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A full day of gene harvesting had passed in what felt like minutes. As darkness reclaimed the Gray Ridge Mountains, painting the forest in shades of black and deeper black, Russell stood over his latest "donor"—a magnificent tiger that was currently shaking like a chihuahua in a thunderstorm.
The great predator, easily three hundred pounds of muscle and killing instinct, pressed itself against the ground as if trying to melt into the earth. Its eyes, which should have burned with feline confidence, were wide with the kind of existential terror usually reserved for prey animals. Every few seconds, a pitiful whimper escaped its throat a sound no self-respecting tiger should ever make.
Russell, still in full Arrogance form, reached down with one massive clawed hand. The tiger's shaking intensified to the point where leaves around it vibrated in sympathy.
"You should learn to be more tactful in the future," the overlapping voices of Russell and Arrogance advised, patting the tiger's head with surprising gentleness. The symbiote's touch was careful, almost affectionate like a person petting a particularly skittish house cat. "Not everyone is as kind-hearted as I am."
"Meow?"
The sound that emerged from the tiger's throat was so incongruous that Russell had to suppress a laugh. Here was an apex predator, terror of the forest, making kitten noises because it had been so thoroughly traumatized.
From the tiger's perspective, the day had started so well. A successful hunt, a full belly, a nice sunny spot for an afternoon nap. Then this... thing... had dropped from the sky . Before the tiger could even process the threat, it found itself pinned, helpless as a newborn cub. Then came the violation—black and red tentacles trying to invade every orifice, probing its very essence. The memory alone made it shudder harder.
Russell, blissfully unaware of the psychological damage he'd inflicted, gave the tiger one final pat. "Go on, get out of here."
The tiger tentatively extended one paw, muscles coiled to flee but brain still frozen with indecision. It looked back at the monster, eyes searching for any sign of pursuit. Russell made a shooing gesture with Arrogance's clawed hand.
That was all the encouragement needed. The tiger exploded into motion, dignity abandoned entirely as it half-ran, half-rolled away from the clearing. Leaves and small branches went flying in its wake, the sound of its panicked flight echoing through the forest long after it vanished from sight.
"Poor thing will probably need therapy," Russell mused, watching the destruction left in the tiger's wake. "If tiger therapists existed."
The thought amused him as he checked the time through Arrogance's enhanced senses. The position of stars barely visible through the canopy told him it was past midnight—time to head home. Tomorrow's practical training in a pocket dimension demanded proper rest, and he'd been running on adrenaline and excitement for too long.
"And the modules have been collected almost completely," he said to himself, pulling up Arrogance's status display in his mind. The day's harvest had been... eclectic. From the smallest insects to apex predators, he'd sampled the Gray Ridge Mountains' entire ecosystem.
Now for the fun part—choosing what to actually use.
Russell swapped out [Leg Muscle Cluster] for his newest acquisition: [Pointed Wings]. The change was immediate and somewhat disturbing to watch. Arrogance's form shifted, biomass redistributing as two appendages burst from his back with wet, organic sounds. The wings unfurled—not the feathered beauty of birds or the membrane elegance of bats, but something between the two. Flesh stretched over modified bone structures, surfaces covered in tiny scales that could adjust angle for optimal aerodynamics.
"Let's see what these can do," Russell said, flexing muscles he'd never had before. The wings responded instantly, spreading to their full impressive span—nearly five meters tip to tip.
He took a running start, powerful legs launching him skyward as the wings caught air. The sensation was nothing like riding Pidgeot. This was true flight, every adjustment instantly translated through his nervous system. Banking left, diving, climbing—all as natural as walking despite being completely new experiences.
"This is much faster than Pidgeot," Russell laughed into the night wind, which howled past at speeds that would have deafened unprotected human ears. But wrapped in Arrogance's protection, he felt only exhilaration. The symbiote's form cut through air resistance like it was nothing, wings pumping with mechanical efficiency.
Below, the Gray Ridge Mountains shrank away, becoming a dark mass punctuated by the occasional light from ranger stations or late-night hikers. Russell pushed harder, feeling the edge of his current limits approaching.
"It's a pity I still can't break the speed of sound," he noted, sensing the air resistance building exponentially as he approached that barrier. "If I encounter any powerful bird-like monsters in the future, maybe I can extract the corresponding modules."
The [Pointed Wings] were good excellent even but they were still based on a mundane eagle's biology. He needed something designed for true speed, perhaps from a monster that treated sonic booms as mild inconveniences.
The flight to Northgate took less than an hour a journey that would have taken three times as long on enhanced Pidgeot. The city appeared ahead, a constellation of lights against the darkness. Russell deliberately slowed as he approached the city limits, mindful of regulations and not wanting to trigger defensive responses.
His caution proved insufficient.
The moment he crossed into official Northgate airspace, several figures converged on his position with practiced precision. Russell's enhanced senses counted six all mounted on various flying cards, forming a containment pattern around him. Their approach was professional, maintaining safe distances while cutting off escape routes.
"Cardmaker ahead, please slow down and follow our instructions to land for an inspection!" The leader's voice carried clearly despite the wind, probably enhanced by some minor wind magic.
Russell immediately complied, killing forward momentum and dropping toward the indicated landing zone a reinforced platform specifically designed for such inspections. As his clawed feet touched down, he noted the subtle defensive arrays built into the surface. One wrong move and he'd be wrapped in binding formations before he could blink.
The patrol team landed in a circle around him, maintaining formation even on the ground. Their leader a middle-aged man with the kind of solid build that suggested earth-type cards approached with professional caution. His eyes swept over Arrogance's form with the assessment of someone who'd seen plenty of strange things but still found new surprises.
"Where's your cardmaker?" he asked, hand resting casually near his card holster. Behind him, his team maintained ready stances not quite hostile but prepared to become so instantly.
Russell couldn't resist a bit of theatricality. The front of Arrogance's "face" split open like a horror movie effect, peeling back in sections to reveal his human head within. The symbiote thoughtfully provided dramatic backlighting, making his reveal look like something from a B-movie poster.
The patrol leader's expression went through several interesting variations before settling on professional confusion. His mental categories were clearly misfiring was this armor? A bio-colonial suit? Some kind of possession-type card?
"I am the cardmaker," Russell said, his voice carrying both his normal tones and Arrogance's reverb. "I wonder what you need, comrade?"
The formal address seemed to snap the man back to procedure. He produced his ID with practiced motion Northgate Air Security, badge number clearly visible. "You were speeding near Northgate just now. We were ordered to come and check on you. Please show me your ID."
I deliberately slowed down, Russell sighed internally. How could I still be checked? But arguing with security was never productive. He had Arrogance retract fully, the symbiote flowing back into his body like water running in reverse. The patrol team watched with poorly hidden fascination as three meters of monster compressed into a normal-sized teenager.
Russell handed over his ID, noting how the patrol leader compared the photo to his face with extra care probably making sure he hadn't been eaten and replaced by his own card. After a moment, the man handed it back with a slight nod.
"No problem, but I have to remind you that any speed exceeding 200 kilometers per hour is considered speeding in Northgate airspace." His tone had shifted from suspicion to mild reproof, like a traffic cop giving a warning to a teenager with a too-fast car.
"Understood," Russell nodded. "Then I can leave?"
"Thank you for your cooperation. You can leave now." The patrol leader stepped back, waving his team to stand down.
Russell summoned Arrogance again this time keeping to a more human-sized flying form and took off at a carefully measured 190 kilometers per hour. Behind him, he could hear the patrol team's discussion carrying on the wind.
"Collect the report. A student from Northgate University," the leader instructed.
"As expected of a top student from Northgate. His cards are so unique," one member commented.
"Your aesthetic sense is flawed," another retorted. "I thought it was a demon invasion. Nearly wet myself when that thing landed."
The leader's voice carried a note of puzzlement. "I've lived for so many years and have never seen a card like this."
Russell smiled as their voices faded.
Back in his apartment, Russell finally allowed exhaustion to hit. Twenty-four hours of non-stop hunting, fighting, and flying had pushed even his enhanced stamina to its limits. But before rest came organization.
"It's time to open the exciting blind boxes," he announced to his empty workshop, laying out mental displays of every genetic module he'd collected.
The variety was staggering. Over the day, he'd sampled everything from ants to eagles, mice to tigers. Each creature had offered its own genetic gift, though "gift" was perhaps too generous a term for some of them.
[Musk Glands] from a skunk. Hard pass.
[Compound Eyes] from various insects. Interesting but nauseating to actually use.
[Hibernation Capability] from a bear. Useful if he ever wanted to sleep for three months straight.
[Infrared Vision] from a snake. Potentially useful but redundant with Arrogance's existing sensory suite.
[Decorative Plumage] from a peacock. Arrogance had actually seemed offended by this one.
The list went on—biological curiosities that evolution had produced for specific niches but offered little to a combat-focused symbiote. Still, among the dross were gems:
[Leg Muscle Cluster] - Already tested, excellent for explosive movement [Pointed Wings] - Currently in use, true flight capability [Streamlined Muscles] - Extracted from the tiger, improving overall explosive power [Keen Sense of Smell] - From a bear, turning scent into a precise tracking tool
"Not a bad haul," Russell decided, filing away the useful modules and discarding the rest. Arrogance could only use one at a time currently, but having options meant tactical flexibility.
"Phew, next we have to look at tomorrow's practical training class." He set an alarm and collapsed into bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow.
"You have to act alone today, Russell," Heath said the next morning, not looking up from his phone where he was apparently engaged in a heated card trading negotiation.
Russell propped his chin with one hand, suppressing another yawn. The classroom's fluorescent lights felt unnecessarily bright after yesterday's exertions. "Because I'm a silver level. There's nothing to be done about it."
Keith glanced over from his meticulous note-taking, eyebrows raised. "Why do you seem so listless? You're usually more... energetic."
"Played too late yesterday and didn't get enough rest," Russell said nonchalantly, which was technically true if "playing" included traumatizing most of a mountain's ecosystem.
The twins exchanged glances—the kind of wordless communication that came from years of shared experiences. They were clearly building up to more probing questions when salvation arrived in the form of their counselor.
Hazel approached with her characteristic silence, moving through the crowded classroom like a ghost. She stopped at their table and knocked gently—two soft raps that somehow carried more authority than shouting would have. Her eyes found Russell's with unusual directness.
He immediately understood. "Is it about the practical training?"
She nodded, a small motion that sent her braid swaying. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper, but in the noisy classroom it somehow reached him clearly. "I'll take you there now. There are special arrangements for students above the silver level."
Russell rose, noting the immediate attention from nearby students. Being singled out by Hazel was noteworthy—she rarely interacted directly with anyone if she could avoid it. He followed her from the classroom, aware of the eyes tracking their departure and the whispers that bloomed in their wake.
The walk through Northgate University's halls was silent but not uncomfortable. Hazel moved with purpose, leading him through sections of the building he'd never explored. They passed the regular lecture halls, the administrative offices, even the specialized training rooms. Finally, she stopped at a set of double doors marked only with a number: 317.
"A teacher will be here soon," she said gently, gesturing toward the door. "You can sit here for a while." A pause, then softer: "I'll go back first."
The speed of her retreat might have been insulting if Russell didn't understand her condition. Social interaction, even with someone she considered a junior brother, was draining for her. He pushed through the doors to find a lecture hall sized for perhaps fifty students—intimate by university standards.
About twenty students were already present, scattered across the tiered seating in the universal pattern of people avoiding proximity to strangers. Russell's entrance caused a ripple of recognition. Whispers spread like wildfire:
"That's the new main member of the Battle Club, right?" "Yeah, the freshman who took down Grant." "Is this true? So outrageous?" "Why would I lie to you? There were so many people watching. They say he carved a new canyon in the mountain." "Bullshit. A freshman with that kind of power?" "My roommate was there. Says the girl he summoned was scarier than any demon he's seen."
Russell kept his expression neutral as he found an empty section near the middle—not so far back as to seem aloof, not so far forward as to seem eager. The whispers continued, but he'd learned to treat background gossip as white noise.
His gaze found Grant sitting in the front row, and he had to suppress a wince. The sophomore's expression could have curdled fresh milk. Being defeated was bad enough, but becoming a footnote in someone else's legend clearly stung worse. Grant stared straight ahead with the kind of intense focus that suggested he was imagining Russell's painful demise in vivid detail.
After another ten minutes of awkward waiting, the door opened to admit a middle-aged man who moved with the economy of someone who'd given this speech too many times. He took position at the front without preamble, sweeping the room with eyes that catalogued and dismissed in the same glance.
"Okay, students, be quiet for a moment." His voice carried the kind of authority that came from experience rather than volume. The whispers died instantly. "This isn't the first time for everyone to attend a practical training class, so I won't waste any more time with nonsense."
Russell appreciated the directness. Too many teachers loved the sound of their own voices.
"If you want to form a team, please report to me first," the teacher continued. "If you don't, I will treat you as a lone ranger. Teams have advantages—shared resources, covering weaknesses, distributed risk. Solo operators have flexibility and don't have to share rewards. Choose based on your capabilities, not your ego."
Most of the students immediately stood, gravitating toward pre-established groups or nervously approaching potential teammates. Russell remained seated, watching the social dynamics play out. Grant had three others with him—a balanced team from what he could sense. Other groups formed along friendship lines or complementary card types.
Russell stayed put. First, he knew nobody here except Grant, who would rather eat glass than team with him. Second, and more importantly, he had confidence in his abilities. Arrogance alone was worth a full team, and his other cards provided excellent support. Adding teammates would just mean protecting liabilities.
After five minutes of organization, the teacher looked at those remaining seated—Russell and three others who had the look of either extreme confidence or social anxiety.
"Solo operators then," he said, making notes on his tablet. "Your choice, but remember—the association takes no responsibility for your safety."
His expression grew serious, the kind of look that suggested he was about to share something important. "Although this is just the final finishing work, please do not take it lightly. Last year, a gold-level demon had been seriously injured and hidden underground. When the students went in for routine cleanup, it recovered enough to attack. Three dead, seven seriously injured. The demon was eventually killed, but those students are still dead."
The room's atmosphere shifted, excitement curdling into apprehension. Russell noticed several students unconsciously moving closer to their teammates.
"The dimension you're entering has been 'cleared' by association strike teams," the teacher continued. "But 'cleared' doesn't mean 'safe.' It means the major threats are gone. Emphasis on major. Wounded demons hide. Trap formations remain active. Environmental hazards don't care about your card level."
He paused, ensuring his words sank in. "If something happens in the secret realm, no one will be responsible for you. You signed the relevant agreement when you applied for the card-making department. That wasn't academic boilerplate it was a legal acknowledgment that this profession kills people."
"Finally," he said, tone shifting back to professional, "pay attention to your safety. Public transportation is waiting outside. Move out."
The students stood with noticeably less enthusiasm than they'd entered with. Reality had a way of dampening spirits. Russell joined the exodus, following the crowd through the university's gates to where a fleet of buses waited like steel beasts.
The vehicles were clearly marked "Silver Level," and one ominous black bus marked simply "Gold+". Russell boarded the silver bus, finding it half-empty. Most students were still bronze, with only a handful having broken through during their first year.
He chose a window seat near the middle, settling in for what promised to be a long journey. The bus pulled away from campus with a diesel growl, joining a convoy of similar vehicles all heading for the same destination.
Hours later, the landscape had transformed completely. The urban sprawl of Northgate gave way to farmland, then wilderness, then something altogether more ominous. Rain had started two hours into the journey not a gentle shower but a persistent downpour that turned the world into an impressionist painting.
Through the water-streaked window, Russell caught glimpses of their destination. Mountains loomed through the mist, their peaks lost in low-hanging clouds. Scattered across the visible slopes were structures—or what remained of them. Houses, perhaps temples, built in architectural styles that seemed subtly wrong to modern eyes. Most had partially collapsed, victims of either battle or time.
The bus's interior had grown quiet as they approached. Even the most boisterous students felt the weight of the atmosphere. This wasn't a training ground or controlled environment—this was a wound in reality that had been forcibly held open, its native defenders crushed but not eliminated.
Inside one of the crumbling houses, water dripped through gaps in the roof, creating a steady rhythm that had long since faded into background noise. The room might once have been grand—traces of faded murals were still visible on the walls, depicting scenes of a world that no longer existed.
On a bed that had seen better centuries, an old man lay propped against moldy cushions. His breathing was labored, each inhalation a conscious effort. Beside him knelt a younger man, perhaps thirty, with the kind of nervous energy that suggested bad news barely contained.
"Ancestor," the young man said, his voice carefully respectful despite the urgency burning in his eyes, "the offensive of the cardmakers seems to have weakened a lot recently."
The old man's cough was wet, bringing up something dark that he discretely wiped away. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of ages and the bitter knowledge of defeat.
"We are just one secret realm." The words came slowly, each one considered. "The people outside are a whole world. How can we possibly win with a war of attrition?"
His cloudy eyes found the younger man's face, seeing not just him but all the dead they represented. "The major forces in our world have all been crippled. The remaining ones are old, weak, and sick like me. We are not defenders anymore—we are remnants, waiting for the end."
Bitterness flashed across the young man's features, his hands clenching into fists. "Ancestor, what should we do next? Surely there must be something—"
The old man struggled to sit up straighter, brittle bones protesting the movement. "The underground secret room we prepared before the invasion—it should not have been discovered yet. The wards were set to hide from their detection methods."
"Notify the remaining people in the tribe," he continued, each word an effort. "Move all important items inside. Sacred texts, bloodline stones, anything that carries our history. Then hide. Not for days or weeks—prepare for years if necessary."
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken truths. They both knew hiding was just delaying the inevitable, but what else remained?
"It's hateful," the young man finally burst out, voice cracking with suppressed rage. "If we hadn't been captured, pulled into this cursed existence, how could our tribe be so humiliated? We were kings in our world!"
The old man's gaze sharpened, cloudy eyes suddenly focused with alarming intensity. "Be careful with your words."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Shadows that had been still suddenly writhed, and for a moment, something vast and terrible seemed to press against the boundaries of reality.
"Don't think that He can't control you after He has descended," the old man continued, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "We are all just His pawns. Every one of us who survived the translation, from the mightiest lord to the smallest child. Pawns don't get to complain about the game."
The young man shuddered, face paling as he remembered truths better left forgotten. "I am sorry for what I said, ancestor. I... I will make the arrangements right away."
He fled the room with undisguised haste, leaving the old man alone with the dripping water and the weight of secrets that would die with him. Outside, thunder rolled across the mountains, and something that wasn't quite laughter echoed from the depths of the realm.
The bus's brakes hissed as they finally arrived at their destination. Through the rain-lashed windows, Russell got his first clear look at what the association considered a "secured" entry point.
The base was a fortress in all but name. Concrete walls five meters thick formed the outer perimeter, topped with crystalline formations that hummed with lethal energy. Guard towers rose at regular intervals, each manned by figures that didn't move like bronze-level cardmakers. The very air felt heavy with overlapping defensive fields.
As they disembarked, Russell's enhanced senses immediately catalogued the security. Dozens of silver-level signatures at the checkpoints alone, their presence a constant pressure against his awareness. But deeper in the base, behind multiple layers of shielding, he sensed something else. Presences that his silver-level perception couldn't properly quantify—they registered as absences rather than sources, holes in reality where power had grown too dense to comprehend.
Gold level at minimum, Russell thought. Maybe stronger.
His tentative probe in that direction was immediately met with warning pressure—not hostile, but firmly discouraging. Like a hand on his shoulder suggesting he look elsewhere. Russell withdrew his senses quickly, message received. Some things weren't meant to be investigated by students.
A man in association combat gear stood before their group, rain running off his enchanted coat without seeming to touch him. His bearing suggested military experience adapted for supernatural threats—straight backed but ready to move, eyes that never quite stopped scanning for danger.
"The mission and map should have been sent to your mobile phones," he announced without preamble.
Russell pulled out his device, finding the message waiting:
[Mission: Clear out the silver-level monsters in the designated area.][Attachment: Topographical map with marked zones]
The map showed a section of the mountain ruins, their assigned area highlighted in red. It looked deceptively small until Russell noted the scale—their "small section" covered about five square kilometers of hostile territory.
Seeing that the students had absorbed their assignments, the man's expression grew deadly serious. "Now, start the mission!"
The gates ground open with a sound like grinding bones, revealing the rain-shrouded realm beyond. Russell took a deep breath.
Time to work.
(End of Chapter 119)
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