The waning afternoon sun spilled molten gold across the edges of Domino Square, igniting the pavement in an amber hue. Vendors packed up their stalls, tired duelists reviewed match records, and tournament hopefuls wandered between fountain benches and banners fluttering with the Battle City insignia.
But then the square went quiet.
A shift in the atmosphere—like the stillness before a predator pounces. The crowd's murmur faded to a low hum, eyes drawn toward the center of the plaza where a new presence had entered the scene.
He stood alone at first—tall, silent, and deliberate. His black trench coat rippled faintly in the cooling wind, the leather edges glinting under the dying sun. Each step echoed across the marble like a metronome counting down to something inevitable. The cap shading his face offered no warmth—just concealment. Beneath it, a single glint of light caught on the faint scar tracing his jaw. Everything about him suggested control, precision, and focus.
But then, trailing just behind him, came another figure—shorter, twitchier, and far less composed.
The second man wore the long purple cloak and triangular pendant of the Rare Hunters, though his robe was scuffed and creased, like he'd been dragged through the last dozen jobs unwillingly. His eyes darted nervously from side to side, scanning the duelists and passersby as though expecting someone to attack—or worse, recognize him. He carried a duel disk of his own, but unlike the man in front of him, it wasn't worn from experience; it was cracked, patched, and clearly secondhand.
"Uh, boss," the Rare Hunter stammered, breaking the uneasy silence as the two walked deeper into the square. "You sure this is the place? I—I mean, lots of duelists around here. Real strong ones too. Maybe we should—uh—scope things out first?"
The Rare Hunter sighed, scratching nervously at his neck. "You're really not the talkative type, huh?" He tried to laugh, but the sound died quickly under the weight of the other man's silence. "You know, they call you the Duelist Exterminator for a reason, but, uh, sometimes I wonder if it's the duelists that should be scared or the people with you."
That made the taller man pause.
For a brief, heartbeat-long moment, the Rare Hunter wished he hadn't spoken. The Duelist Exterminator turned his head slightly, just enough for one pale eye to catch the sunlight from under his cap. It wasn't anger that filled that gaze—it was the absence of anything.
"I don't hunt duelists for fun," the Exterminator said quietly. "I hunt them because I like getting paid."
The Rare Hunter blinked. "Y-yeah, yeah, sure thing, boss. Deep stuff. I like it. Very philosophical."
They resumed walking, the Rare Hunter trailing close but always one hesitant step behind.
Around them, people whispered. The words Rare Hunter carried weight in Domino City. But this was something different—this pair didn't fit the usual mold of scavengers who hunted rare cards like carrion birds. There was precision to their movements, a structure that made them seem less like thieves and more like agents on a mission.
The Duelist Exterminator came to a stop near the central fountain, its cascading water glinting orange under the setting sun. His gaze swept the square—measuring, calculating.
The Rare Hunter shifted awkwardly beside him. "So, uh… who are we looking for again? Just so I don't accidentally bump into them and get vaporized or something."The man didn't radiate pride or malice. Just quiet intention—like a sharpened blade resting on silk, waiting for purpose. The air around him seemed to hum, not from sound but from pressure, as if reality itself recoiled from his stillness. Strapped to his arm was a duel disk—battered, scratched from years of relentless combat. Its red lights flickered like a heartbeat in distress, pulsing in rhythm with the tension thickening the square.
And then, from beneath his coat, he drew something far more ominous.
A deck box—black steel, scuffed and dented, heavy enough that it clanked against the marble tiles when it swung from his gloved fingers. Its surface looked ancient, not just from time but from use; the edges were chipped, the hinges warped, the metal stained by the faint residue of something darker than rust. Etched crudely into the lid, by what looked like the tip of a knife, were uneven letters that spelled a name no duelist wanted to read aloud:
"ARMY KILLER."
The crowd's murmuring faltered. Someone's breath hitched audibly.
A few duelists standing near the fountain exchanged uneasy glances. They'd all heard rumors—tales whispered between tournaments of a phantom duelist, a man who hunted entire groups and left their decks shattered, their spirits drained. A myth. A ghost story told to scare the reckless. And yet, here he stood.
"Is this some kind of performance?" one duelist finally jeered, his voice wavering under forced laughter. "You trying to impress the rookies, trench coat?"
Another chimed in, a young woman with confidence edged by curiosity. "What's with the deck name? Trying to sound scary?"
A third, older duelist leaned on his duel disk and scoffed. "Probably thinks he's the main character or something."
The stranger said nothing. He simply opened the black box.
The faint metallic click of the hinge echoed unnaturally loud, like a gun being cocked. The cards inside gleamed faintly despite the dimming light—edges lined in steel-gray foil, their surfaces dark and nearly reflective. He handled them reverently, each motion precise, deliberate.
Then, with the slow grace of a man lighting a fuse, he slid the deck into his duel disk.
The device came alive—not with the bright blue of standard energy, but a deep, crimson glow, unnatural and pulsing. The light crawled along the machine's edges like veins, humming with restrained fury. The faint smell of ozone filled the air.
And then he looked up.
Just enough for the crowd to see his face—the pale, expressionless calm of a man who'd already seen the end of this story. A faint smile tugged at his lips. Not arrogant. Not cruel. Just… resigned. The look of someone who understood that what came next was inevitable.
He turned his duel disk slightly, the scarlet light catching across his face like a brand. His voice came quiet, calm, yet sharp enough to slice through the murmuring crowd.
"I challenge you."
The plaza froze.
A ripple of confusion passed through the crowd. Some exchanged glances, unsure if they'd heard correctly. Others smirked, assuming it was bravado—a lone man, posturing for attention in the heart of Battle City.
"You challenge who, exactly?" someone called out.
The man's eyes swept over the gathered duelists. "All of you."
For a heartbeat, the square went silent. Then came laughter—nervous at first, then louder, until the plaza rang with disbelief.
"You're outta your mind!" one duelist shouted, his voice cracking somewhere between anger and disbelief. He took an involuntary step backward, hand hovering over his duel disk as if unsure whether to activate it or bolt. "You think you can just walk in here and—what—take on all of us like some movie villain?!"
Another duelist, a lean man with mirrored shades and a gold-trimmed jacket, barked out a laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "You can't be serious," he said, though his words came out thinner than he intended. The way the stranger stood—completely unmoving, perfectly calm—made something primal in his chest twist. "This is Battle City, not a fantasy story! You think you're gonna duel twenty of us at once?!"
"I've seen street performers with more sense!" another yelled, forcing a grin as if to prove his courage to everyone watching. But his bravado faltered when the stranger didn't even blink. The man's silence wasn't that of arrogance—it was something else. Something colder. The duelist's grin slipped, and he muttered under his breath, "Why isn't he saying anything?"
The crowd murmured, their confidence unraveling thread by thread.
Someone else—a woman with a sleek purple duel disk and sharp eyes—snorted in derision, though she shifted her stance defensively. "You must really like losing, pal. You'll run out of cards before you even make it halfway through us." She paused, narrowing her eyes. "Unless… you're planning something."
The duelist beside her scoffed, trying to sound brave. "Please. It's just a show. Some washed-up duelist trying to make a name by being weird. Look at him—he's probably one of those shadow-game freaks."
But their laughter faltered as quickly as it began.
Because the light changed.
The warm glow of sunset dimmed unnaturally, as though the sun itself had taken a breath and held it. Shadows pooled around the stranger's boots, stretching outward across the marble in fluid, serpentine patterns. The air turned cold—not windy, but dense, heavy with something electric and wrong.
Duel disks around the plaza began to spark—screens flickering, systems humming on their own. One by one, the devices synced, their lights pulsing to match the stranger's crimson frequency.
Then, symbols began to appear.
Ancient glyphs—spiraling and angular—etched themselves into the stone beneath their feet, glowing in intertwined hues of crimson and gold. They weren't holograms. They were real, carved by invisible force into the ground, forming perfect concentric circles that expanded outward from the stranger's position.
The crowd backed away, only to find the outermost circle locking them in, the air solidifying like glass.
A duelist near the edge dropped his deck, cards scattering like fallen feathers. His voice cracked with panic. "W-what is this?! What's happening?!"
The stranger's gaze didn't move from the circle's center.Heads turned toward the sound—toward the trembling figure half-hidden behind one of the marble pillars near the plaza's edge. It was a man in a tattered purple cloak, the long folds of fabric singed and fraying at the hem. The insignia on his shoulder—a faint, triangular eye stitched in gold—marked him unmistakably as a Rare Hunter, one of the underground organization's scavengers and duel card thieves.
But this one looked different from the others—more nervous than cruel, more afraid than loyal. His pale face gleamed with sweat, and his eyes darted frantically between the glowing Shadow Game field and the tall, silent figure standing at its center. His duel disk hung loosely from his arm, unactivated, as if he feared even touching it might draw the circle's wrath upon him.
"B-Boss?" he stammered, his voice cracking like brittle glass. "You—you're really doing it? You're actually gonna duel twenty of 'em at once?!"
His words trembled across the suddenly silent plaza, and several duelists turned toward him, startled. The Rare Hunter's fear seemed to amplify the tension already coiling in the air. He stumbled forward a step, nearly tripping on his cloak. "I—I thought you were bluffing! A scare tactic! You—you can't be serious!"
The Duelist Exterminator didn't look back. He didn't need to. His presence alone silenced the square. But the faintest shift in his stance—a subtle tightening of the shoulders—betrayed a flicker of acknowledgment.
"Stay where you are," he said quietly, voice even as tempered steel. "The field's already formed."
The Rare Hunter froze mid-step, then nodded quickly, his hands twitching as though he couldn't decide whether to salute or hide. "Y-yeah, sure, okay. Staying put. Not moving. But, uh—boss—this is really bad! You just sealed off the whole plaza! That's not a duel, that's a massacre waiting to happen!"
He looked around wildly, eyes wide with disbelief as the crimson glyphs continued to pulse underfoot, their rhythm matching the heartbeat hum of the Exterminator's duel disk. The twenty duelists now trapped within the field stood in a mix of defensive stances and pure panic, their expressions wavering between anger and fear.
The Rare Hunter turned back to his superior, voice cracking as he blurted, "You're crazy, you know that? You're not even supposed to be real! They said you were a rumor—some story to scare duelists who cheat! I mean, twenty duelists?! That's not dueling, that's suicide! Even Marik wouldn't pull something that nuts!"
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