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The day's classes ended with the familiar rhythm of shuffling papers and closing textbooks, sounds that had become as routine as breathing in Russell's new life. After exchanging the usual pleasantries with Heath and Keith—discussions of homework and weekend plans that felt simultaneously normal and surreal given the shadows lurking beneath his seemingly ordinary existence—Russell signaled to one of his Shadowkhan.
The transition from mundane student to something far more dangerous always carried a peculiar satisfaction. Students throughout the cardmaking department had grown accustomed to his dramatic entrances over the past weeks, though newcomers still jumped when dark figures materialized from shadow. The novelty of being the only freshman among the Battle Club's main team members had worn thin for most observers, but Russell found himself constantly aware of the weight that distinction carried.
Political implications, he mused as his Shadowkhan carried him through shadow-space toward the Battle Club offices. Everything in this world comes back to politics eventually.
His position on the main team wasn't just about skill—though his defeat of Grant had certainly established his combat credentials. It was about potential, about what he might become if properly cultivated. The Association watched promising students closely, identifying future assets long before graduation. The Spirit Begging Society did the same, though their methods tended toward corruption rather than cultivation.
Both sides wanted Russell Miller, though neither understood what they were truly courting.
The Battle Club office materialized around him as the Shadowkhan completed their transit, depositing him into a space that perpetually teetered between organized chaos and outright disaster. Coach Carter sat hunched over his phone, thumb scrolling with the absorbed attention of someone deeply invested in whatever content held his focus.
"Coach Carter," Russell announced his presence with the respectful tone expected of a student, though internally he found himself analyzing the man's posture, the slight tension in his shoulders that suggested stress beyond simple phone browsing.
"Take a seat," Carter replied without looking up, a chuckle escaping as he apparently found something amusing on his screen. The dismissive casualness should have been insulting—Russell was, after all, a main team member now—but it revealed something more interesting about Carter's character. The man treated all his students with the same distracted informality, suggesting either supreme confidence in his position or complete disconnection from the political games surrounding promising cardmakers.
Russell suspected it was the former. To coach at Northgate University's level required more than simple competence. Carter had connections, influence, the kind of soft power that let him arrange practice matches with rival institutions on short notice. The question was whether those connections aligned with the Association, the court, or some third faction Russell hadn't identified yet.
A Shadowkhan materialized beside him, positioning his ornate chair with silent efficiency. The piece of furniture had been an impulse purchase, but Russell found himself increasingly pleased with the investment. Image mattered in their world of carefully maintained hierarchies, and arriving in style sent subtle messages about confidence and resources. The chair also served a practical purpose—it was comfortable enough for extended waiting periods, and the Shadowkhan could position it optimally for observing others without appearing to stare.
Which brings us to today's real question, Russell thought, settling into the plush cushions. Why exactly am I here?
He could rule out a challenge from another student—the office held only Carter and himself, and formal challenges required witnesses from the administration. This had to be internal Battle Club business, but the timing felt odd. The national competition lay months in the future, too distant for tactical discussions or team strategy sessions. Perhaps a practice match had been arranged? That would explain Carter's casual confidence—the man did seem to enjoy proving his students' superiority over rival institutions.
While Russell pondered possibilities, his other concern demanded attention: resource allocation. The pocket dimension training had finally concluded, which meant he could begin liquidating the materials he'd accumulated through various means—legitimate and otherwise. His spatial storage held a small fortune in silver-level components, most courtesy of the Spirit Begging Society's generous "recruitment incentives." Some pieces already had designated purposes in his expanding collection of card concepts, but the majority represented raw potential waiting to be converted into more immediately useful forms.
The question was whether to work through his senior sister Hazel or the underground broker Mr. Warren. Both had advantages. Hazel's connections ran through legitimate channels, offering better prices but requiring explanations about acquisition methods. Warren's network operated in shadows, asking no questions but taking larger cuts of any transactions. Given the dubious origins of much of his materials stockpile, Warren seemed the safer choice for bulk liquidation.
Assuming I can trust him not to ask where a silver-level student acquired quite so many valuable components, Russell reflected. Underground brokers survive by maintaining profitable relationships, not by creating problems for promising young cardmakers with mysterious benefactors.
The office door opened, interrupting his financial calculations as the remaining four main team members filed in. Russell observed each arrival with the analytical detachment that had become second nature, cataloging details that might prove relevant in future interactions.
They moved with the unconscious confidence of students accustomed to elite status, but beneath that surface similarity lay distinct personalities and potential threat profiles. Russell's chair drew curious glances—the ornate piece was dramatically out of place in Carter's cluttered office—but none of the four commented directly. Interesting. Either they possessed better social awareness than most students their age, or someone had briefed them on appropriate behavior around their newest teammate.
Probably the former, Russell decided. You don't reach main team level without learning to read social situations.
The four arranged themselves in a loose semicircle, maintaining the kind of casual distances that suggested familiarity without intimacy. Working relationships rather than friendships, then. That could prove useful—friendships complicated loyalties, but professional associations remained flexible based on changing circumstances.
Coach Carter eventually looked up from his phone, scanning the assembled faces with the mild surprise of someone who'd forgotten he'd called a meeting. An embarrassed grin spread across his features as he registered five expectant expressions.
"Sorry about that," he said, powering down his device with exaggerated care. "Got caught up in browsing my phone there."
Russell caught a glimpse of the screen before it went dark—some kind of service app with distinctly adult implications. He filed the information away without judgment. Everyone had stress relief mechanisms, and Carter's personal life was irrelevant.
"Right," Carter continued, straightening in his chair as he shifted into professional mode. "Called you all here for something important. This weekend, I've arranged a practice match with Southeastern University's Battle Club. Should be good experience for everyone involved."
Southeastern University. Russell's mental thoughts retrieved what little he knew about the institution. Respectable but not elite, known more for producing competent mid-tier cardmakers than genuine powerhouses. A safe opponent for Northgate's main team—challenging enough to provide valuable experience without risking embarrassing defeats that might damage reputations.
The arrangement also demonstrated Carter's connections more clearly. Organizing inter-university matches required coordination between multiple administrative levels, the kind of bureaucratic navigation that demanded either exceptional patience or exceptional influence. Given Carter's generally casual approach to most responsibilities, Russell suspected the latter.
Which raises the question of why he's chosen to demonstrate that influence now, Russell thought. Is this about team preparation, or is he sending a message about the resources he can bring to bear?
Before Carter could dismiss them, he clapped his hands together with sudden inspiration. "Actually, this is perfect timing. First time you've all been in the same room together, isn't it? Good opportunity to get acquainted."
Russell stood smoothly, offering the others a smile calibrated to project confidence without arrogance. "I'm Russell. Looking forward to working with you guys."
The formal introduction felt slightly ridiculous given his recent notoriety within the cardmaking department, but protocols existed for reasons. Everyone present had heard about his defeat of Grant—the kind of upset victory that generated rumors and speculation throughout the student body. More interesting was what those rumors revealed about the aftermath. Grant had apparently shown no interest in demanding a rematch, and had actually begun defending Russell against critics who suggested the victory had been a fluke.
Grant's reaction tells me more about the nature of our fight than any analysis of techniques or card interactions, Russell realized. Whatever happened in that pocket dimension, it convinced him that challenging me again would be counterproductive. The question is whether that's because he respects my strength.
The four introduced themselves in turn, each interaction providing additional data points for Russell's growing understanding of team dynamics.
Lucian spoke first, his slicked-back hair and easy smile projecting the kind of confident charisma that typically marked natural leaders. "Just call me Lucian. Nice to meet you." The handshake was firm without being aggressive, the eye contact direct without being challenging. Either genuinely friendly or exceptionally skilled at projecting false warmth.
Sonny followed, his red-dyed hair and deliberately casual appearance suggesting either genuine indifference to social expectations or carefully cultivated nonconformity. "Sonny," he said simply, the kind of minimalist introduction that could indicate shyness, arrogance, or simple efficiency.
Yuna stepped forward next, her blonde waves and athletic build immediately marking her as someone comfortable with physical challenges. Her handshake carried the kind of strength that came from regular training rather than natural gifts, suggesting dedication and discipline. "Yuna. I've heard interesting things about your fighting style."
The comment was carefully neutral, offering no judgment about whether those "interesting things" were positive or negative. Professional curiosity rather than personal interest—exactly what Russell would expect from someone secure in their own abilities.
Jean completed the introductions, her quiet demeanor and black-rimmed glasses creating an immediate impression of scholarly focus. "Jean," she said softly, her handshake brief but not dismissive. The kind of person who observed more than she spoke, which could make her either a valuable ally or a dangerous opponent depending on what those observations revealed.
Russell filed each impression away while maintaining his friendly exterior. First impressions were valuable but rarely complete—people revealed their true natures under pressure, and battlefield conditions had a way of stripping away social masks. Still, preliminary assessments suggested a competent group with relatively balanced personalities. No obvious weak links or problematic egos that might compromise team cohesion.
As Russell prepared to leave, mentally shifting toward his next priorities—material liquidation, card development, investigation of the ancient texts he'd acquired—Lucian's voice stopped him.
"Hold on a second, Russell."
The tone was casual, but something in Lucian's posture had shifted subtly. The easy confidence remained, but now it carried an undercurrent of purpose that transformed friendly interest into something more focused.
"Mind having a quick match with me first?"
And there it is. Russell paused, his analytical mind immediately shifting into higher gear as multiple possibilities cascaded through his awareness. The real reason for this meeting.
He glanced at the other three team members, noting their carefully neutral expressions. Not surprised by Lucian's request, then. This had been planned, discussed in advance without Russell's knowledge. The introductions had been genuine, but they'd also served as assessment opportunities—chances to gauge his personality, confidence level, potential weaknesses that might be exploited in combat.
Professional curiosity about the new team member's abilities? Or something more personal?
"Are you related to Grant or something?" Russell asked, injecting just enough confusion into his tone to suggest the question was spontaneous rather than calculated. In reality, he was buying time to process the social dynamics he was observing.
The question served multiple purposes. It provided cover for his momentary pause while his mind raced through implications. It suggested he was naive enough to assume personal motivations rather than strategic ones. And most importantly, it would force Lucian to reveal his actual reasoning rather than hiding behind polite justifications.
Surprise flickered across Lucian's features—too brief to be feigned, suggesting genuine confusion about why Russell would assume family connections. But it was quickly replaced by a hearty laugh that carried notes of both amusement and something that might have been respect.
"You've got the wrong idea, Russell," Lucian said, his smile taking on a more genuine quality. "It's just that the national tournament has team competitions, so we should know each other's abilities. But nobody wants to reveal their card details to others, so sparring is the best way to learn."
Plausible. Logical. And probably only half the truth.
The reasoning was sound on its surface—team coordination did require understanding individual capabilities, and direct combat was indeed the most reliable method for assessing another cardmaker's strengths and weaknesses. But the timing felt wrong. If team preparation was the goal, why single out Russell specifically? Why not arrange a round-robin tournament among all five main members?
Because the others already know each other's capabilities, Russell realized. They've been training together, probably for months or even years. I'm the unknown variable, the disruption to their established dynamic.
More concerning was the implicit assumption that Russell would need to prove himself worthy of his position. Grant's defeat had earned him a spot on the main team, but perhaps not the automatic respect that should have accompanied that achievement. These four might view him as an interloper who'd gotten lucky once but hadn't demonstrated consistent competence.
Or they might be testing whether I'll be satisfied with my current position, or if I'm ambitious enough to challenge the existing hierarchy.
Russell glanced toward Coach Carter, noting that the man had returned his attention to his phone with practiced disinterest. No guidance forthcoming from that quarter—Carter apparently preferred to let his students handle their own social dynamics. Whether that represented confidence in their maturity or simple laziness remained unclear.
"Sorry, spaced out there," Russell said, allowing a sheepish smile to cross his features. "A match is fine. Right now?"
I'm still not convinced this is purely about team coordination, Russell thought as he agreed to the match. Something about Lucian's body language suggests personal interest beyond professional necessity.
Well, regardless of his motivations, he's about to get a demonstration of why Grant hasn't asked for a rematch.
"Great. Let's head up the mountain," Lucian said, leading the way with the kind of confident stride that suggested familiarity with the combat facility.
Russell followed, choosing to walk rather than use his Shadowkhan for transport. The decision was partly practical—demonstrating his servants' capabilities in front of the other team members would reveal tactical information unnecessarily—but also social. Arriving by supernatural means while everyone else climbed normally would send messages about superiority and separation that might complicate future interactions.
Better to maintain the illusion of being a relatively normal student until circumstances require otherwise.
The mountain path provided an opportunity to observe his future teammates in a more natural setting. Away from the formal structure of introductions and official meetings, subtle personality traits began to emerge. Sonny's casual demeanor masked careful attention to his surroundings—the habits of someone accustomed to potential threats. Yuna moved with the efficient grace of regular physical training, but her eyes tracked Russell's position with tactical awareness. Jean remained quiet, but her silence felt analytical rather than shy.
All of them are more than they initially appeared, Russell noted with approval. Good. Working with incompetents would have been tedious.
The climb also gave him time to consider what level of capability to display in the coming match. Too little would reinforce any doubts about his worthiness for the main team. Too much might generate the kind of attention that could complicate his already delicate position between competing factions. The ideal performance would demonstrate competence without revealing the full extent of his abilities—particularly his more unusual cards that might raise uncomfortable questions about their origins.
Fortunately, I have plenty of practice at calibrated demonstrations. The key is making the victory look more difficult than it actually is.
As they reached the mountain's peak, the familiar arena spread before them—a flattened space carved from living rock, warded against collateral damage and equipped with the basic amenities needed for supervised combat. Coach Carter arrived shortly after, apparently having taken a more direct route that bypassed the walking path entirely. He clapped his hands to gather attention, his expression settling into the professional focus he displayed during official training sessions.
"When you guys start fighting, keep it reasonable," Carter announced, his gaze lingering on Lucian rather than Russell. "Don't go overboard trying to make some big statement."
Interesting. Russell filed away the coach's obvious concern about Lucian's intentions rather than his own. Either Lucian has a history of excessive force during sparring matches, or Carter suspects personal motivations behind this challenge.
Lucian maintained his pleasant smile, showing no reaction to the implicit warning. "Understood, Coach Carter. Just a friendly discussion. I'll hold back." The words were perfectly appropriate, but something in his tone suggested that his definition of "holding back" might differ from Carter's expectations.
The other three team members positioned themselves on the opposite side of the arena, their placement allowing clear observation of the coming match while maintaining safe distance from potential collateral effects. Their expressions showed professional interest—the kind of focused attention cardmakers brought to studying new techniques or unfamiliar fighting styles.
Coach Carter turned to Russell with the kind of expression adults wore when preparing to deliver disappointing news to children. "Just go with the flow, kid. No need to go all out. It's only sparring. Even if you lose, it won't affect your spot on the main team."
He expects me to lose. Russell kept his expression neutral, but internally he found Carter's pessimism both insulting and informative. Either he's underestimating my capabilities based on limited data, or he knows something about Lucian's strength that I don't.
Given Carter's position and experience, the latter seemed more likely. Lucian might possess capabilities that weren't immediately obvious, or access to resources that gave him advantages beyond raw talent. Russell made a mental note to approach the coming match with appropriate caution rather than the casual confidence he'd initially planned.
"Got it, Coach," Russell replied, his tone carrying just enough resignation to suggest he appreciated the advice even if he didn't particularly want to hear it.
Carter seemed satisfied with the response, moving to the sidelines with the air of someone who'd discharged his obligations and could now observe the inevitable outcome without further responsibility. His positioning gave him clear sightlines to the entire arena while remaining outside the combat zone—the practiced efficiency of someone who'd supervised countless such matches.
Russell walked to his designated starting position, using the brief transit time to run final checks on his available resources. His card collection had grown substantially since arriving at Northgate, but for a sparring match with teammates, he'd need to be selective about which capabilities to reveal. Too much information in the wrong hands could prove dangerous later.
Across the arena, Lucian was conducting his own preparations—not the visible summoning of cards or activation of equipment, but the subtle mental adjustments that preceded serious combat. His casual demeanor had shifted into something more focused, though he maintained the outward appearance of friendly cooperation.
He's taking this more seriously than his words suggested, Russell observed. Either he's naturally cautious, or he knows something about my capabilities that requires genuine effort to overcome.
The pre-combat tension stretched between them like a taut wire, heavy with unspoken possibilities and carefully contained violence. In moments, one of them would make the opening move, and Russell would finally understand what lay beneath Lucian's polite exterior.
Well then, he thought, settling into a ready stance as his fingers moved toward his card holder. Let's see what you're really capable of, Lucian.
The arena fell silent except for the whisper of wind across stone. Five heartbeats stretched into eternity.
Then the match began.
(End of this chapter)
Throw POWER STONES PLZ.