The flickering torchlight within the catacombs of Domino's hidden underworld cast long shadows across the stone walls. Dust hung in the air like old secrets, and every footstep echoed like a whisper of the past.
Jason Whitesmith stepped forward, his white coat slightly stained from ash and smoke, his expression unreadable as always—masking the quiet satisfaction in his eyes. Behind him, The Duelist Exterminator walked like a silent ghost, unreadable and cold. The pair moved deeper into the lair of the Rare Hunters, where two figures awaited them beneath a domed chamber etched with ancient Egyptian sigils.
Marik Ishtar turned from the altar, a smile spreading across his face. Golden eyes gleamed with surprise and nostalgia. "Jason... after all this time. Where have you been?" he asked, his voice thick with warmth—a rare thing in this temple of shadows.
Jason gave a small nod of greeting. His gaze lingered on Marik for a beat longer than necessary, and there was something nearly paternal in it. "I brought presents, of course," he said casually. "I did a bit of digging and found someone special." He stepped aside with a flourish.
The Duelist Exterminator stepped forward, his eyes like glass, empty and unmoved. Marik's gaze sharpened, a glint of recognition and excitement flashing across his face.
"You brought him out of retirement?" Marik said, astonished. "The Duelist Exterminator... you're serious. You brought him to hunt Yugi?"
Jason's smirk deepened. "I wanted it to be a surprise."
Odion, standing silently beside Marik, shifted slightly. His dark eyes narrowed, landing on Jason with something colder than suspicion. Unlike the other followers, his face was unmarked—no tattoo, no emblem, only the calm austerity of his expression. The smooth planes of his skin caught the dim light, emphasizing the sharp lines of his jaw and the quiet strength that lingered beneath his stillness. His posture was rigid but composed, his presence commanding without effort. He did not trust this man—not then, not now. "So, what's the plan then?" Jason asked, turning back to Marik.
Marik chuckled, his expression darkening with purpose. "My Rare Hunters have captured Joey Wheeler. I plan to pit him against Yugi—alongside the Exodia duelist. I figured it better safe than sorry, considering what you told me about the Pharaoh."
Jason nodded slowly. "Yugi's heart is his greatest weakness. You strike there, the rest falls apart."
Marik's face hardened, his voice deepening. "My father will be avenged for what the Pharaoh did. He betrayed us—his loyal followers. Ishizu… she refuses to see the truth, blinded by her devotion to that parasite."
Jason offered a sympathetic shrug. "If I come across her, I'll spare her. Out of respect for you."
Marik's eyes briefly softened. "Thank you, Jason. She's still my sister, even if she's lost her way."
As the conversation hung in the air, Odion said nothing. His eyes never left Jason. There was something in that man's presence that twisted his stomach—something off. Jason had always seemed to know too much, to be one step ahead of even the most cunning.
A moment passed. Then the flames around the chamber flickered.
FLASHBACK - MARIK'S MEMORY
The tomb was deathly silent. Marik, barely more than a teenager, stumbled through the rubble and broken relics until he reached the center.
His father's corpse lay sprawled on the ground. Blood soaked the stone beneath him. Standing over the body—cloaked in shadow and golden light—was the Pharaoh himself. The Millennium Rod dripped red.
Marik froze.
His eyes widened in disbelief, in horror. "No..." he breathed.
The Pharaoh turned slowly. His face was emotionless at first, then twisted into something cruel.
"You're too weak to be worth killing," the Pharaoh said coldly. "But if you want to avenge your father..."
The Rod clattered to the floor. The Pharaoh walked forward until he stood inches from Marik. The young boy trembled but did not flee.
"Gather all three God Cards. Train until your skin bleeds," the Pharaoh whispered.
Marik's eyes filled with tears—of pain, of betrayal.
"Why?" he asked, voice shaking.
The Pharaoh chuckled darkly. "Because I've been waiting for a real challenge. Your father? He was too weak for me to bother."
He turned away.
"Provide me with that challenge," he said. "That is my last command to you."
And then he was gone. The tomb was silent again, save for Marik's quiet, growing hatred.
The tomb was silent. The air was thick with incense smoke, coppery blood, and grief.
Marik knelt beside his father's lifeless body, the crimson pool staining the ceremonial wrappings of the tomb guardian. His small hands trembled as he reached for his father's face, but he couldn't bring himself to close the man's vacant, blood-glazed eyes.
His lips quivered.
"He's… dead," Marik whispered, barely audible. His knees scraped against the rough stone, and his fingers curled into fists so tight they bled.
The Millennium Rod lay discarded near the steps. The sight of it twisted something deep in Marik's chest.
The boy stared blankly at the wall. Something had died in him alongside his father.
Footsteps approached. Not the thunderous stomp of a soldier. Not the distant echo of a tombkeeper's return. These were slow, calculated. Purposeful.
Marik didn't turn. He didn't have the strength.
Then came a calm, unfamiliar voice. Smooth. Controlled.
"He wasn't weak, you know."
Marik's head jerked up. His body tensed instinctively, his fingers snatching the broken Millennium Rod as a weapon, even if he lacked the will to lift it.
From the shadows stepped a tall figure in a pale white coat—dust-streaked and worn from travel. His face was youthful but gaunt, like a man who never truly slept. Round glasses sat low on his nose, catching the glint of torchlight. He didn't smile, not quite. But his expression was soft. Calculating, but gentle.
Jason Whitesmith.
"You've… no right to be here," Marik rasped, voice breaking. "Leave."
Jason ignored the order. He walked slowly, stopping just short of the bloodstained steps. His eyes flicked briefly to the corpse, then to the boy gripping the Rod.
"I came looking for the Pharaoh. But I found something far more interesting."
Marik's eyes burned, both from tears and rage. "He killed my father… and laughed." His voice cracked. "Said I wasn't even worth the effort."
Jason's expression finally changed—his brow furrowed, not in sympathy, but in recognition.
"I believe you," he said quietly.
The words hung heavy.
Jason crouched slowly, reaching a hand toward Marik—not as a soldier, not as a threat, but as something else entirely. "Come on," he said. "You shouldn't be alone down here."
Marik stared at the outstretched hand. His lip trembled again. His body didn't move at first.
Jason's voice lowered. "You want power? Vengeance? You'll need more than rage for that. You need time. Education. Discipline. Connections."
Marik finally looked him in the eye. There was confusion behind his fury, fear beneath his hatred.
"Why… help me?" he asked.
Jason tilted his head slightly, his voice dropping to a softer, almost paternal tone.
"Because I see the storm in you, Marik… the fire. And unlike that so-called king—" he gestured subtly toward the fallen tomb, "I don't discard the ones who give me their loyalty. I protect them. I elevate them."
He leaned in just enough to meet Marik's trembling gaze.
"You've already lost everything to a man who only valued you when it was convenient. Let me show you what it's like to be valued… not for who you were born to be, but for the strength you choose to become."He stepped closer, placing a hand gently on Marik's shoulder.
"I can give you shelter. Knowledge. I can make you stronger."
Marik hesitated. But the ache in his chest was unbearable. He looked one last time at his father's body—broken, cold, discarded like a ruined relic.
Then he turned back and slowly took Jason's hand.
Jason smiled faintly. Not out of joy—but satisfaction.
He pulled the boy to his feet. "Good," he said. "Now let's go. You've got a war to prepare for."
And together, they walked out of the tomb—leaving the Pharaoh's cruelty, and the corpse of loyalty, in the dark behind them.
BACK TO PRESENT
Marik clenched his fists behind his back as the memory faded.
Jason watched him carefully. "Still burns, doesn't it?"
Marik nodded. "I haven't forgotten. And I never will."
Odion stepped forward at last, his tone low and guarded. "Be careful, Jason. I don't trust you—you always have more cards hidden than you let anyone see."
Jason smiled, tilting his head. "That's the nature of a good player."
Marik laughed darkly, patting Odion's shoulder. "Let him be. He's been with us for a long time. For now."
The Duelist Exterminator stood motionless behind them all, eyes locked not on the present, but on a vision of the battlefield ahead. His fingers itched to shuffle a deck, to silence another soul beneath the weight of logic and war.
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