The victory parade in Silver Ridge was a blur of neon lights and hollow cheers. To the world, Rami was the ultimate underdog—the "Ghost" who had climbed the obsidian ziggurat and brought down the Sterling empire. The local news stations played the footage of the Avenging Spirit of the Nile on a loop, the golden light of the spear-strike reflecting in the eyes of every aspiring duelist in the city.
But for Rami, the air in Silver Ridge felt thinner than it had at five thousand feet.
He stood at the entrance of the industrial district, his trophy—a heavy, silver-plated Duel Disk—slung over his shoulder like a burden. Maya walked beside him, her hand occasionally brushing his. She was the only one who didn't look at him like he was a miracle. She looked at him like he was a boy who had barely survived a landslide.
"You've been quiet since we got off the airship," Maya said softly, her eyes searching his face. "The school is planning a ceremony, Rami. Even Jax Miller is telling people he's your 'rival' now."
Rami let out a dry, mirthless chuckle. "Rivalry implies a game, Maya. What happened on that island... that wasn't a game. Corvus didn't care about the trophy. He wanted the gate. And even though it's closed, I can still feel it. Like a draft under a door."
He adjusted the strap of his satchel. The Millennium Puzzle was oddly silent today. Ever since the thirty-sixth piece had clicked into place, the artifact had stopped vibrating. It felt heavier, denser, as if the spirit inside was no longer restless, but settled, waiting for the final countdown.
"I just want to see my grandfather," Rami said, turning the corner toward The Vault of Fables. "I want to sit in the shop, smell the old paper, and forget that 'Divine' monsters exist for five minutes."
Maya smiled, a genuine flicker of warmth. "I'll race you to the door. Solomon probably has a feast waiting."
They ran the last block, the familiar creak of the industrial district's rusted gates sounding like music to Rami's ears. But as they reached the storefront of the shop, the music stopped.
The front window of The Vault of Fables, which had survived thirty years of neighborhood decline, was shattered. Shards of glass lay scattered across the sidewalk like jagged diamonds. The heavy oak door was hanging off one hinge, its surface gouged by something that looked like claw marks.
"Grandpa?" Rami's voice was a whisper, lost in the wind.
He didn't wait for Maya. He lunged through the doorway, his boots crunching on broken glass. Inside, the shop was a graveyard of history. The shelves had been toppled, and thousands of rare cards—the collection Solomon had spent a lifetime building—were strewn across the floor, trampled and torn. The scent of jasmine and old paper had been replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of ozone.
"Solomon!" Rami screamed, sprinting toward the back office.
The office was empty. Solomon's tea set was smashed on the floor, the liquid still damp on the rug. But it was what was on the desk that stopped Rami's heart.
Nailed to the center of the desk was a single card. It wasn't an "Ancient" card, and it wasn't a "Viper" card. It was a card Rami had never seen before: The Shadow-Hanged Man. The artwork depicted a figure suspended by chains of dark energy, their face obscured by a hood of shifting smoke.
Across the card, written in ink that seemed to pulse with a low, crimson light, were four words:
THE DEBT IS DUE.
"He's gone," Maya whispered from the doorway, her face pale. "Rami, the whole shop... it's been stripped. But they didn't take the cards for money. Look."
She pointed to a pile of "Ultra-Rare" cards in the corner. They had been ignored. The intruders hadn't been looking for value. They had been looking for a person.
Rami felt a cold, sharp blade of anger cut through the shock. He walked over to the desk and pulled the nail from the wood, gripping the Shadow-Hanged Man card in his hand. The moment his skin touched the card, a holographic projection flickered to life.
It wasn't a professional recording. It was a grainy, high-contrast feed of the shop's basement. Solomon was there, tied to a wooden chair. He looked bruised, his glasses cracked, but his eyes were still fierce. Standing behind him were three figures in long, tattered gray coats, their faces hidden by masks that resembled the gears of a clock.
"The boy has the vessel," one of the figures said, his voice a distorted, mechanical drone. "But the old man has the memory. The Sterling ritual was a crude attempt by an amateur. We are the Keepers of the Gear. And we do not require a gate, Rami. We require the soul of the one who knows how to break the seal."
The figure leaned down, his mask inches from Solomon's face. "Return to the ziggurat at midnight. Bring the wooden box and the pieces you have gathered. If you involve the authorities, or if you bring the girl, the old man becomes the first sacrifice to the new age."
The projection vanished, leaving the room in a heavy, suffocating silence.
Rami squeezed the card until it crinkled. The gold of the Millennium Puzzle against his chest began to grow hot—not the gentle warmth of before, but a searing, vengeful heat.
"Rami, you can't go back there," Maya said, her voice trembling. "It's a trap. Corvus might have fled, but whoever these people are... they're different. They didn't use holograms. That ozone smell... that's real Shadow magic."
"I know," Rami said. He turned to face her, and for a second, Maya stepped back.
Rami's eyes weren't the eyes of the boy who had walked home from the parade. They were hard, cold, and focused. The light of the ziggurat hadn't just changed his deck; it had changed the marrow of his bones.
"They took the only thing I had left," Rami said, his voice low and dangerous. "They want the puzzle? They can have it. But they're going to have to take it one piece at a time."
He walked to the back of the shop, to a hidden floorboard Solomon had told him about years ago. He pried it open and pulled out a small, iron-bound chest. Inside was a deck of cards wrapped in weathered silk—the "Forbidden Foundation" Solomon had forbidden him from using until he was a man.
Rami unslotted his tournament deck and replaced it with the silk-wrapped cards.
"Maya, stay here. Call the police, tell them the shop was robbed by vandals. Don't tell them about Solomon. If these 'Keepers' see a squad car at the ziggurat, he's dead."
"Rami, please—"
"I'm not a Ghost anymore, Maya," he said, walking toward the door. "And I'm not a hero. I'm a grandson. And I'm going to bring him home."
As he stepped out into the rain-slicked streets of Silver Ridge, he felt a sharp, crystalline click from his satchel. He didn't have to look. He knew. The anger, the intent, the sheer force of his will had triggered the artifact