Connor Hawkins stepped into the light with the air of someone used to rooms that underestimate him. His jacket swallowed his slight frame, sleeves just a shade too long, the hem whispering as he walked. He smoothed a palm over the edge of his Duel Disk, face calm, eyes bright with a steady intelligence.
Across from him came his opponent with a stride that claimed the floor. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a graphite suit, cheekbones carved like ice, and a politician's smile sharpened into a knife. He introduced himself into the mic with a cool, almost theatrical bow. "President Orlov." The name rolled off his tongue like the click of a gun being cocked.
Their Duel Disks clamped into place with twin metallic snicks. Kaiba's face flickered onto a side monitor—hawk-eyed, amused, the picture of a man who had bet on lightning and expected it to strike. "Finals, round five," he said. "Life Points: four thousand each. Begin."
Orlov settled into his stance, expression relaxed but predatory, and raised a single finger. "I'll go first."
The screens flashed:
Orlov – LP: 4000
Connor – LP: 4000
Orlov's slate-gray eyes gleamed. "Draw." He fanned his cards, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I Normal Summon Goblin Attack Force (ATK 2300)." A phalanx of green-skinned soldiers crashed onto the field with shields up and scimitars high. "Two set cards," he added, his voice velvet over barbed wire. "Your move."
Connor watched the board, lids lowering a fraction, reading tempo, risk. He drew quietly. "I activate Upstart Goblin." A comically grinning merchant popped up, showering gold. "You gain 1000 Life Points; I draw one card."
Orlov – LP: 5000
Connor – LP: 4000
"I set a monster and two cards face-down," Connor said, his tone precise, movements deliberate. His eyes never left the Duel Disk as he slid the cards into place. "Then I activate Messenger of Peace."
A translucent monk drifted to center stage, hands folded as a temple bell tolled once. The air shimmered faintly, an invisible barrier sealing off the battlefield. "Monsters with 1500 or more ATK can't attack," Connor explained, voice steady. "I'll pay 100 Life Points during each of my Standby Phases to maintain it."
Orlov's eyebrow twitched, a humorless crack in his otherwise rigid composure. His lips curled, and he gave a low chuckle that carried the chill of mockery.
"Stalling me?" he asked, his Russian accent sharpening the edges of the words like a knife. He tilted his head, eyes glittering under the neon glow of the blimp's lights. "You do understand you need to attack me to win, yes?" His smile widened into something cruel, and he leaned slightly forward, voice pitched just loud enough for the crowd to hear. "Or is your plan to sit there and hide behind monks and prayers? You are aware of that, right, boy?"
The word boy snapped in the air like a whip, dripping with disdain. Orlov let the moment linger, savoring the tension as if he expected Connor to break, to show even a flicker of panic or frustration.
Connor, however, only adjusted his sleeve, his expression unreadable. His silence was its own reply, and the faint narrowing of his eyes said everything: he would not be baited.
"Draw," Orlov said. "I Normal Summon Berserk Gorilla (ATK 2000)." The massive beast pounded its chest, then snarled in frustration as Messenger of Peace rippled and denied it. "And I set one card." He glanced up, voice turning conversational, almost bored. "You know, Mr. Hawkins, tournaments like this attract…True power".
He slid a card out slowly, letting everyone see it before he tucked it back under a set. The audience murmured. Connor's eyes narrowed, a sliver.
"Wicked gods," Orlov said, his voice dropping into something heavier, darker. "You've heard of them, of course. Power equal to the Pharaoh's Egyptian Gods. One finds its way into circulation, and entire nations take notice."
The Russian president's smile thinned to a razor's edge as he held up a card just long enough for the crowd to see its black design, then slid it back under his Duel Disk. His eyes flicked toward Connor, cold and glittering. "You may ask how such a card came into my possession. A spy—ours—delivered it into my hands, but not without purpose. It came with strings, and with a message."
He took a step forward, lowering his tone so that his words dripped with venom. "A warning to certain… Americans. They sought to make sure that Industrial Illusions never fell into Kaiba's control. To keep it a puppet, chained to their government like a dog on a leash."
The audience murmured, a low wave of shock at such a revelation. Kaiba, watching from the balcony above, leaned forward with his hands gripping the rail. His jaw tightened visibly, a vein pulsing at his temple. The glare he leveled at Jason across the viewing gallery could have split stone.
Orlov's expression shifted—no longer only cold calculation, but a flicker of grief concealed beneath steel. "And I," he continued, "was a friend of Pegasus J. Crawford. A true friend. He was brilliant, eccentric, a man who gave light and imagination to the world. I will not forgive those who conspired in his murder. Jason—" Orlov's voice dipped like ice cracking, "—your hands are stained. You were part of it, weren't you? A scheme to erase him so that the Americans could twist his legacy into something monstrous… the very Wicked God cards you now fear."
Gasps ran through the crowd like a current. Cameras whirred and zoomed.
Jason shifted in his seat, older features tightening in irritation rather than guilt. His mouth pressed into a thin line as his eyes flicked downward, refusing to meet the stares drilling into him from all sides. His annoyance radiated as he muttered under his breath, "Tch… so they pieced it together." He crossed his arms, scowling deeper. "Let them talk. Pegasus's death was necessary—progress always comes at a cost. They'll never understand."
Kaiba's glare sharpened like broken glass. He didn't speak, but his eyes alone promised retribution for anyone who dared think they could get in his way.
Orlov, savoring the moment, returned his attention to Connor. "So you see, boy. This duel is more than cards. There is nothing personal against you in this duel, you're just in the way of vengeance.I will see Jason's schemes ground into dust." His face softened into a mock smile, one corner lifting. "But for now… you deny me battle. Tiresome." He spread two fingers like a dismissive gesture. "End."
Connor's gaze had sharpened, the faintest tension in his jaw betraying that he had swallowed the weight of Orlov's words like something metallic and bitter.
He drew. Messenger's monk tolled his bell in solemn resonance, and Connor lowered his head briefly as he paid his tithe.
Connor pays 100 LP.
Connor – LP: 3900
Connor pays 100 LP (Messenger of Peace).
Connor LP: 3900
"I set two cards. Then I activate Pot of Greed to draw two." His Duel Disk whirred; his eyes flicked:Turn end."
Orlov's lips creased with disdain. "Draw." He hummed. "I use my face down Mystical Space Typhoon on your Messenger of Peace." A cyclone ripped the monk apart. The green-suited Goblins roared as if the air had finally turned breathable.
"Battle. Goblin Attack Force—cut down that face down monster." The squad surged, swords flashing. Connor's expression didn't change. His palm went down, cool and quick. "I activate Waboku. This turn, I take no battle damage, and my monsters can't be destroyed by battle."
The blades passed like wind. Sangan squeaked and bounced, very much alive.
(DEF 600)
"Tsk." Orlov's smile thinned. "In that case, Main Phase 2. I Normal Summon Slate Warrior (ATK 1900)." The masked rogue flickered into view, daggers gleaming. "I set a card. End turn."
Connor drew again, lashes shadowing his gaze. "I activate Jar of Greed to draw one." He slid it from the chain like a cardsharp palming a coin.
"Swords of Revealing Light." Crystalline blades unfolded from the sky, ringing to a stop around Orlov's monsters. "Three of your turns.you cannot attack me." He set a second monster face-down, then placed a face down card.
Orlov stared at the glowing swords, the light scratching lines into his face. He exhaled through his nose. "Draw." He flicked his wrist. "I flip Royal Decree which negates all traps while they are on the field." The card stood up like a proclamation unrolled; trap cards across the field dimmed, sealed. "Enough tricks."
A muscle jumped in Connor's cheek; just a tick. But his shoulders remained level.
Orlov's voice softened, dangerous. "I Normal Summon Double Coston (ATK 1700)." Black smoke coiled around the gaunt fiend. "And then, main course." He slid a spell onto the field. "Soul Exchange. I target your Sangan."
The air hummed with a second heartbeat. Sangan shrieked as ethereal chains wrapped it. Orlov spread his hands. "I conduct a Tribute Summon. Double Coston counts as two tributes for a DARK monster and with Soul Exchange, I can use your Sangan for my tribute summon—three total." His mouth curved; his eyes reflected the blimp's lights like steel.
A shadow fell across the arena. The floor itself seemed to tilt as something vast rose from nowhere, a shape like a black mountain splitting open. A claw raked light from the air, and then the arena looked up into the terrible mask of The Wicked Dreadroot (ATK 4000).
"The Wicked Dreadroot cannot be Special Summoned," Orlov recited with the solemnity of a priest, "and must be Tribute Summoned with three tributes. While it stands, the ATK and DEF of all other monsters are halved."
The gorilla shrank in a visible shudder, muscles wilting; Slate Warrior's blades drooped. The crowd went silent, then erupted.
Connor's fingers tightened around his Disk. He let out a breath and spoke levelly for the record: "Sangan was sent from the field to the Graveyard. Sangan's effect adds a monster with 1500 or less ATK from my Deck to my hand. I add Right Leg of the Forbidden One to my hand."
The cameras zoomed; chatter crackled through the stands. One piece.
Orlov's smile sharpened. "Due to Soul Exchange, I cannot conduct my Battle Phase this turn." He leaned forward, voice velvet with promise. "Next turn, boy."
Connor drew, eyes calm—then tapped a card. "I set a monster. I activate Graceful Charity which allows me to draw three and discard two cards after ." The monk rang his bell, returning like a ghost that had never left. "I set one card and pass."
Orlov's eyebrow quivered. He drew and showed his teeth. "Fine. No more delicate measures." He flung his arm down. "Heavy Storm!"
Wind screamed across the arena. The crystalline Swords of Revealing Light shattered into star-points;Royal Decree ripped off the field as if sucked through a drain. For one heartbeat the stadium was unmoored, hair blown sideways, coats snapping, then the storm cut out. The silence that followed seemed to stretch.
"Chain," Connor said, voice steady. "I activate Scapegoat." Four sheep tokens bleated into existence, plump and ridiculous. "I Special Summon Sheep Tokens (ATK 0) in Defense Position."
Orlov laughed sharply, delighted at the audacity. "Battle. The Wicked Dreadroot—crush a token." The colossal hand fell. A token popped with a plaintive squeak. "Berserk Gorilla—another." "Slate Warrior—a third." "End," Orlov said, tone almost tender. "Next, I dine."
Connor let the noise of the crowd wash past him. He drew, eyes momentarily gleaming. "I set two cards and a monster." He placed one more spell with precise care. "Gold Sarcophagus. I banish Left Leg of the Forbidden One from my Deck. In two of my Standby Phases, Gold Sarcophagus will add that Left Leg from banishment to my hand."
He looked up, and for a heartbeat his face betrayed something—a tightness in his cheek, an intensity behind his irises, as if he could feel time scraping against bone. Then it was gone.
Orlov drew. His eyes flashed with relish. "Mystical Space Typhoon—your face-down on the right." The cyclone shredded a set Gravity Bind. "Lovely. I Normal Summon Summoned Skull (ATK 2500) by tributing Berserk Gorilla." The fiend's wings unfurled, crackling. "Slade attack the last Token, Your lambs are gone enough. Goblin attack force attacks your face down."
Connor lifted a hand, soft and crisp. "Witch of the Black Forest was sent from the field to the Graveyard. Witch's effect adds a monster with 1500 or less DEF from my Deck to my hand. I add Exodia the Forbidden One to my hand."
He jabbed a finger. "The Wicked Dreadroot—direct attack."
The titan's arm rose, blotting the LEDs. Connor's heartbeat counted once, twice. He exhaled and—without a wobble—lifted a single card from his hand. "I discard Swift Scarecrow (ATK 0). When you declare a direct attack, I can discard it to end the Battle Phase."
The scarecrow flickered into place, scarecrow-smile wide and odd, then dissolved, string-cut. The titan's blow skimmed mere inches above the holographic platform, shockwave tearing Connor's hair across his brow; the attack dissipated like heat in rain. Gasps ricocheted through the dome.
Orlov's fingers drummed his Disk. Annoyance etched his mouth; his eyes, however, danced with the thrill of a proper fight. "Main Phase 2. I set one. End."
Connor's shoulders sank a fraction, a micro-relief he didn't let show except in the faint softening of his eyes. He drew steadily, his fingers tight on the card. "Standby Phase—Gold Sarcophagus now has one turn left before it resolves." He placed a card with quiet precision. "I set one card… and end my turn."
_____________________________________________________________________________________
If you'd like to support my work, consider donating to my Patreon!
By becoming a patron, you can gain access to up to 10 chapters ahead of public releases. My Patreon is patreon.com/SecondVoidlord.