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The question—Did he win?—was like dropping a match into gasoline.
The arena exploded.
"HOLY SHIT, HE WON!"
"RUSSELL WON!"
"Wait, he actually won!?" Someone grabbed their neighbor's shoulder, shaking them. "I thought he was done!"
"Okay, okay, I apologize!" Another voice cut through, half-laughing with disbelief. "I take back everything I said about him earlier!"
"I get it now!" A young man stood on his seat, pointing at the battlefield dramatically. "Wade was just the first-stage boss! After you beat him, the real final boss shows up!"
"Dude, don't say that... but holy hell, that actually makes sense!"
The logic was insane, but somehow it felt right. None of them had ever seen Bleach, had no frame of reference for a combat system where your "normal" fighting strength was just a fraction—a small fraction—of your true power. Where releasing your Zanpakutō or Resurrección transformed you into something completely different.
To them, Neliel's transformation wasn't a standard combat mechanic. It was Russell pulling a secret weapon out of nowhere, a trump card so devastating it turned the entire battle on its head.
In New Metro, the Whitemore living room had fallen into stunned silence.
Nancy sat frozen on the couch, her eyes locked on the screen as it showed a close-up of Russell's face—exhausted but victorious, with that little antelope girl perched on his head like a crown. Her mind felt blank, like someone had wiped it clean and left nothing but static.
"Dad..." Her voice came out small, almost childlike. "Is this really what a silver-level battle looks like?"
Jonathan opened his mouth. Closed it. Had no idea what to say.
Then Nancy started laughing.
It bubbled up from her chest—not quite hysterical, but close. Loud and uncontrolled, tears forming at the corners of her eyes as her shoulders shook.
"Nancy?" Jonathan's face went pale with alarm. He reached for her shoulder. "Nancy, don't scare me. Are you okay?"
She wiped her eyes, the laughter dying down into occasional hiccups and giggles. "I'm fine." Her smile was wobbly, caught somewhere between amusement and despair. "I just... I just realized that I may never be able to catch up with Russell in this life."
The words hung in the air, brutal in their honesty.
After the provincial exam, Nancy had told herself she could close the gap. Just needed to work harder, train smarter, push herself further. The distance between them wasn't that big, right?
But after watching today's match? After seeing that? The idea suddenly seemed laughable. Absurd. Like a child saying they'd beat a professional athlete if they just practiced really hard.
Jonathan felt something twist in his chest. He wanted to comfort her, wanted to say something fatherly and encouraging like Of course you can catch up if you work hard enough!
But the words wouldn't come.
Because they'd be a lie, and Nancy deserved better than comforting lies. Russell wasn't just talented. "Genius" was the entry-level requirement for what he was. Jonathan had seen enough in his years as a cardmaker to recognize when someone operated on a completely different level.
So he just pulled Nancy into a hug and let her laugh-cry against his shoulder, because sometimes there was nothing else you could do.
Deep underwater, in the luxurious cave that served as one of the Spirit Begging Society's hidden bases, Regent Jin's weathered face split into a smile that looked almost predatory.
"It seems our Society has really found a treasure." His voice carried satisfaction, the tone of someone who'd made an excellent investment and just watched it pay off spectacularly.
He turned his head toward Five. "Inform Misty to raise Russell's priority level to the highest."
Five hid his shock behind a mask of professional calm, though his eyes widened fractionally. The highest priority? That put Russell on the same tier as... He bowed his head respectfully. "Yes, sir."
Regent Jin's smile widened. He hadn't been at the arena in person, but he'd seen enough. Seen how that final transformation had drained Russell's mental energy like water through a sieve. Seen how devastating the power output had been despite that cost. The boy wasn't just talented—he was efficient. Creating cards that punched well above their weight class.
Five straightened, his mind already cataloging the implications. The Spirit Begging Society will soon be welcoming its sixth major operative. The thought sent a thrill down his spine despite his earlier doubts.
In the Northgate Battle Club section, Lucian and his teammates sat in shell-shocked silence. The match had been a roller coaster—highs and lows, victory seeming certain and then slipping away, then coming back in the most spectacular fashion possible.
Nobody knew what to say.
Finally, Lucian let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging. "It seems..." His voice came out rough, tired. "We have to work hard, so we don't hold him back in the national competition."
The words carried a weight that made several teammates wince. After watching today's match, Lucian was beginning to wonder if this might be his only real chance at a national championship. Russell wasn't going to stay at their level for long. Maybe already wasn't at their level, honestly.
Behind him, Sonny's narrow eyes flashed with something ugly. It's obvious we can just lie back and let this guy carry us to victory, he thought bitterly. So why are you still trying so hard?
Out loud, he just nodded in agreement, his expression carefully neutral. But then his gaze drifted to Yuna, who was looking at Lucian with open admiration—eyes practically sparkling—and the frustration churning in his gut intensified until he wanted to scream.
Lucian's eyes slid sideways, catching Sonny's expression. His gaze went cold, hard, a warning clear in that brief glance before he looked away.
On the battlefield, Russell walked toward Wade with Neliel—back in her child form—perched on his head like a tiny, adorable hat. She'd flown to him the moment the battle ended, rubbing her cheek against his and making happy little noises until he'd given in and let her stay. His mental strength was too depleted to maintain her adult form anyway.
"It's time for you to fulfill your promise," Russell said, his tone light and almost playful despite the exhaustion pulling at his bones.
Wade's head jerked up, his face a mask of embarrassment and barely suppressed rage. His jaw worked for a moment before words came out. "I... I won't—"
His body went rigid mid-sentence, straightening like someone had shoved a steel rod up his spine. His eyes went wide and glassy, his limbs moving with jerky, puppet-like motions.
Russell looked up toward the VIP section and saw his teacher watching with a slight smile. Behind Blake, a massive red-robed figure loomed—barely visible, more sensed than seen, but radiating power that made Russell's skin prickle even from this distance.
Neliel shrank down, pressing herself flat against Russell's head, trying to hide behind his hair. That old man gave her a feeling she couldn't quite name—something primal and terrifying that made her want to run and hide. Scarier than Aizen had ever been. Now that she was adult-sized again, her memories had come flooding back, and some instincts screamed danger louder than others.
Under thousands of watching eyes, Wade's body moved on its own, walking with mechanical precision toward the cluster of media personnel at the arena's edge. His hand reached out—smooth, controlled, completely against his will—and grabbed a microphone.
Then he started talking.
His voice was flat, emotionless, stripped of all the arrogance and personality that usually colored his speech. Just facts, delivered in a dull monotone that somehow made them hit harder.
"On the seventeenth of last month, I entered the [Night's End Banquet] pocket dimension as part of a training exercise..."
The huge screen at the center of the venue flickered to life. Surveillance footage began playing—grainy but clear enough. The live broadcast cameras zoomed in, ensuring every viewer in Riverview Province could see.
The audience watched, confusion giving way to understanding, understanding giving way to horror.
"...when the situation became dangerous, I made the decision to preserve my own life at the expense of the other participants..."
Wade's mechanical voice continued narrating over the footage, providing context that the video alone couldn't capture. And that context made everything so much worse.
"Tsk, those low-class people are quite funny." The words came out of Wade's mouth without inflection, but their meaning was clear. "They even expected me to protect them."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"If my father hadn't sent me on this mission, I wouldn't even have looked at them."
People's breathing grew heavier, ragged with building anger.
"They should feel honored to be able to die for me, Wade."
BOOM!
A soda can came hurtling from the stands like a missile. One of Wade's bronze-level cards materialized just in time to bat it away, the aluminum container crunching against spiritual energy and falling harmlessly to the ground.
Wade's glassy eyes swept across the stands, and somehow—despite the puppet control—contempt leaked into his expression. "A peasant is a peasant. No manners at all."
The arena went absolutely feral.
"YOU BEAST!"
"WHY DON'T YOU JUST DIE!?"
"THAT SON OF A—"
More objects flew—drinks, programs, someone's shoe. The security barriers flared as bronze-level cards intercepted the barrage. People screamed obscenities, their faces red with rage.
Russell watched the scene unfold, his expression carefully neutral despite the chaos. I guess Teacher hit a sore spot, he thought, glancing up at Blake with something approaching fear.
If Blake ever used that card on him... Russell's mind immediately went to the darkest timeline. He'd end up confessing everything. Every secret. Every embarrassing thought. The mental image of himself standing in front of thousands of people, explaining his "Pokémon battles" in excruciating detail, made him shudder violently.
Social death. Worse than having your browser history exposed.
Note to self: Never, ever provoke Teacher.
Finally, Wade's confession ended. The spell holding him upright flickered and died like a candle going out.
His face went from puppet-blank to horrified realization in the span of a heartbeat. Color drained from his cheeks until he looked like he might pass out. His eyes found his father in the family section, desperate and pleading and utterly broken.
Patriarch Wu sat frozen in his seat, his face so red it had gone nearly purple—a perfect cosplay of Blake's signature underworld aesthetic. His skeletal right hand gripped his wooden cane so hard the wood creaked, veins bulging like cords beneath papery skin. His jaw worked, teeth grinding audibly even from a distance.
"GO," he snarled at a nearby servant, the word forced through clenched teeth. "Bring the young master back. NOW."
Then his gaze slid toward the VIP section, burning with hatred so intense it was almost physical. Since we've already torn our relationship apart, he thought coldly, there's no need to keep pretending.
William, sitting in the guest seats, watched with the calculating expression of someone running through political scenarios. He wouldn't allow Blake to completely destroy the Wu family—all his careful maneuvering would be for nothing. But the Wu family also couldn't take action against Russell now, not after this public humiliation. They were caught in a strange balance.
But the Federation had more than just the imperial court and the Association. There were... other options. Organizations that operated in the shadows. Like the Spirit Begging Society, which gave even Blake Whitmore such massive headaches.
Patriarch Wu's expression shifted, the rage crystallizing into something colder and more dangerous. Calculation. Planning.
He reached out, patting Wade on the shoulder in a gesture that might have looked comforting to anyone not watching closely. Then he turned and walked away, his cane clicking against the floor with measured, deliberate strikes.
Very good, Blake Whitmore, he thought, his mind already turning over possibilities. Since you hate us aristocratic families so much... then it would be perfectly reasonable for your disciples to be killed by the Spirit Begging Society to vent their anger, wouldn't it?
The seed of a plan began to take root in his mind, dark and poisonous and terribly, terribly patient.
PLZ THROW POWERSTONES.