Orlov clicked his tongue, unimpressed but faintly amused. "You are slippery, boy. But a cornered animal can only dodge so long." His eyes gleamed as he drew, that predatory hunger returning to them. "Battle Phase. The Wicked Dreadroot—"
Connor's voice cut through like a clean strike. "I activate my face-down: Threatening Roar."
A deafening bellow erupted across the field, spectral sound waves shaking the holograms. Orlov's monsters froze mid-lunge, staggered backward as if some unseen predator had cowed them.
"You cannot declare an attack this turn," Connor said, his tone calm, almost icy. His Duel Disk pulsed as the Trap card dissolved into light.
Orlov's lips curled, half-sneer, half-smile. He leaned back slightly, masking irritation with theatrical amusement. "So be it. No attack, then. You've bought yourself another turn." He narrowed his eyes, voice lowering into a promise. "But make no mistake, boy… stalling will only make your fall more satisfying."
He slid a card into his Spell/Trap Zone with a flick, the gesture sharp. "I end my turn."
Connor drew; his fingers trembled, just once, then steadied. "Standby: Gold Sarcophagus returns my banished card to my hand. I add Left Leg of the Forbidden One to my hand."
Three parts now: Right Leg, Left Leg, and the Head. The screens tracked it in the corner like a fuse burning.
He looked across the field: a wicked god crouched, a skull-demon glowering, a rogue tense. One wrong move and Orlov would finish this duel.
Orlov drew. For the first time, his smile revealed teeth, sharp and hungry. His eyes flicked to the card he'd set earlier, then back to the boy across from him. Seven Tools of the Bandit… good insurance. If he tries to rely on traps again, I'll cut his legs out from under him, no matter the cost. Even a thousand Life Points is a cheap price to pay for control.
The thought remained locked behind his grin, a secret promise in the way he tapped his Duel Disk and slid another card into place.
Connor's breath scraped in his throat as he drew, the weight of each card heavier than the last. His fingers hovered for only a moment before he spoke, steady but quiet.
"I place one monster face-down." The card slid onto the Duel Disk, vanishing under a shimmer. "And I set one card face-down. That's all. I end my turn."
Orlov's eyes swept across the field like a predator circling prey. His lips pulled into a hungry smile. "Then my turn begins. Draw!" He snapped the card up, his jaw setting with confidence. "Perfect. I tribute my Goblin Attack Force to summon a second Summoned Skull (ATK 2500)."
The Goblins vanished in a swirl of dark energy, replaced by another winged fiend, lightning dancing across its claws. The two Summoned Skulls stood side by side, their combined aura crackling like a storm about to break.
"Battle!" Orlov barked, his voice carrying authority. "Summoned Skull, crush his middle face-down!"
The skeletal demon raised its claw and slammed it down. Connor's card flipped—Spirit Reaper (DEF 200). The scythe-bearing specter hissed, its ragged cloak fluttering in the holographic wind.
"Spirit Reaper cannot be destroyed by battle," Connor said firmly. The monster only cackled in response, remaining on the field despite the blow.
Orlov sneered. "Then I'll carve it apart another way. I play Forbidden Lance! I target your Spirit Reaper. Its effect states—when targeted, it is destroyed."
Connor's eyes sharpened as his hand whipped down to his face-down card. "Not so fast! I chain my trap—Waboku! For the rest of this turn, I take no battle damage, and none of my monsters can be destroyed by battle!"
But Orlov's smirk widened, cruel and knowing. "Useless. I anticipated this." He snapped his fingers, and his earlier set flipped up. "I activate Seven Tools of the Bandit. By paying 1000 Life Points, I negate and destroy your Waboku."
The trap card burst into fragments, its light snuffed out.
Orlov – LP: 4000 → 3000
"Now, Spirit Reaper falls," Orlov growled as the Forbidden Lance impaled the ghostly specter. The Reaper shrieked once before dissolving into nothing.
Orlov wasn't finished. His second Summoned Skull raised its claws, lightning splitting the air. "Crush his last face-down!"
The fiend's strike ripped into the card, shattering it into sparks. Connor lifted his voice, clean and quick. "Emissary of the Afterlife was destroyed by battle and sent to the Graveyard. Its effect activates: each player adds one Level 3 or lower Normal Monster from their Deck to their hand."
The audience murmured as Connor revealed his selection. "I add Left Arm of the Forbidden One to my hand."
Four pieces now. His hand clutched them tightly: Head, Left Leg, Right Leg, Left Arm. Only one remained. The whisper in the crowd swelled, like grass rippling under a sudden wind.
Orlov laughed harshly, the sound booming across the blimp's dueling dome. "Four pieces will do you no good, boy! You are not the King of Games—you are nothing but a stalling child!" His hand cut downward like a command. "Now! The Wicked Dreadroot (ATK 4000)—attack directly and bring me victory for Mother Russia!"
The colossal titan rose with a roar, its massive claw sweeping toward Connor.
Connor didn't flinch. His eyes burned with focus as he discarded a card from his hand. "I discard Kuriboh. When a direct attack is declared, I can discard him to make the battle damage zero."
A small, spherical fiend appeared with button eyes and a soft glow, cushioning the titan's blow before vanishing in a flash. The Dreadroot's fist hit the field with a quake, but Connor stood firm, unharmed.
Orlov snarled, veins tightening at his temple. "Tch. Then my Slate Warrior (ATK 950) will finish the job. Attack his Life Points directly!"
The rogue lunged forward, daggers flashing. Connor staggered as the blades connected, the meters plummeting.
Connor – LP: 3900 → 2950
The crowd erupted, torn between cheers and gasps. Connor's knees bent for half a second, the shock hitting him like a cold wave. But he straightened slowly, his gaze fixed on Orlov with the same quiet fire.
Orlov's eyes flashed; the muscle in his jaw ticked. "Stop wasting my time." He exhaled a humorless laugh. "Main Phase 2. I set one. End."
Connor drew. There was sweat along his hairline now, the tiniest sheen. He ignored it.
"I activate Swords of Revealing Light." The crystalline blades refolded, locking down the titan, the fiend, the rogue. The room exhaled with him.
Orlov stared up at the light bars. His smile returned, small and sharp. "Draw." His pupils narrowed like a predator's under floodlights. "Dust Tornado—your Swords of Revealing Light." The storm drilled through crystal; the swords shattered again.
He lowered his chin, voice low. "Battle. The Wicked Dreadroot—direct attack."
The titan's palm hurtled down. Connor's hair whipped; the platform trembled. He brought his forearm up over his eyes against the glare and breathed one word, quiet and iron. "Electromagnetic Turtle."
A ghostly, spherical fiend popped up from the Graveyard, blinked with button eyes, and dissolved into a shimmer that wrapped him as a shield. "By discarding Electromagnetic Turtle earlier with Graceful Charity, I can end the battle phase."
The titan's blow hit. Light flared. The audience cried out. When the air cleared, Connor still stood, blown back a half-step, jacket askew, cheeks flushed. He swallowed once, throat moving, then straightened.
Orlov's smile returned, colder. "Main Phase 2. I set a card. End."
He slid a card into his Spell/Trap Zone. The camera zoomed. Not it. He let the smallest exhale escape and placed another. "Upstart Goblin. You gain 1000 Life Points; I draw one card."
Orlov – LP: 5000
Not it. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, inhaled, then set one card face down."Turn end."
Orlov's hand flicked up; his jaw locked tight. "Draw." His eyes burned with relish as he snapped a card forward. "Mystical Space Typhoon—your left set."
The holographic cyclone roared across the field, wind tearing at Connor's defenses. But Connor's voice cut through sharp and steady. "I chain my face-down: Waboku."
Three spectral priestesses appeared, their forms glowing with protective light. They raised their arms in unison, the storm crashing harmlessly against their barrier.
"I take no battle damage this turn," Connor declared, his gaze unflinching as the cyclone faded into sparks.
Orlov's lip curled into a thin smile. "So you live… for now.".
Orlov's glare thawed into a smile at his own oversight, thin and dangerous. "End."
Connor's pulse moved in his throat, but his hand didn't shake as he drew. The card slid up like sunrise. He looked at it and didn't smile; his eyes, though, warmed a fraction, like frost yielding to breath.
He lifted his head, gaze meeting Orlov's. "My draw step. I add Right Arm of the Forbidden One to my hand."
Silence crashed, then shattered into noise as he fanned his hand for the cameras: five cards, stark and simple.
Exodia the Forbidden One
Right Arm of the Forbidden One
Left Arm of the Forbidden One
Right Leg of the Forbidden One
Left Leg of the Forbidden One
His voice was almost gentle. "When Exodia the Forbidden One and the four limbs are in my hand, I win the Duel."
The arena went white-gold. The screens exploded into the ancient seal's radiance. An enormous spectral figure—horned, shackled, furious—rose behind Connor, chains bursting in showers of light. Orlov's titan—still face-down—seemed to shrink, a shadow in front of a sunrise. Exodia's hand came down not as an attack but as a verdict, and the field dissolved into motes.
The Life Point meters rolled:
Orlov – LP: 0
Connor – LP: 2950
Orlov stood very still as the light died, the wind of the holograms lifting the edges of his suit. Then he laughed, short and sharp, eyes sparkling with genuine respect despite the ice in his blood. "Well played, boy." He glanced at his Duel Disk with something like fondness and slid out a single card, holding it up between two fingers, admiring the ink-black art as if it were a jewel he might put back into his crown.
"The rules are clear," he said, and his smile thinned to something like hunger held on a leash. "The winner takes a rare card."
Connor stepped forward until the light painted his face a soft silver. He tucked his hair behind one ear; his expression was still and grave. "Then I'll take The Wicked Dreadroot."
A tremor went through the crowd—half excitement, half disbelief. Orlov's jaw worked once, the only crack in the mask; then he smiled and inclined his head as if offering a toast. "A dangerous trophy," he murmured, placing the card into Connor's hand. His fingertips lingered for a breath—cold, steady. "Be careful with that card, you have a lot of enemies."
Connor nodded once. Up close, he could see the fine lines at the corners of Orlov's eyes, the calculation always humming. Connor said softly. "I will make sure Jason pays for Pegasus' death.He wronged me as well."
He turned on his heel then, coat flaring, and strode from the platform with the poise of someone who had learned to smile at losses and plan around them.
Jason watched with a jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Deep lines carved his face, not merely from age but from years of sleepless nights hunched over blueprints and experiments that valued results more than humanity. His sharp, sunken eyes followed every movement with obsessive calculation.
The scientist's fingers wrapped white-knuckled around the viewing rail, nails biting into the steel. His lips curled with audible disgust, his voice low but sharp enough to cut. "That Russian snake—stole what was supposed to be mine."
Yet his gaze didn't linger on Orlov. Slowly, inevitably, it shifted toward the boy walking off the dueling platform. Connor Hawkins. The victor. The child clutching the black card that once belonged to nations. The scientist's glare darkened, and the faint tremor of irritation in his jaw became something deeper—anger laced with dread.
His thoughts churned, bitter and restless. That boy…
Jason remembered well. It was by his own hand that Connor had been dragged from another life into this world—an experiment, a "test subject" to tilt fate's scales. At first, Jason had dismissed him, a pawn too small to matter, a child placed in a game where titans like Kaiba and the Pharaoh would crush him without effort. A piece on the board to be swept away when the time came.
But now? Now the boy had stood face-to-face with one of the Wicked Gods and survived. More than survived—he had won. The scientist's eyes narrowed, the comparison gnawing at him. "He shouldn't have been able to do that," Jason muttered, each word bitter as acid. "First the Pharaoh… then Kaiba… and now this boy. Another nuisance standing in the way of progress."
Connor descended from the platform, his expression calm, but Jason saw it—the quiet fire in the boy's eyes, the will to endure no matter how stacked the odds. It was the same stubborn spark that had made Atem unstoppable, the same defiance that made Kaiba refuse to bow to anyone. And now it glowed in Connor.
Jason's jaw tightened until it ached. "I thought you'd be nothing, Hawkins. A shadow. A mistake. But you're going to be a problem. Just like the Pharaoh. Just like Kaiba." His voice dropped to a growl, barely audible, but thick with promise. "And problems… I eliminate."
His gaze flicked once more to the gleaming black card tucked into Connor's hand—The Wicked Dreadroot. A prize taken from Orlov, a weapon that by rights should have been in Jason's arsenal, a piece of the greater scheme now out of his reach. His teeth ground together.
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