10 Years Ago: The Beginning of the 367 Cards Spreading Across the Continents
Auroras lit up the earth that December night, right during Christmas celebrations. Cities across the world were filled with colorful lights, the sound of church bells ringing, and the laughter of families echoing through streets dusted with snow. Yet that night, something far more magnificent than Christmas lights painted the sky.
Above, greenish-purple lights danced, splitting the darkness. The Aurora Borealis was so vivid it looked as if the heavens themselves were displaying a divine painting. Passersby stopped in their tracks, heads tilted upward, powerless against the beauty.
In a grand house, a little girl pressed her tiny hands against the cold glass of a window. Her bright eyes shimmered with longing; she wanted to run outside beneath that light, but the towering walls kept her shut inside. All she could do was watch as the green-purple glow reflected in her pupils.
Elsewhere in the city, a thug had just snatched money from an old market vendor. With a smug grin, he slipped the bills into his pocket, lit a cigarette, and exhaled smoke into the air. Yet even he couldn't tear his gaze away from the lights that rippled above.
On the other side of the world, it was the same. In cities, villages, even in remote corners of wilderness, almost everyone raised their eyes. The aurora could be seen from every continent, an impossibility. Scientists rushed into their labs, adjusting telescopes, crunching numbers, fumbling with theories. Auroras should only appear at the poles. How could such a phenomenon cover the entire globe?
But before any answer could come, the beauty twisted. Ten minutes after it appeared, the dazzling green-purple glow dimmed and warped into deep crimson and pitch black, splattered across the sky like spilled ink.
Confusion spread, panis erupted. Children cried. Adults muttered prayers. And then, the lights broke apart, shards of red and black rained down like meteors, streaking through the atmosphere with shrill whistles.
Screams filled the night. Parents clutched their children, others ran for cover, and some prayed, convinced the end of the world had come.
Then, as if mockery itself had taken form, a hoarse laugh rang across the globe. It wasn't from one place—it echoed inside every ear, inside every mind. Harsh, cruel, and mocking, it felt as though some unseen being was laughing at them all. A world that had just basked in wonder was now drowning in chaos.
And then, just as suddenly, it stopped. The crimson-black aurora vanished, replaced by snow drifting softly down, blanketing the fear.
The next morning, shocking news spread: not a single person had died. No cities burned, no buildings collapsed, no bodies were crushed. Relieved, people concluded it was merely an unexplained natural phenomenon.
But unbeknownst to billions, that night marked a beginning. Those struck by the falling shards of red and black had changed. They gained something humanity had never known before, supernatural power.
The source of that power? A mysterious artifact that appeared only on one planet, Earth. And it wasn't a sword, nor a gem, nor a staff of magic.
It was… a card.
A poker card.
There were 52 kinds, scattered across every continent. A total of 367 cards, though no one knew how. Within each card was the power to turn the world upside down, for better or for ruin.
And among all those who would one day touch the cards, one child's fate began with tragedy.
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Swooshhh!
"Khkk!" A stifled cry split the air inside a grand house.
A young boy named Astavore Alan pressed a handkerchief over his mouth, trembling inside a wardrobe. Through the narrow crack, he witnessed the scene that would change his life forever.
A hulking man, his face scarred, held a knife to Astavore's father. "Where's the safe, huh? Tell us!"
His father sat bound to a chair, hands slashed and bleeding onto the wooden floor. His breaths were ragged, yet his eyes refused to yield.
"We've already cut off three of your fingers! Still not gonna talk?!" another robber snapped, thinner, with long, bony fingers clutching a blade at his throat.
Astavore bit back his sobs. His tears soaked the cloth over his mouth. His small heart pounded so loud he feared they could hear it. Just minutes ago, his father had told him to hide. Now, Astavore realized his father was prepared to endure it all.
But suddenly, amid the torture, his father grinned. Before anyone could react, he snatched the thin man's knife. The ropes around his wrists slipped loose, how, no one knew.
The robbers froze, eyes wide in shock.
With a glare that burned crimson, Astavore's father stood tall. That small knife in his hand radiated like a greatsword, his presence so sharp that even five armed men instinctively stepped back.
Then, he turned his head. Through the crack of the wardrobe, his gaze met his son's. For a moment, time stopped. He smiled, the same warm smile he always wore at family dinners. Blood dripping from his lips, he whispered:
"101511518."
The numbers carved themselves into Astavore's mind, louder than the thieves' shouts.
And then, before anyone could stop him, his father flipped the knife and drove it straight into his own heart.
Tckkk!
The sound of blade through flesh was undeniable. The robbers froze, pale with terror.
"H-He's insane! Out! OUT! Forget this house! A psycho like that wouldn't have treasure anyway!" their leader screamed. The five fled without another word.
The wardrobe burst open. Astavore tumbled out, scrambling across the bloodstained floor, throwing himself onto his father's collapsing body.
"A-ahhh!" His wails broke into sobs.
His father turned weakly, eyes dimming crimson. And in those fading eyes, he saw an angel, a woman with white wings, hovering behind Astavore, her expression twisted in grief. His wife.
Maybe it was only a hallucination before death. But seeing her sorrow, he gave a bitter chuckle.
He raised his trembling, bloodied hand, stroking his son's cheek gently. "Hey… don't cry, Astavore."
The boy sobbed harder. "Pa!"
"I'm sorry… I can't protect you anymore. This is the only way…" His voice cracked into a cough, fresh blood spilling. "Remember, with your—Cough! …father's death… your fate will change."
Astavore couldn't understand, he was too young. He only wept harder.
"Remember this, Astavore Alan…" His father's eyes, sharp even as their light dimmed, bore into him. "You are 101511518. Ten… fifteen… eleven… five… eighteen…"
His hand fell limp. His final breath slipped away, leaving silence.
Astavore shook his body desperately. "Pa! Papa!" he cried over and over. But no answer came.
His eyes dulled. Through his tears, he looked toward the sky outside, silently asking why fate was so cruel. His mother had left before he could walk. Now his father was gone before he could even read fluently.
Then—
Crack!
The heavens trembled. Two streaks of black light tore down, shattering the window and crashing into Astavore and his father's body.
Glass rained down, cold wind howling in.
Astavore staggered, clutching his chest. A red card was embedded there. He looked at his father, another card glowed on his chest too.
With shaking hands, Astavore pulled it free. On the back, golden letters shimmered:
[Congratulations, you are chosen.]
It took him two minutes to spell the words through blurry tears. But when he understood, he turned to his father, hoping for a miracle. He shook him again, but the body stayed cold.
His small sobs erupted into a broken cry. Still clutching the two cards, he flipped them over.
The fronts bore numbers and suits he recognized, cards his parents used to play with.
They were poker cards. And the ones Astavore now held were…
The Two of Spades and The Jack of Hearts.
The cards vibrated, releasing black and crimson light that swirled around him. Letters of golden flame etched themselves onto the surface. Astavore read the words, hands trembling, lips dry.
And in a small whisper, he spoke:
"Play."
Cling!