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Russell stepped through the shadow portal into his living room, the familiar surroundings doing nothing to settle the chaos swirling in his head. Lord Six. I'm Lord fucking Six of a terrorist organization. The absurdity of it would have been funny if it wasn't so potentially lethal.
He was just about to collapse onto his couch and try to process everything when a voice made his heart stop.
"Young Russell, are you back?"
The old, familiar voice hit him like a bucket of ice water. Russell froze mid-step, his body going rigid as if someone had cast a paralysis spell on him. His head turned mechanically toward the living room, moving like a rusty gear.
No. No no no.
Blake Whitmore sat in his favorite armchair—the one Russell always sat in—looking completely at ease. Like he'd been waiting there for hours.
"Teacher?" Russell's voice came out higher than intended, strained. His mind was screaming. I just came from meeting with the head of the Spirit Begging Society's Northgate branch. LITERALLY JUST NOW.
The timing was so catastrophically bad it felt like a cosmic joke.
"Why are you here, Teacher?" The words tumbled out before Russell could stop them, his usual composure completely shattered.
Blake studied him for a long moment, those pale eyes seeing far too much. Then he sighed—heavy and weary, carrying the weight of years. "Sit down, Russell."
It wasn't a request.
Russell's legs moved on autopilot, carrying him to the single sofa across from Blake. He sat, his spine straight, hands clenched on his knees. Every instinct screaming that something bad was coming.
"I came here mainly to remind you," Blake said, his voice carrying a gravity that made the air feel heavier, "to be careful of the Spirit Begging Society."
The words "Spirit Begging Society" hit Russell like a physical blow. His heart stopped. Just stopped for a full second before kicking back into overdrive, hammering against his ribs so hard he was sure Blake could hear it.
He knows. Oh god, he knows. He's going to kill me. I'm dead. I'm so fucking dead.
But then Russell's panic-frozen brain caught up. Blake's expression wasn't angry. It was... concerned. Worried. He was warning Russell, not accusing him.
"Teacher," Russell said carefully, forcing his voice to stay steady, "what do you mean?"
Blake was silent for a long moment. His fingers drummed once against the armrest—a rare sign of agitation from a man who normally had perfect control. When he spoke, his voice carried a bitter edge Russell had never heard before.
"You've seen the dirty tricks between the Association and the court by now, haven't you?"
Russell nodded slowly. Yeah, he'd seen plenty. The power plays, the political maneuvering, the way both sides treated people like chess pieces.
"What if I told you," Blake continued, leaning forward slightly, his pale eyes boring into Russell's, "that the court and the Spirit Begging Society have been... ambiguous with each other?"
Russell let his jaw drop, his eyes going wide. He sucked in a sharp breath, putting every ounce of his limited acting ability into looking shocked. "This is... impossible, right?"
Please buy it. Please buy it.
Blake's expression grew grimmer, darker. "In order to survive, they will do anything." His hands clenched on the armrests, knuckles going white. "The pocket dimensions have become more and more rampant in recent years. The Association is already struggling to cope. You've been in New Metro; you should have a deep understanding of this, right?"
Russell thought of the polluted coastline, the constant threat of the [Demon's Nest], the exhausted cardmakers fighting a losing battle. Yeah. He understood.
"For them, it doesn't matter who they work with," Blake said, something like disgust creeping into his tone. "The court would ally with the devil himself if it meant maintaining power. It's just that the Spirit Begging Society doesn't seem to care much about them."
Russell nodded, because that part tracked. The Society seemed focused on some bigger picture, some abstract goal that petty political power struggles didn't serve. They weren't interested in ruling—they wanted something else entirely.
"Then Teacher," Russell said, genuine confusion bleeding into his voice now, "what does this have to do with me being careful of the Society?"
Blake's face went serious—truly serious, the kind of expression that preceded life-or-death warnings. "Although the probability is very small, I think the Wu family might be desperate enough to contact the Spirit Begging Society to attack you."
The words hung in the air.
Russell's brain short-circuited. "Attack... me?"
I'm Lord Six. I'm second in command of the entire organization. The Wu family is going to contact the Society to kill... me. Someone who outranks literally everyone they could possibly reach.
The irony was so thick Russell almost choked on it. He wanted to laugh. Wanted to scream. Wanted to tell his teacher that the Wu family hiring the Spirit Begging Society to kill him would be the most hilariously pointless assassination attempt in history.
But obviously, he couldn't say any of that.
Because then he'd have to explain how he became a high-ranking executive in a terrorist organization. And he had no idea how Blake would react. Would he be so angry he'd kill Russell on the spot? Would he understand and try to make Russell a double agent? Would he feel betrayed?
Russell didn't dare gamble. Not with this.
"...I'll be careful, Teacher." The words came out flat, inadequate.
Blake nodded, seemingly satisfied. But then his next words made Russell's stomach drop through the floor.
"Russell, what I want to say is that from now on, you should live in your senior sister Hazel's house in Northgate. I've already told her."
No. Absolutely not.
"Besides," Blake continued, oblivious to Russell's internal panic, "I'm leaving Northgate soon. The people along the coast are getting a little dishonest again."
Russell's face froze, his mind racing at lightspeed. This was a disaster. His teacher was doing this entirely for his protection—pure good intentions—which left Russell with absolutely no reasonable way to refuse. After all, who in Northgate would dare attack someone living under the same roof as a diamond-level cardmaker like Hazel?
But Russell had too many secrets. The Spirit Begging Society. His late-night "Pokémon battles" that made way too much noise. The materials he couldn't explain. If he moved into Hazel's house, his entire operation would collapse.
"Ah, this..." Russell stammered, his usual eloquence abandoning him. "My senior sister and I are of different genders. Isn't that... inconvenient?"
The excuse sounded weak even to his own ears. He laughed awkwardly, the sound strained and artificial.
Blake's eyebrows rose slightly. Clearly, he hadn't expected this resistance.
Russell's brain worked frantically, searching for a compromise. "How about this, Teacher? I also need to change houses anyway. Why don't I just buy a house next to my senior sister's?"
It was perfect. Close enough that Blake would be satisfied with the security. Far enough that Russell could maintain his secrets. He'd still be under Hazel's protection—just with walls between them.
Blake studied him for a long moment, and Russell held his breath.
"Okay," Blake said finally. "I'll talk to your senior sister."
Relief crashed over Russell like a wave. His shoulders sagged, tension bleeding out. "Thank you, Teacher."
He really wasn't lying about wanting to move. Fubuki had been complaining for weeks that his current place was too small, too cramped for someone of her status. And honestly? Russell didn't want his senior sister seeing him being chased down by Spirit Begging Society members calling him "Lord Six."
The mental image alone was horrifying enough to give him nightmares.
"Blake Whitmore is going to kill us all, and you're still sitting here like this!?"
In a gorgeous reception room somewhere in Northgate—all mahogany furniture and expensive art that screamed old money—Patriarch Wu's face had gone from its usual tree-bark pallor to an angry, mottled red. Veins bulged on his forehead as he glared at the other old men seated around him.
They looked supremely unbothered. One sipped his tea with exaggerated calm. Another examined his fingernails like they were the most fascinating thing in the world.
"Hey, what are you talking about?" A short, fat man with jowls that quivered when he spoke smiled lazily. "Weren't you the one who provoked him first?" He took another sip of tea. "We don't have any conflicts with him."
The words hit Patriarch Wu's sore spot like a knife to an open wound. His hands clenched, his crutch trembling. "The past is a lesson for the future!" His voice rose, cracking slightly. "If you don't take this seriously, be careful! He might do the same to you in the future!"
The old men pretended not to hear, their expressions carefully neutral. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward.
Finally, someone spoke. "What do you want from us?" The question was almost mocking. "Help you take revenge?"
The other old men's eyes gleamed with barely concealed amusement. Watching Patriarch Wu squirm was apparently entertaining.
Patriarch Wu's teeth ground together audibly. His jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. "I want to contact Regent Jin!" The words burst out like an explosion. "I want that Russell dead!"
The living room went dead silent.
Every old man straightened slightly, their casual facades cracking. They exchanged glances—quick, meaningful looks that carried entire conversations.
Then, almost in unison, they shook their heads.
"No." The short man's smile had vanished. "We don't have his contact information. Besides, you want to ask the Spirit Begging Society to take action at this critical moment? Do you think Blake Whitmore is stupid?"
Their tone made it clear what they thought of the idea: insane.
Patriarch Wu's face went darker, uglier. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, venomous hiss. "Don't forget about what happened to Blake's first two disciples! You were involved in that, too!"
The words landed like bombs. Several faces went pale. Old hands tightened on armrests.
"When the Association has recovered," Patriarch Wu continued, his voice gaining strength from their fear, "do you really think you'll be in a good situation!?"
Hesitation flickered across their faces now. The smug superiority evaporating as they remembered their own culpability.
But Patriarch Wu wasn't done. He played his trump card, the words falling like an executioner's blade.
"Look at Russell. Doesn't he look just like Yves St. Clair!?"
The reception room plunged into absolute silence.
The comparison hung in the air, impossible to ignore. Yves St. Clair—the Palace-level Cardmaker. One of the strongest on the entire continent. A living legend.
And Russell, at barely eighteen, was already showing similar signs of terrifying potential.
The silence stretched for what felt like an eternity before someone finally spoke, their voice reluctant. "We really don't have Regent Jin's contact information. You know the Society doesn't seem very interested in cooperating with us." A pause. "We can only give you the contact information of the highest-ranking Society member we can currently reach."
Patriarch Wu's face split into a grim smile, satisfaction bleeding through the cracks in his composure. "That's enough." His voice carried dark certainty. "I think the Spirit Begging Society will definitely not let such a genius grow up."
He stood, his crutch clicking against the floor with sharp, decisive strikes. Without another word, he turned and left the room, his back straight despite his age.
His goal had been achieved.
But what he'd said at the end was the truth—or at least, what he believed to be the truth. Russell's performance in the arena had terrified him. The parallels to Yves St. Clair were too obvious to ignore. If the Association produced another Palace-level cardmaker, especially one who was Blake Whitmore's disciple...
It would be a disaster for the Wu family, now completely tied to the imperial court.
Killing Russell wasn't just revenge. It was strategic necessity. Nipping the danger in the bud before it could bloom into something they couldn't stop.
But if the Wu family took direct action, even William wouldn't be able to protect them. Blake would hunt them to extinction.
Fortunately, there was the Spirit Begging Society.
They could do what the Wu family couldn't—operate in shadows, strike without attribution, eliminate threats without consequence.
Patriarch Wu's smile widened as he walked through the darkened hallways, his mind already planning.
Russell had no idea that the organization he'd just joined as Lord Six was about to receive a contract on his own life.
The irony would have been hilarious if the danger wasn't so very, very real.
PLZ Throw Powerstones.