AutumnXd
patreon
Chapter 40: The Prodigy Cup
🕑 Added 2025-06-30 13:35:33 +0000 UTCRussell's ultimatum crackled through the air of the high-level office like electricity before a storm. He was preparing to dive back into the [Black Flag] realm—not chasing glory or treasure this time, but hunting for blood. Twenty-four hours. That's all it had taken to turn his world upside down and inside out.
University entrance? Russell's lips curved into a cold smile. I'll earn my place at Riverview through my own damn merit. His confidence wasn't arrogance—it was stone-cold certainty.
President Lance Jennings drummed his fingers on his mahogany desk, studying the young man before him. The boy had been through hell and back, and it showed in every line of his posture. Loyalty like this is rarer than diamond-tier cards, Jennings mused. And with Blake Whitmore practically salivating over this kid's potential...
The math was simple: invest now, reap rewards later.
"Keep your other rewards," Jennings declared, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "The two million credits are yours. And I'll personally authorize your return to [Black Flag] after the Prodigy Cup—win or lose."
Russell's eyebrows shot up. He'd expected negotiation, maybe some bureaucratic runaround. Instead, he was getting the royal treatment. "Thank you, President Jennings. I won't forget this."
"Forget gratitude—just don't die on my watch." Jennings waved dismissively. "As for the Cup, I'm sending your entire key class as participants. Safety in numbers, and you won't stick out like a sore thumb."
What Jennings didn't mention was the delicious irony of the situation. Russell was perfect bait—orphaned, talented, desperate for power. The Spirit Begging Society would take one look at his profile and practically trip over themselves to recruit him. They'd already scrubbed his official records cleaner than a hospital floor. Even Tiger, that poor bastard, was now wandering around with scrambled memories, unknowingly leading them straight back to his puppet masters.
"So," Russell leaned forward, "what's my actual mission once I win this thing?"
Jennings' grin was sharp enough to cut glass. "Simple—just be yourself. The Society is planning something big, and they're specifically targeting high schoolers. The million-credit prize?" He scoffed. "That's just the appetizer. But don't worry—Blake's got one of his shadow cards ready to babysit you. Think of it as the world's most expensive invisible bodyguard."
Russell's shoulders relaxed. A safety net. Thank god. "Fortune favors the bold," he muttered, then louder: "Let's do this."
Deal struck, handshakes exchanged, Russell found himself standing under the star-drunk sky outside the Association building. His head was spinning—not from exhaustion, but from the sheer velocity of change. Yesterday morning, he'd been just another student. Now he was a millionaire with a government mission and a Master-level cardmaker as his patron.
He summoned Pidgeot with a flick of his wrist. "Home, old friend. I need to process... everything."
The next morning at New Metro First High, Russell's classroom felt oddly empty. Nancy and Liam were still MIA—probably still trudging back from whatever corner of the secret realm they'd ended up in. The other students, however, were buzzing like caffeinated bees, clearly bursting with questions.
Just as they started converging on Russell's desk like vultures on roadkill, Victoria Song burst through the door.
"Sit down, you gossip-hungry hyenas!" she barked, slamming a stack of papers on the podium. "I've got news that'll make your little hearts flutter."
Twenty-three pairs of eyes locked onto her instantly.
"The school, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that our entire key class will be participating in the Prodigy Cup. Think of it as a field trip, but with more violence and prize money."
One brave soul raised his hand. "The Prodigy what-now?"
Victoria's eye twitched. "Do any of you read anything besides textbooks? The Prodigy Cup—sponsored by Golden Talent Credit. Every high school student in New Metro. One million credits to the winner."
The classroom erupted like a kicked ant hill.
"ONE MILLION?!"
"Are you serious?!"
"I'm rich! I'm gonna be rich!"
Then, like a bucket of ice water, reality hit them. Twenty-three heads turned in perfect synchronization toward Russell, who was sitting in the corner looking about as excited as someone watching paint dry.
The excitement deflated faster than a punctured balloon.
"Oh. Right. Russell exists."
"Well, there goes my yacht money."
"Maybe I can get second place? Second place is still good money, right? Right?"
Russell pretended not to hear the collective sigh of resignation.
Two days later, Russell stood outside the Azure Dragon Arena, checking his phone for the third time. His bank account now read 2.72 million credits—a number so absurd he had to resist the urge to screenshot it. Still not enough for a top-tier custom bronze card, he noted. The things money can't buy...
The Prodigy Cup was a carnival of teenage ambition and parental anxiety. Food vendors hawked "Champion's Luck" dumplings, merchandise booths sold foam fingers emblazoned with "Future Cardmaster," and the air practically vibrated with nervous energy.
The preliminary rounds were designed to handle the sheer volume of participants—thousands of kids, all convinced they were destined for greatness. The top 64 would advance to the televised rounds, complete with professional commentary and city-wide broadcast.
"Venue A, Azure Dragon Arena," Russell muttered, pocketing his phone. "Time to see what New Metro's 'future generation' looks like."
The arena was packed with spectators—mostly other participants scouting the competition. Russell's first opponent was already waiting in the ring: a kid who looked like he'd lost a fight with a pizza and a stress ball, his face a constellation of acne and nervous sweat.
The referee raised his hand. "Contestants ready?"
The acne-faced boy struck a pose that would have made a superhero proud—if superheroes were awkward teenagers with questionable fashion sense.
"COME FORTH, PAW PATROL!"
Russell blinked. Once. Twice. Did he just...?
A golden retriever materialized in the center of the ring, tongue hanging out, tail wagging, looking like it had wandered in from a children's show instead of a competitive cardmaster tournament.
Yoriichi Tsugikuni appeared beside Russell, slowly turning to look at his master with an expression that clearly said: Are you seeing this shit?
Russell's eye twitched violently. "Yes, that's... that's your opponent. I'm as confused as you are, Yunyi."
The demon slayer looked back at the golden retriever, then at Russell, then at the retriever again. If he'd had eyebrows, they would have been in orbit.
One second later, the Paw Patrol vanished in a puff of light and disappointed dog whimpers.
Russell had assumed the retriever was a scout card—something weak sent out to gather intel on stronger opponents. But when he saw his opponent's face drain of color faster than a vampire in sunlight, when the boy crumpled to his knees like his strings had been cut, Russell realized with dawning horror that the golden retriever had been the kid's only card.
The crowd exploded:
"HOLY SHIT, SOMEONE ACTUALLY BROUGHT A WHITE-QUALITY CARD!"
"Why can't I get opponents like that?!"
"Did you see that sword guy? He looked like he could slice through steel!"
"Dude, it was a golden retriever. My grandmother could beat a golden retriever!"
"Your grandmother's scary, though."
"Fair point."
Russell walked off the field, feeling like he'd just kicked a puppy in front of a crowd of children. His first match was over before it began, and he wasn't sure if he should feel victorious or guilty.
One down, he thought, however many thousand to go.
Meanwhile, in a room that looked like it had been decorated by paranoid spies, several observers monitored dozens of screens showing preliminary matches.
"That one," Observer #1 pointed at a screen showing Jansen Crowe flexing after obliterating his opponent. "Gold-quality card, minimum. Maybe higher. Tag him as a seeded player."
Click-click-click went the keyboard.
"I can't read this guy at all," Observer #2 muttered, rewinding footage of Yoriichi's one-second victory. "What kind of analysis can you do on a fight against a Paw Patrol? It's like trying to judge a sports car by watching it outrun a bicycle."
"Flag him for continued observation," Observer #1 decided. "Next round should be more revealing."
"Assuming his next opponent doesn't bring a hamster."
As the first day of competition wound down, a comprehensive report landed on the desk of Golden Talent Credit's chairman—a man whose office was so dark it seemed to absorb light.
He scrolled through the talent assessments, his fingers dancing across the tablet screen. "Jansen Crowe... Cole Kong... impressive cohort this year. New Metro's really outdone itself."
He leaned back in his chair, and for a moment, something almost like genuine appreciation flickered across his features.
Then it died.
"What a pity."
His laugh echoed through the office—hollow, mirthless, and somehow wrong, like the sound of breaking glass wrapped in silk.
Outside his window, the city of New Metro sparkled with electric life, unaware that its brightest young stars were being catalogued like specimens in a collection.
The game was about to begin.
(End of Chapter)
