The sun dipped low over Domino City, casting long, molten shadows across the quiet, winding streets. A crimson glow stretched like firelight against glass panes and shop signs, painting the city in hues of blood and brass. Domino Square—once alive with laughter, shouts, and the sharp whir of duel disks—was silent now, hollowed out by the massacre that had taken place only hours earlier.
And walking through that silence was a shadow made flesh.
The Duelist Exterminator's boots struck the pavement in a steady rhythm, each step echoing through the narrow alleyways like a drumbeat of inevitability. His long black trench coat trailed behind him, brushing against the cracked stones, the faint breeze catching the edges like wings of shadow. His cap brim dipped low, veiling his eyes in darkness, but the faint, controlled smirk that curved his lips told the world everything it needed to know—this was a man who never missed his mark.
His face was expressionless, sculpted from restraint, but his movements were precise—predatory. Every shift of his shoulders, every step, every turn of his head carried the poise of a hunter who already knew where his prey was hiding. Hanging from his neck, two tarnished bronze Millennium relics swayed softly with his motion, their surfaces scarred but still glimmering with faint, sinister light. One of them—a cracked, broken Scale—still bore the faint residue of the dark magic used in Domino Square's annihilation. The other two, untouched and polished, gleamed like patient weapons waiting their turn.
The streets tightened, closing in around him as the modern glow of the city faded into the older district—where the air was heavier, slower, and thick with memory. His gaze lifted beneath the brim of his cap.
There it was.
The Turtle Game Shop.
A modest, two-story building nestled quietly between larger stores. Its warm amber light spilled through the dusted windowpanes, cutting faint rectangles into the darkening street. The neon OPEN sign buzzed weakly in the corner, its flicker stuttering against the window glass. The air around the shop was still—but charged, humming faintly with the residue of countless duels fought in the name of friendship, honor, and destiny.
The Exterminator stopped before the door. His eyes scanned the golden-lit interior from the shadows. He stood there for a moment, silent, letting the hum of the evening settle. Then, without turning his head, he spoke quietly to the figure lingering just behind him.
"Stay outside."
The Rare Hunter, half-hidden under his hood, flinched. "B-boss?"
The Exterminator didn't repeat himself. His tone didn't rise—it didn't need to. "You'll remain here," he said, his voice low, measured. "If anyone tries to enter this shop—anyone who isn't him—stop them. Permanently."
The Rare Hunter blinked, his face pale beneath the dim light. "W-wait, you mean… stop them, like—"
The Exterminator turned his head just slightly. A sliver of light caught his eyes beneath the cap brim—cold, metallic, and empty.
"Do you need me to define the word stop for you?"
The Rare Hunter shook his head quickly, clutching his duel disk. "N-no, sir. Got it. Stopping. Loud and clear." He gave a shaky salute before backing toward the alley, muttering under his breath, "Man, I should've stayed with the card thieves… at least they only robbed people."
Satisfied, the Exterminator turned back toward the shop door. His gloved hand rested briefly on the handle, the air around him heavy enough to make the neon sign flicker again.
And then—he pushed the door open.
Ding.
The soft chime broke the stillness inside like the toll of a distant bell.
Warm lamplight glowed over shelves lined with neatly stacked booster packs and decks. Glass counters gleamed faintly beneath the golden bulbs, filled with rare cards carefully arranged under clear plastic. The faint scent of paper, old wood, and nostalgia filled the air. It was the smell of simpler times—the scent of every duelist's beginning.
The Exterminator stepped over the threshold, his boots whispering against the worn floorboards.
Behind him, the Rare Hunter stood outside in the growing dark, pulling his hood tighter, his breath fogging in the cool air. He glanced nervously up and down the street, his eyes darting between the alley shadows and the faint glow of the shop window.
"Stop anyone from helping Yugi," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. "Yeah, sure. No pressure. Just, you know, guard duty against actual heroes."
He crouched low behind a trash bin near the shop entrance, his duel disk ready, sweat glistening on his temples despite the chill. Every passing sound—a car door slamming, the flap of wings, the rustle of wind—made him twitch.
Meanwhile, inside the shop, the Duelist Exterminator stood beneath the warm lamplight, his shadow long and sharp across the floorboards. His gaze swept the room, calm and calculating, until it landed on the counter.
Behind the wooden counter, Solomon Muto looked up slowly. His glasses glinted in the soft light, and his expression shifted from absent-minded to focused in a heartbeat. The old man—once known as the "King of Games" in his prime—straightened his spine. He'd felt that presence before. Long ago.
The man who entered said nothing at first, simply letting the door close behind him with a soft click. Shadows pooled around his boots, and he walked toward the counter, head slightly bowed, as if hiding something beneath his cap. His duel disk was already active, glowing faint red, the LED along the edge flickering like a heartbeat.
Solomon's eyes narrowed. "...Can I help you?"
The Exterminator looked up.
And Solomon froze.
Recognition. Cold and immediate.
"You…"
His voice carried both shock and memory—heavy with a past long buried.
The Exterminator tilted his head slightly, his smile spreading just a bit. "It's been a long time, Solomon."
Solomon's jaw tightened, and he slowly set the card binder he'd been holding aside. "I thought you were dead. Someone else killed you after that duel."
The man chuckled softly. "dead? No. Just…Preparing."
He reached into his coat and produced a battered, black steel deck box—its corners dented, surface scuffed from time and fury. He placed it on the counter between them with a deliberate clack.
Carved into its lid, in deep, crude lines, was a name:
SOLOMON MUTO.
Solomon's face went pale. He didn't touch the box—just stared at it.
He leaned in closer, shadows stretching across his face like fingers. "You and Arthur… do you remember what you did to me?"
Solomon said nothing at first. His shoulders stiffened, eyes narrowing. "We beat you. Fair and square."
"You humiliated me," the Exterminator snapped, his tone sharpening like a knife. "I was inches away from taking Arthur's Blue-Eyes White Dragon. Inches. And then you—his little tag-duel partner—jumped in at the last second. Duel Energy crackling like fireworks around you both."
His voice dropped to a low growl. "You had the favor of fate. I had nothing."
Solomon slowly walked around the counter, standing fully across from him now, arms crossed.
"You had skill," he said calmly. "Plenty of it. But you let your bitterness rot your mind."
The Exterminator's eyes gleamed beneath his cap.
"Skill doesn't matter when the universe rigs the game," he snarled. "When you're born without the spark. I've felt Duel Energy. I've seen it. I've fought it. I've studied it. And I know what it is—a cheat code for the lucky. A gift handed to people like you. Not earned."
Solomon exhaled slowly. "So you came to settle a score?"
"No," the Exterminator said coldly. "I came to end my contract. My final job."
Solomon's brows lifted slightly. "Contract?"
The Exterminator's smirk returned. "Your grandson. Yugi Muto."
A silence fell like a dropped stone.
"He's too powerful. Too influential. Too dangerous," the Exterminator said. "After what happened with Pegasus, there are powers at play across the world that want the Pharaoh's vessel gone."
Solomon's fists clenched. "Yugi saved the world. Multiple times."
"And that's why they're afraid."
Solomon stared at him, fire building in his eyes now. The same fire he once carried into duels. "So what? You lure me into a duel, bait Yugi into coming here, and then what? Kill him in the shadow game?"
"I take everything from him," the Exterminator said quietly. "Just like you and Arthur took everything from me."
He activated his duel disk, the purple glow casting eerie light across the card shop's walls. Shadows lengthened behind him. The bronze Millennium relics around his neck shimmered like burning coals.
"This time, no backup. No Arthur. No partner to jump in at the last minute. Just you and me."
Solomon's hands tightened into fists, then relaxed.
He looked at the duel disk. At the deck boxes. At the man who had once fled, broken and beaten.
"You ran last time," he said softly.
The Exterminator's smile turned sharp.
"This time," he said, pulling a single card from his new deck and sliding it onto the top, "I end it properly."
Solomon stepped forward, pulling his own duel disk from beneath the counter. He strapped it onto his arm with steady hands, old but sure.
"If this is your last job," Solomon said, voice low, "you've chosen a worthy grave."
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