarily—surprise at being read so easily. Then the smile returned, wider but less genuine. "Clever boy. Blake chose well." He settled back, chair creaking ominously. "Tell me, Russell, you should know that you have to do an internship in your junior year, right?"
The non sequitur might have thrown someone else. Russell merely waited.
"In a school like yours, Northgate University, students in the card-making department are free to choose their internships," Warren continued. "The Association snaps up most, of course. Dangerous work on the frontlines, but good for advancement. If you survive."
Here it comes.
"I hope that when you do your internship, you can choose a position related to the imperial court." Warren watched Russell's face carefully. "Your talent has already been noticed by all the officials."
Russell's mind raced while his expression remained thoughtful. So Warren is court faction. Does Hazel know about this?
"Isn't this inappropriate?" he said aloud, projecting careful hesitation. "After all, my teacher probably wants me to join the Association."
"Hey, Russell, you are wrong!" Warren waved dismissively, jewelry catching the light. "Why would Master Blake care about such things? Besides, even if he cares, I'm sure he will respect your own choice."
The words were honeyed poison, designed to plant doubt about Blake's motives. It might have worked on someone who didn't understand the deeper conflicts at play.
Russell let silence stretch, projecting internal struggle. Finally: "This is not a good idea. I'm sorry, Mr. Warren, but I still can't make a decision right now on such an important matter. Let's just forget about this material for now."
"It's okay, Russell. Just think about it slowly." Warren's expression showed no surprise—he'd expected resistance. "As for this material, consider it as my gift to you."
"How about this, Mr. Warren. I'll buy this material." Russell produced his bank card and the [Lesser Demon], maintaining the fiction of clean transactions. Who knew what strings might be attached to a "gift"?
Warren processed exactly five million credits, handing over the [Horror Imitator] with a paternal smile. "You are just too polite, Russell. Most would simply take the gift."
"Most people end up owing more than they can pay," Russell replied, securing the material. "Thank you, Mr. Warren. I will consider your proposal carefully when I return." Time for the false hope: "I actually hope to work with the gentlemen in the court."
Warren's smile widened with genuine pleasure. "Then I will wait for your good news, Russell."
Both men left the meeting satisfied. Russell had his material, Warren thought he'd planted seeds of defection. Everyone had a bright future—or so they believed.
Back in his apartment, Russell laid out his materials with the reverence of a priest preparing sacraments. Silver-level [Blood of Resurrection] (Gold) pulsed with inner light that promised second chances. Silver-level [Power Demon] (Gold) radiated barely contained violence. Silver-level [Horror Imitator] (Purple) seemed to shift and change even while perfectly still.
"Next, it's time to strengthen Arrogance," he said, running fingers along the symbiote's card. It stirred eagerly, sensing opportunity. "I wonder what I can achieve with its help after it's promoted to Silver level."
As for Warren's proposal? Already forgotten, filed away with all the other attempts to claim him. The court could make offers, the Association could assume loyalty, the Spirit Begging Society could plot in shadows. Russell would take what he needed from all of them while owing true allegiance to none.
In a world where everyone wanted to use him, the only winning move was to become too powerful to control.
(End of Chapter 114)
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