Everyone in Astraeum knew one truth:
Power was not given.
It was measured.
At the age of sixteen, every citizen awakened their Heptacards—seven ability cards bound permanently to the soul. These cards did not simply grant strength; they followed strict rules. Conditions, limitations, activation costs. A powerful card with no control was useless. A weak card used correctly could would even cause a serious problem.
That was the first rule of Heptacards.
The second rule was simpler:
The poor always received the worst hands.
In the lower districts, people didn't dream of S-tier cards. They dreamed of survival. Food rations, day work, and bodies that could endure one more week. Children learned early to count probabilities, not miracles.
The boy grew up there.
He learned how to watch without being noticed, how to listen without asking questions, and how to run when the odds turned bad. He saw cardholders fight—flashy abilities, wasted power, deaths caused by arrogance rather than weakness.
"Abilities don't win battles," his mother once said.
"People who understand them do."
She died before his awakening.
On the day of the Pre-Binding Assessment, the candidates were not tested for strength, but for decision-making. Puzzles under pressure. Endurance trials with hidden penalties. A maze where the fastest lost and the patient survived.
The boy passed quietly.
No one remembered his name.
That night, as he lay on the roof of a broken tenement, he counted something he'd been counting his whole life
His limits.
In three days, the Binding Ceremony would take place. Seven cards would appear, bound by rules older than the city itself. The rich prepared celebrations. The poor prepared excuses.
The boy prepared conditions.
If power followed rules
Then rules could be exploited.
Somewhere deep beneath the city, the Heptacard system activated.
Not because it sensed greatness
But because someone was about to play it correctly.