Nighttime.
Ron and Nora sat face to face at the coffee table on the first floor.
Nora held five cards in her hand, her brow furrowed slightly as she glanced at her character card showing just 2 HP remaining. Her lips unconsciously pouted in frustration.
Ron was using the Dwarf Seer Dicky Locke, whose ability allowed him to become untargetable by Slash or Arena cards when he had no cards in hand.
Nora had remembered the skill—but not carefully enough to play around it.
After drawing two cards from the top of the deck, she impulsively played Demon's Hand, stealing Ron's only card.
And just like that, Ron now had zero cards in hand.
Nora glanced down at her own hand: one Slash, one Arena, two Dodges, and one Keenus' Spear—and froze.
Ron smiled at her, tapping the table. "If you're not playing any more cards, it's time to discard."
"Who says I'm not playing!" Nora huffed, pulling out Keenus' Spear to replace her current weapon, Supreme Staff.
"And?" Ron chuckled, watching her.
Nora puffed up her cheeks and, heartbroken, tossed her Slash and Arena into the discard pile.
Since she only had 2 HP, she could only hold two cards at the end of her turn, so she reluctantly kept both Dodges to stay alive.
Staring wistfully at the two cards she just discarded, Nora muttered, "I'm done."
"My turn then." Ron grinned and drew five cards, glanced at them, rearranged the order, and placed them back on top of the deck.
This was another ability of the Seer Dicky Locke—view and rearrange the top five cards of the deck before drawing.
Then he began his draw phase, pulling the two top cards—carefully selected moments earlier.
"Arena."
"Ah!" Nora groaned in frustration, unhappily losing 1 HP.
[Arena: Target a player. That player goes first. You and the target take turns playing Slash until one of you can't. The loser takes 1 damage.]
Her only Slash was already discarded—still lying there in the discard pile.
Now Nora was down to 1 HP.
"I should've kept that Slash…" she grumbled, cheeks puffed in regret.
"Undead Invasion."
Smack. Ron laid down the second card, eyes twinkling.
"You discarded a Slash, didn't respond to my Arena, didn't use a Peach to heal up earlier… your last two cards must be two Dodges, or one Dodge and something useless, right?"
"…I lost again…" Nora sighed, tossing her cards on the table and leaning over to shuffle the deck. "One more round, Boss! I'll win this time for sure!"
Ron laughed. They'd already played five solo rounds, and Nora hadn't won a single game—yet her enthusiasm only seemed to grow stronger.
Getting addicted to cards already, huh…
Time to help this girl kick the habit.
"Last game," Ron said after glancing at the time. "Win or lose, we're closing the shop after. You should head home early."
Not that I plan to let you win anyway.
"Okay! Boss, I finished shuffling. Pick your character!"
Nora's bright, cheerful voice rang through the shop.
Late night.
On a small hillside southwest of the Chaos City Magic Academy.
The nearby magic towers glowed faintly in the darkness.
An elderly man in a worn, tattered robe trudged up the slope, entering the quiet graveyard situated there.
He had a full white beard, unkempt and scraggly, with strands so messy some were even knotted.
He stopped before a simple tombstone, his robe shimmering faintly with silver light—and with a flick of magic, two wine bottles appeared in his hands.
He opened both, placing one by the tombstone and keeping the other in his hand.
With each sip he took, he'd pour a bit from the other bottle onto the grave.
Halfway through the bottle, his tipsy gaze shifted—something had caught his attention to the northeast.
At the Legendary level, one's very life essence underwent a form of transcendence. If another Legendary was nearby, it was impossible not to sense their presence.
From the slope below, a tall, broad-shouldered blond man was walking up.
Commander Webster arrived at the elder's side, bowed slightly to the tombstone in respect, then turned to face the elder.
"Been a long time, Vosbites."
The old man squinted at Webster, saying nothing at first. He raised the bottle on the tombstone and poured the rest of it out before finally rasping, "André III sent you, didn't he?"
Webster raised an eyebrow. "Why would you say that? Can't an old friend just come to catch up?"
"I'd like to believe that," Vosbites muttered, draining the rest of his wine and stumbling slightly as he started down the hill. "But reality says otherwise."
Webster followed him. "Just wanted to have a casual chat. No need to run off so fast."
"Heh." Vosbites shot him a sideways glance and said slowly, "A few days ago, a professor told me something. Said he purchased a batch of strange plants from the Empire's Seventh Prince. They even struck a long-term deal."
Webster didn't respond—but his mind was racing.
So they didn't even try to hide the transaction?
Vosbites continued walking, hands clasped behind his back, before exploding into a vulgar rant:
"What, you think giving us two little magic plants will make the Academy roll over and become your dogs!?"
"André's been breeding lapdogs all these years, and now he wants to try his tricks on us!?"
"In your dreams!"
"Bullsh*t!"
"If you're here to pitch that kind of nonsense, I'll blast you off this mountain myself!"
"Lickin' boots for André all your life finally messed with your brain, huh?!"
"You think I'm still that idiot who used to be pushed around by those morons in the Ministry of Magic!?"
"I'm the Dean of the Chaos City Magic Academy now!"
"We don't play your political games!"
Webster walked silently beside him, completely unfazed by Vosbites' explosive tirade.
Vosbites' temper had been legendary since his youth—and not in a good way.
Even after all these years as Academy Dean, his attitude hadn't changed one bit.
Still, Webster was left wondering—was Vosbites' rage genuine, or was this entire speech carefully prepared to throw off Imperial suspicion?
Because if the Academy really was pulling the strings behind the scenes, this might just be a clever reverse-blame tactic to pin the situation back on the Empire.
Vosbites finally paused, glancing sideways. "What? Got nothing to say now?"
Webster thought for a moment, then replied calmly, "What if I told you… The Empire never gave His Highness Ron any Nether Orchids or Crimson-Gold Chrysanthemums?"