The sun had barely risen over Manila, painting the skyline in shades of bruised violet and crimson. It was 5 A.M., and the city that never truly slept stirred with a restless kind of energy. Taxi cabs honked, jeepneys rumbled along the avenues, and food stalls began lighting their burners for the early risers. Yet amidst the ordinary rhythm of the capital, a storm was brewing—one that did not belong to politics or crime or scandal, but to a single night of cards.
Every television screen in Manila—whether in a convenience store, a hotel lobby, or the small living rooms of countless homes—blared the same headline in bold letters:
"ROYAL FLUSH SHOCKER AT R.C.U. ANNIVERSARY: UNKNOWN YOUTH TOPPLES WORLD CHAMPION."
The footage played on repeat—Lumina Frost's confident grin, her taunting raise, the collective gasp as Franc declared "all in," and the final reveal: the Ten of Spades landing on the felt, completing the impossible. The roar of the crowd thundered again and again through speakers across the city, as if Manila itself had been inside the arena.
The anchors tried to contain their awe, but their voices betrayed the weight of what had transpired.
> "Good morning, Philippines. We are waking up today to what many are calling the greatest upset in gambling history. At last night's tenth anniversary of the Resort's Cosmic Universe tournament, an unknown participant under the alias Franc Ount defeated world champion Lumina Frost in a hand worth over 100 million dollars."
The camera cut to Lumina's pale, speechless face frozen in disbelief.
"Frost, a three-time World Series of Poker champion, was dethroned by a twenty-one-year-old whose origins remain a mystery. Witnesses say Franc Ount barely spoke a word throughout the competition, and in the final hand, he delivered a Royal Flush against Frost's straight flush—the only hand capable of beating her. Experts are already calling it a once-in-a-millennium moment."
Social media fed the fire. On Twitter, #RoyalFlush and #WhoIsFranc trended worldwide. On YouTube, creators uploaded slowed-down analyses of the match, breaking down every second of the final play with dramatic edits and flashing graphics. Instagram overflowed with memes: Lumina Frost's face edited onto sinking ships, Franc's silent stare captioned as "the face of destiny." TikTok replayed the "all in" moment to thunderous bass drops and exaggerated reactions.
The gambling world was stunned to its very core. Old legends whispered that perhaps destiny itself had chosen a new heir.
---
Across the city, far removed from the chaos of the headlines, a sprawling mansion sat in Makati, hidden behind high walls and veils of silence. Inside, the true face behind the alias lived without ceremony.
Francis Mount.
Bare-chested, sweat dripping down his back, he gripped a pair of heavy dumbbells. His arms strained, the veins on his forearms pronounced, every curl executed with machine-like precision. The room echoed with the soft clank of iron, the hiss of his breath, and the faint rhythm of a metronome that ticked in his mind.
His body bore not the frame of indulgence common among gamblers but that of discipline—a man who treated his flesh as much a weapon as his mind. Weights hung from his ankles, pulling at each step. Around his wrists, steel bracelets pressed into his skin, weighted cuffs that forced his muscles to strain with every motion. It was training not for vanity, but for mastery.
He did not need music. He did not need distraction. His mind was music, his imagination a symphony. He counted not just reps, but seconds, breaths, heartbeats. He measured progress in absolute terms.
After forty-five minutes, Francis set the dumbbells down. His breathing steadied almost instantly, his chest rising and falling with deliberate control. He walked to the bathroom, removed the cuffs, and stepped into the shower. The spray of cold water washed over his body, refreshing, sharpening, as though every drop rewired his senses.
Minutes later, he emerged in a fresh white shirt and dark trousers. His black hair, still damp, clung slightly to his forehead. In the kitchen, he cracked eggs, whisked them with milk, tossed them into a pan. Toast crisped in the oven, bacon sizzled, coffee brewed in silence. His movements were efficient, economical, precise.
When the meal was ready, he sat alone at the polished marble table. A plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. A cup of black coffee. He ate without hurry, chewing thoughtfully, eyes distant.
Francis Mount was not a man consumed by victory. He had won, yes—he had destroyed the queen of poker, humiliated the legend—but his expression was not one of joy. He felt nothing but the dull echo of a familiar boredom gnawing at the edges of his mind.
For Francis was no ordinary youth. Behind his calm eyes lay a photographic memory so sharp it could replay entire nights of gambling with the fidelity of a film reel. His imagination was cosmic, stretching beyond the limits of probability, conjuring outcomes and scenarios with the fluidity of stars colliding in space. His intellect was razor-edged, dissecting patterns, reading faces, computing odds faster than any machine. His reflexes—both mental and physical—were the envy of athletes, honed by endless discipline.
And yet, despite it all, he was bored.
The world seemed too slow for him, too predictable, too easily conquered. The tournament had been entertainment, nothing more—a stage upon which he played, a puzzle already solved before the first card was dealt.
He finished the last sip of his coffee, the bitterness lingering on his tongue. Then he stood, slipping on a dark jacket, and picked up his phone. A single app gleamed on the screen—a taxi service. He pressed it.
Minutes later, the gates of his mansion opened, and a yellow cab pulled into the driveway. The driver, a weary man in his forties, blinked at the sight of the palatial home and the calm young man stepping out of it.
Francis slid into the back seat, voice quiet, measured.
"To Transcendent University."
The driver nodded, still staring at him in the mirror, recognition sparking in his eyes.
"Boss… uh, sorry, sir, but… are you… are you that guy from last night? The one at R.C.U.?"
Francis's gaze drifted to the window, the city passing in streaks of light.
"No."
The driver hesitated, then laughed nervously, hands tightening on the wheel. "Ah, right, right. My mistake. But wow, you kinda look like him, eh. Franc Ount, the ghost who took down Lumina Frost. Man, the whole world's talking about it. You know, my cousin bet a month's salary on Frost. Poor guy's been cursing all morning. He said no way some kid could take her down. But me—I say, sometimes the underdog wins, huh? Destiny, maybe."
Francis said nothing.
The driver filled the silence, words spilling like coins from a broken slot machine. "They say he was twenty-one. Just a kid. No one knows where he came from. Some say he's American, others say he's Chinese. Me, I think he's Filipino. The way he sat, the way he moved—it felt familiar, you know? What do you think, boss?"
Francis's voice was calm, detached.
"I think the world likes mysteries."
The driver chuckled, nodding. "True. True. Mysteries make life exciting. Eh, boss, you a student at Transcendent University?"
"Yes."
"Whew. That's the school for geniuses, right? My nephew tried to apply, didn't even pass the first round. Heard they only accept one percent of applicants. Must be nice, huh? To be that smart."
Francis leaned back, his eyes on the skyline of Makati fading into the sprawl of Manila. His silence was an answer in itself.
The driver, sensing the end of the conversation, focused on the road. The cab weaved through the arteries of the city, past billboards flashing Franc Ount's face in exaggerated sketches, past coffee shops buzzing with students replaying the Royal Flush on their phones, past vendors who shouted over the noise about last night's miracle.
By the time the cab reached the gates of Transcendent University, the city itself seemed to hum with one question: Who is Franc Ount?
Francis Mount stepped out of the car, his shoes clicking softly against the pavement. He gazed at the towering gates of the university—an institution not merely of learning, but of ascension. Its motto was etched into marble above the entrance:
"Beyond Knowledge Lies Transcendence."
Students bustled around, their chatter filled with excitement, theories, gossip. And among them, none suspected that the quiet figure walking through the gates—the boy with unreadable eyes and a calm step—was the very phantom the world was searching for.
Francis Mount.
Franc Ount.
One and the same.
The morning sun rose higher, gilding the university in light. The legend had been born. The world would seek him. But here, for now, he was just a student walking into another day.
The silence of his secret was his greatest game yet.
The corridors of Transcendent University buzzed like a hive. The morning light streamed in through wide glass windows, catching in the polished floors and illuminating the sea of uniforms—white shirts with the university's crest embroidered in gold on the chest pocket, paired with dark slacks or skirts. Students spoke in hurried whispers, their conversations thick with the lingering fever of last night's R.C.U. spectacle.
Yet Francis Mount walked through them untouched, a silent current against the flow of chatter. His steps were measured, each one calm and unhurried, his eyes straight ahead. He did not glance at the groups of students huddled near bulletin boards, nor the glowing screens replaying the infamous Royal Flush that now defined the world's conversation.
Some eyes followed him nonetheless. There was something about his presence—not flamboyant, not loud, but undeniable. It was the quiet magnetism of someone who moved as though the world's noise existed outside the bubble of his awareness.
Whispers followed.
"Isn't that Francis Mount? The genius?"
"Yeah, second-year, general studies. They say he's aced every subject since freshman year."
"He's scary smart. My friend in economics said he solved a three-hour exam in fifteen minutes."
"But… doesn't he look like…? You know, the guy from R.C.U. last night?"
"Pfft. No way. That gambler's name was Franc Ount. Totally different."
"Still… the eyes. I swear, they look the same."
Francis did not turn. He reached his lecture hall, pushed the door open with a casual motion, and stepped inside.
The room was wide and amphitheater-like, rows of tiered seats spiraling down toward a central podium. The air smelled faintly of chalk and paper, though most notes had long been replaced by digital tablets. Students filled the rows in clusters of conversation, some scrolling through feeds, others bent over notebooks.
Francis chose his place instinctively—the farthest corner by the window. His bag landed softly on the desk, his chair scraped once, and he sat with his head tilted slightly toward the view outside. The sky was pale blue, streaked with thin clouds, the faint sound of birds audible above the dull murmur of the class.
It was not long before the heavy wooden door swung open again. Silence rippled across the room as Dr. Carmilla Crimson strode in.
At twenty-eight, Carmilla was a prodigy in her own right, her reputation almost as sharp as her heels clicking against the floor. She was striking, with crimson hair tied in a loose knot, sharp glasses framing eyes that saw through hesitation like glass. Her lab coat draped over a fitted dress, blending academia with a certain authority that commanded respect without her raising her voice.
"Good morning, sophomores," she said, her tone crisp, precise.
The murmurs hushed. Screens dimmed. Eyes focused.
Carmilla placed her tablet on the podium and tapped it. The projector lit up the board behind her with the words: Second Term Examination Results.
"Before we begin today's lecture," she continued, scanning the room with clinical sharpness, "I will address your performance."
A nervous shuffle went through the rows. Students sat straighter, bracing.
"In Advanced Psychology," Carmilla began, pausing for emphasis, "the highest score in this class—and in the entire sophomore year—belongs once again to…"
Her gaze shifted deliberately toward the back corner.
"…Francis Mount."
A wave of whispers surged through the hall, barely contained. Heads turned toward the quiet figure by the window.
Francis did not move at first. Then, with the same calm as always, he stood. His footsteps echoed lightly as he descended toward the podium.
The whispers sharpened into gossip.
"As usual. Always him."
"Doesn't he ever lose?"
"It's freaky. He doesn't even study like the rest of us."
"He just… knows."
"Do you think he cheats? Maybe he hacks the system."
"Idiot. It's Francis Mount. They say he has a perfect memory. Like, photographic."
Carmilla held out the graded paper. Her expression was unreadable, though her eyes glimmered with faint curiosity as Francis approached.
"Congratulations," she said, her voice neutral, almost mechanical.
Francis accepted the paper with a nod. He did not glance at the score—he already knew it. Without pausing, he walked not toward his seat but toward the side of the hall, where a small, silver trash bin stood.
The room watched in silence, a collective breath held.
Francis crumpled the paper in one smooth motion, the sound of crushing parchment amplified in the hush. Then, without hesitation, he tossed it into the bin. The ball of paper landed with a hollow thud.
Gasps burst from the rows.
"He threw it away!"
"Again?!"
"What the hell is wrong with him?"
"That was the top score in the whole year!"
"He doesn't even care?!"
Carmilla raised an eyebrow but said nothing, her lips pressing into the faintest suggestion of a smile.
Francis turned, his face impassive, and walked back to his corner. His chair creaked softly as he sat, his elbow resting on the desk, his chin leaning against his hand. His eyes drifted once more to the window, to the sky that stretched endless beyond the glass.
The gossip filled the silence again, buzzing like insects.
"Is he mocking us? Throwing away grades like trash?"
"Maybe he thinks he's too good for this place."
"No, it's worse—he's bored. That's what makes it scary."
"I swear, there's something off about him."
Francis did not respond. He heard every word, every whisper, every rustle of envy and disbelief. His memory captured them all, like stars imprinted on the canvas of his mind. Yet they meant nothing. To him, exams were toys, exercises for a mind that craved greater challenges. The answers had come to him as easily as breathing, and the paper itself held no value. Knowledge was his weapon, not the scores stamped upon it.
Dr. Carmilla cleared her throat once, cutting through the chatter.
"That will be enough," she said, her voice calm but carrying the weight of authority. The murmurs fell instantly silent.
She turned to the board, her fingers dancing across her tablet, and new slides appeared. Charts, diagrams, definitions.
"Today's topic: Cognitive Dissonance and Its Application in Behavioral Economics."
Her lecture began, words flowing with precision. She spoke of conflicting beliefs, of human contradictions, of how minds wrestled between what they knew and what they wanted. She illustrated with examples from markets, politics, personal choices. The students scribbled notes furiously, eager to grasp even fragments of her brilliance.
But Francis did not move his pen. He sat, his gaze unfocused on the sky, his mind weaving Carmilla's words into a greater tapestry. Every sentence sparked pathways, connections, extrapolations. His imagination stretched the theory beyond the lecture hall—to gamblers bluffing against impossible odds, to nations justifying war, to the paradox of human ambition.
Beside him, the window rattled slightly with a passing breeze. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the wind against the glass, hearing the faint laughter of students outside in the courtyard.
A voice cut through his thoughts—a student two rows ahead, whispering behind her hand.
"I don't get it. He's just staring out the window like he doesn't care. But he's still top of the class. How?"
Her friend whispered back, frustration clear. "That's the point. He doesn't even try. He just… is."
Francis opened his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching—not a smile, but a flicker of something close. Then his gaze drifted back to the endless sky.
For him, the lecture was already over before it began.