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Chapter 44: A New Standard
🕑 Added 2025-06-30 13:50:40 +0000 UTC"You're... Bronze-level?!"
The words tore from Cole Kong's throat like a dying scream, his voice cracking with raw disbelief. The connection to both of his cards had shattered simultaneously, the psychic feedback hitting him like a sledgehammer to the skull. He staggered backward, his vision blurring as the reality crashed over him in waves.
A single strike. One devastating, impossibly perfect strike had been enough to obliterate both his purple-quality [The Unbegotten] and his prized red-quality [Armored Beast · Bo]. The cards that had been his pride, his ticket to glory, reduced to smoking fragments in the space of a heartbeat.
SILENCE.
A stunned quiet fell over the arena like a suffocating blanket, twenty thousand spectators holding their breath as one. The air itself seemed to crystallize, thick with shock and disbelief. Even the ambient hum of the arena's energy systems felt muted, as if the world itself was struggling to process what had just happened.
After what felt like an eternity, Moby's voice crackled over the speakers—usually smooth and confident, now trembling with barely contained excitement. "Our contestant Cole Kong has just claimed that Russell is a bronze-level cardmaker. I... I wonder what the basis for that claim is?"
The commentator's words seemed to come from another dimension. Cole wasn't listening—couldn't listen. His entire world had narrowed to Russell's calm, almost apologetic expression. The boy who had just destroyed his dreams stood there like destroying people was an everyday occurrence.
Russell's response came like a judge's gavel, final and absolute. "Yes."
The single word hit Cole Kong like a physical blow. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles went white, his entire body tensing as if preparing for another assault. But then, like a marionette with cut strings, all the fight drained out of him. His shoulders slumped, his head bowed, and for a moment he looked like a broken doll.
"You win, Russell," he whispered, his voice carrying the weight of shattered dreams. "I'm sorry I couldn't give you a better fight."
The words echoed with devastating honesty. He had truly believed—truly believed—that with the bond between his two cards, the championship was his destiny. The crown had been within his grasp, so close he could taste the metal. But then Russell had appeared like a force of nature, a wall so impossibly high that Cole couldn't even see the top.
For someone who had always considered himself the most talented high school student in New Metro, who had been called a prodigy since middle school, the feeling was nothing short of soul-crushing. His entire identity had been built on being special, being the best, being the chosen one.
Looking at Cole's broken expression, Russell felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest. Did I just destroy this kid's spirit? The thought gnawed at him. He had won, yes, but at what cost? Was crushing someone's dreams really worth a tournament victory?
But then, something extraordinary happened.
A spark flickered in Cole's eyes—small at first, like a candle flame in a hurricane. But it grew, fed by something deeper than pride or ambition. Pure, burning determination. The kind of fire that could forge legends or consume everything in its path.
Cole straightened, his spine snapping rigid as if pulled by invisible wires. The dejection melted away, replaced by something far more dangerous—resolve tempered in the crucible of absolute defeat.
"Russell!" His voice rang out across the arena like a battle cry, strong enough to shake the rafters. He clenched his fist and thrust it toward Russell like a sword. "I will catch up to you one day! I swear it on my name, on my cards, on everything I am!"
The raw emotion in his voice sent chills through the audience. This wasn't just a promise—it was a vow written in blood and fire.
Russell studied the transformed boy before him, seeing something he recognized in those blazing eyes. The hunger of someone who had tasted defeat and found it wanting. He wouldn't be the one to undermine that beautiful, terrible determination.
"Well, good luck," Russell said simply, but his nod carried weight—the acknowledgment of one warrior to another.
BOOM!
Moby's voice exploded through the arena like a sonic boom, the commentator's usual professionalism completely abandoned. "INCREDIBLE! UNBELIEVABLE! EARTH-SHATTERING! You heard it here first, folks! Russell has just confirmed that he is a bronze-level cardmaker!"
The words ricocheted off the arena walls like bullets, each repetition driving the reality deeper into the collective consciousness of the crowd.
"I have been commentating on duels for fifteen years!" Moby continued, his voice rising to a fever pitch. "Fifteen years of tournaments, championships, and rising stars! And I have never, EVER seen a bronze-level cardmaker this young!"
The statement hung in the air like a thunderclap. It wasn't entirely unprecedented—in years past, legendary geniuses had appeared in the Federation like shooting stars, reaching the bronze level in their senior year of high school. But that was after half a year, sometimes longer, of intensive study and practice. The current school year had only started a month and a half ago.
A month and a half. Forty-five days to achieve what most considered impossible before graduation.
ROAAAAAR!
The arena erupted into chaos. Twenty thousand voices rose as one, a tsunami of sound that threatened to bring down the roof. People were on their feet, screaming, crying, some looking like they'd seen a ghost.
"Oh my god... what's that saying? 'Before I saw a true genius, I was a frog in a well seeing the moon. Now I'm an ant seeing the sky!'" a student shouted, tears streaming down his face.
"Damn, dude, you've got a way with words! But you're right! This Russell is probably the greatest talent we've seen in years!" his friend replied, voice hoarse from screaming.
"It should be. At least, I've never heard of anyone hitting bronze in just over a month."
"That might not be true. Have you forgotten Yves St. Clair? And he's only in his thirties now."
"Haha, you're comparing Russell to Yves St. Clair? Now that's high praise."
"Russell? Forget Russell! We should be calling him a god in the making! Russell the Great!"
The name began to spread like wildfire through the crowd, picked up and amplified until it became a chant: "RUSSELL THE GREAT! RUSSELL THE GREAT!"
As the finals were broadcast live across the city, similar eruptions of shock and awe exploded everywhere. In corporate boardrooms, university offices, and living rooms throughout New Metro, people watched history unfold in real-time.
RING! RING! RING!
A director of a private high school frantically hammered his phone, sweat beading on his forehead as he screamed into the receiver. "Is it possible to get Russell to transfer to our school?! I don't care what it costs! Whatever number he names—ten million, fifty million—as long as it's in our budget, we can accept it!"
Similar scenes played out across the city. University recruiters, watching the match with hawk-like intensity, silently placed not just a star but an entire constellation next to Russell's name on their lists.
"Pay special attention to this one," a dean whispered to his assistant, his voice tight with barely contained excitement. "As long as his scores in the provincial unified exams aren't terrible, we should consider a priority recruitment. Full scholarship, research opportunities, whatever it takes."
At home, Nancy Whitemore sat frozen in her chair, her cup of tea growing cold in her hands. She had returned from her own secret realm mission some time ago, flush with victory and rare resources. Her father had explained why Russell had come back so quickly, and she had understood that he likely hadn't obtained many resources there.
She had thought—hoped—that with the rewards from her own successful mission, she might finally be able to catch up to him. The gap had felt bridgeable, surmountable with enough effort and determination.
And now this. He was already a bronze-level cardmaker.
"You really know how to make a person feel hopeless, Russell," she sighed, her voice carrying a complex mix of pride and despair that only someone who had chased an impossible dream could understand.
In an abandoned factory somewhere in the city's industrial district, a group of thugs watched the match on a flickering screen salvaged from a dumpster. The picture quality was terrible, but the audio came through crystal clear.
"These damn geniuses... It's really something to be envious of," one muttered, taking a swig from a bottle of cheap liquor.
"That's for sure. If I had that kind of talent, I wouldn't be stuck in this hellhole," another replied, his voice bitter with years of accumulated failure.
"Hahaha, watch your mouth. You don't want Mr. Hemlock to hear you talking like that," a third warned, glancing nervously at the shadows.
"Tsk, these geniuses only get to show off for a little while. I don't believe for a second the Society is holding this tournament just to help the enemy."
"It's hard to say. Maybe in two years, he'll parachute into the Association and become your boss."
The thought sent uncomfortable chuckles through the group. In the world of cardmaking, talent was everything, and everything else was just noise.
In the crowd of thugs, a shiny bald head reflected the light of the bare electric bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Brother Tiger squinted at the screen, his face scrunched in concentration.
"Russell? Why does that name sound so familiar?" he muttered, scratching his scalp. "I remember..."
Just as a flicker of true memory was about to surface—a memory of a young man's face, of a transaction that had gone wrong, of consequences that should have been severe—the shadow of a white six-tailed fox in his mind pulsed with a faint, almost imperceptible light.
PULSE.
The memory dissolved like sugar in water, leaving only vague impressions and false recollections.
"Oh," Brother Tiger said, his confusion clearing like morning mist. "I remember now. Isn't that the kid who was one of our clients before? Good customer, paid on time."
He put the thought aside and continued to watch the post-match ceremony, completely unaware of the manipulation that had just occurred in his mind.
In a dark corner of the factory, unnoticed by the others, a man in a black suit watched Brother Tiger with a knowing, predatory smile. His eyes glowed with an inner light that seemed to shift between colors like oil on water.
Back in the arena, amidst the thunderous applause that showed no signs of dying down, the guests from the VIP box descended to the field like vultures to carrion. The other top-eight finishers followed, their faces a mixture of congratulations and barely concealed envy.
Mr. Sterling, the executive from Golden Talent Credit, took the lead with practiced ease, his smile so perfect it could have been carved from marble. He extended his hand to Russell with the fluid grace of someone who had done this a thousand times before.
"Congratulations, Russell. A well-deserved first place," he said, his voice carrying the warmth of genuine admiration mixed with the calculation of a shrewd businessman.
"It was just luck," Russell replied with a polite, practiced smile, but his handshake was firm and brief—a subtle message that he wasn't impressed by titles or flattery.
"Congratulations, kid. When you have time, you should come by the New Metro Star Battle Club," another guest chimed in, practically radiating eagerness.
"A true hero from the youth," added a third, his eyes gleaming with the dollar signs of future investments.
The other guests crowded around like moths to a flame, each eager to offer their own congratulations and plant the seeds of future business relationships. For a talent like Russell, with a future as bright as his, a smile and a handshake were small investments that could pay enormous dividends.
Jansen Crowe, one of the other finalists, stood apart from the crowd, staring at Russell with the shell-shocked expression of someone who had just watched their entire worldview crumble. Less than a month ago, at the joint exam, they had been on relatively even footing. Russell had been better, yes, but not impossibly so.
Now, Russell was in a different league entirely. A different species.
After a long moment, a wry, self-deprecating smile touched Jansen's lips—the kind of smile that came from finally understanding just how small you really were in the grand scheme of things.
"It seems," he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible over the crowd, "that I should dye my hair back to its original color."
The rainbow streaks that had once seemed so bold and rebellious now felt like a child's costume in the presence of true power.
After the congratulations came the award ceremony, a spectacle of lights, cameras, and corporate branding that transformed the arena into a photographer's paradise.
FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!
On the podium, Russell held a giant, novelty check for one million credits in one hand—the plastic was so large it was almost comical—and shook hands with Mr. Sterling with the other. The constant strobing of cameras nearly blinded him, each flash accompanied by the mechanical whir of professional equipment.
The million credits felt surreal. A month ago, he had been worrying about textbook costs and meal plans. Now he was holding enough money to buy a small house, all because he had made some cards and won some fights.
After what felt like an eternity of forced smiles and repeated handshakes, the ceremony finally ended. Russell's face hurt from maintaining his expression, and he was looking forward to nothing more than a quiet corner and a moment to process everything that had happened.
But as he began to step down from the podium, Mr. Sterling's voice cut through the crowd like a blade.
"Students, if I could have you stay for just a moment," he said, his smile somehow becoming even more perfect—and therefore more unsettling. "Our President from Golden Talent Credit, Director Valerius, would like to meet you all."
Russell felt his blood turn to ice. The name hit him like a physical blow, and he didn't even have to look at Jonathan Whitemore standing behind the executive to know what was coming.
"Please, rest assured," Mr. Sterling continued with the smooth delivery of a practiced salesman, "he simply wishes to meet you young heroes in person. And, by the way, he would like to offer some... financial support to you all, as a token of his appreciation."
The pause before "financial support" was loaded with meaning, and Russell's enhanced senses picked up the subtle tension in the air. This wasn't a celebration anymore—it was a trap, and he was the primary target.
Russell's heart hammered against his ribs as the pieces of some larger puzzle began to fall into place. The tournament, the timing, the convenient appearance of corporate sponsors—none of it was coincidence.
The main event was about to begin, and Russell had the sinking feeling that everything up until now had just been the opening act.
(End of this chapter)
