Hiss... it hurts... and it's so itchy.
The moment Leo opened his eyes, a stinging pain throbbed in his temples, accompanied by a maddening itch. It felt exactly like the aftermath of a massive bender.
But he knew he hadn't touched a drop of alcohol; he had been grinding through overtime last night.
After a few grueling seconds, the sensation vanished as quickly as it had come.
"Am I still at the office?" he muttered dizzily. He reached out for his mouse, but his fingers brushed against a cold, hard pen instead.
His vision slowly jerked into focus. This wasn't his cramped, rented room, nor was it the workstation where he'd pulled countless all-nighters to hit deadlines.
He was in a bedroom, barely ten square meters. A few yellowed posters were plastered on the wall, featuring characters in ancient robes wielding swords. Next to them were labels like Tier 3 Blue Card: The Drunken Swordsman and Tier 3 Purple Card: George the Great Hero.
The desk was a chaotic mess: blank cards, various martial arts diagrams, and a bottle of ink. Right in front of him lay a half-finished card.
The card face depicted the bust of a young man in traditional attire, handsome and free-spirited, with a sword hanging at his waist. The artwork wasn't terrible, but to Leo's eyes, it was just... average.
Leo, however, was a pro. In his past life, he'd been a freelance concept artist for over a decade. He could tell at a glance that whoever drew this had a few years of practice under their belt, even if their raw talent was hitting a ceiling.
The card was only half-drawn; the bottom half remained a stark blank.
As he stared, Leo's head began to itch again...
A massive flood of unfamiliar memories was forcibly shoved into his brain. He clutched his head, breathing heavily until he could finally sort through the mental wreckage.
The previous owner of this body was also named Leo, nineteen years old, and a sophomore in the Card Making Department at Binhai University of Science and Technology.
This was a world strikingly similar to Earth, yet fundamentally different. Technology was slightly more advanced—computers, smartphones, and the internet were all here—but the entertainment industry was a wasteland. Movies and TV shows were nothing but clichéd remakes of old legends, and cartoons were so juvenile they seemed designed for toddlers.
The reason? The mainstream of this world was the Card Master. Everything else had been squeezed out; there just wasn't any money in it.
A century ago, a "Card Master System" began appearing in everyone's mind once they turned eighteen. People could spend Spirit Crystals to buy Spirit Pens, Spirit Ink, and blank cards.
The card-making process was deceptively simple: buy a blank card base, use a Spirit Pen to draw the pattern, and then use mental power to "inject" a complete story and setting into the card. The System would then automatically generate the card's Tier and Quality based on logic, completeness, creativity, and the level of the artwork.
The Card Hierarchy
| Category | Level |
|---|---|
| Tiers | 1 through 9 (Qualitative changes every 3 Tiers) |
| Ranks | Junior (Tiers 1-3), Senior (Tiers 4-6), Master (Tiers 7-9) |
| Quality | White, Blue, Purple, Gold, Red (Red is theoretical only) |
Using cards required Spirit Energy—the "mana bar" everyone was born with. Making cards, however, required Mental Power.
And consuming that stuff was genuinely dangerous. Over-exhaustion could lead to fainting, or worse.
Leo glanced at the Spirit Pen on the desk, still stained with dark green ink. The original owner of this body had died right here, under this very pen. To prepare for the Academy Card Master Battle Tournament in two weeks, he had stayed up for seven straight days trying to create a Tier 3 Blue Card: The Drunken Swordsman.
But he'd pushed too hard on his fourth attempt. His mental power hit zero, and his heart followed suit.
And so, Leo, the concept artist from Earth who had died from overwork, had transmigrated into the body of a kid who had died from the exact same thing.
"This is just... poetic levels of stupid," Leo cursed under his breath, unsure if he was insulting the original owner or his own past life.
He propped himself up and stood, his legs feeling like jelly. He stumbled into the living room—a sparse space with just a sofa, a coffee table, and an aging LCD TV. His new memories told him his parents had died two years ago in a "Rift Catastrophe," leaving him this house and a small pension. Between that and occasional freelance card-making, he'd been barely scraping by.
He clicked on the TV. The screen flared to life with stirring music and the rapid-fire commentary of a sports broadcast:
"George the Great Hero has unleashed three consecutive strikes of the Eighteen Dragon Subduing Palms, targeting the Little Match Girl directly!"
"But wait! She's holding! The Wicked Witch used the Magic Mirror to block the blow, but the Little Match Girl's buff is about to expire!"
The screen showed a massive battle arena. Under the blue crystal tower on the left, a middle-aged man in ancient robes, wreathed in dragon-shaped energy, was striking with palms that sounded like thunder.
Opposite him stood a blonde little girl in a tattered dress, barefoot and shivering, holding a single burning match. A halo of light from the flame covered a wide area. Nearby, a Witch in black robes circled on a broom, pelting a young man on the blue team with purple energy orbs.
"In terms of raw power, George is a Tier 3 Purple Card with overwhelming stats," the announcer shouted. "But the Witch, under the 'Fire of Hope' buff, is proving impossible to pin down!"
As the match burned out, George unleashed one final golden dragon strike. The illusionary houses protecting the girl vanished, and the attack slammed home. She didn't have time to strike a third match.
However, the Witch had focused her fire on the blue team's secondary card, the Dragon Maiden, who dissipated into points of light.
"Dragon Maiden is out! It's just George left for Team Blue, while Team Harry still has the Witch!"
"Can George hit a flying target? The Witch is only a Blue Card, but she can fly! George's strikes are missing! The Witch is going for the crystal backdoor!"
"The match is over! Harry wins! Moving on to the finals!"
Leo turned off the TV and rubbed his temples. The match was a perfect lesson in this world's logic. You couldn't just rely on raw stats; mechanics and utility were everything.
Was the martial arts deck strong? Absolutely. If George's palm had landed, that Witch would have been toast. But martial arts mechanics were too one-dimensional: attack, defense, footwork, and internal energy. Even with the best "Lightfoot" technique, George couldn't fly.
Meanwhile, the Western fairy tale deck had area-of-effect buffs like the Little Match Girl or high-utility items like Cinderella's pumpkin carriage. In terms of variety, martial arts was getting left in the dust.
"But I have something they don't," Leo thought, a spark of excitement finally cutting through his exhaustion.
In his previous life, he wasn't just an artist; he was a hardcore ACGN geek. From the classic shonen hits like Dragon Ball and One Piece to the complex power systems of Naruto and Bleach, he had a library of "story logic" in his head that this world couldn't even dream of.
The copyright system here was strict—if a story was already registered, others couldn't copy it. Classic works like Journey to the West were public domain, which is why everyone used them. But the anime industry here was deformed and half-dead because of the high cost of production and malicious copyright snatching.
Most people here could only imagine Eastern legends or Western fairy tales. A creator who could craft a Purple Card was considered a generational genius.
Leo walked back to the desk and looked at the half-finished swordsman. He picked up the Spirit Pen. Using mental power to guide the ink required total focus to construct a self-consistent setting in the mind.
He glanced at the other cards in the drawer:
* Tier 1 White Card: Ordinary Disciple
* Tier 1 Blue Card: Taoist Initiate
Leo put the pen down. He didn't want the swordsman. He walked to the window and pushed it open, letting the cool night air clear his head. In the distance, a neon ad on a skyscraper showed a rotating golden card: Tier 6 Gold Card: Monkey King.
The Monkey King of this world was based strictly on the original Journey to the West text. Powerful, sure—but it didn't have the insane power scaling of the modern versions Leo knew.
If he brought the Monkey King he remembered—the one who could shake the heavens and defy the gods themselves—what Tier would that be?
Leo closed the window, his decision made. He reached into the drawer and pulled out the very last blank Tier 3 card base.
He gripped the Spirit Pen. He didn't think about swordsmen or ancient legends. He closed his eyes, and a very specific image surfaced in his mind:
A boy with spiky orange hair and six whisker-like markings on his cheeks. A confident, mischievous grin. Deep blue eyes. And a metal fo
rehead protector with a spiral leaf symbol.
Naruto Uzumaki.