advance/early chapters : p atreon.com/Ritesh_Jadhav0869
The sharp knock cut through Russell's meditation . He jerked upright in bed, his heart hammering against his ribs. What the hell? Who shows up at—he squinted at the pale morning light seeping through his curtains—barely dawn?
He rubbed his eyes and released a thread of mental power toward the front door, ready to give whoever it was a piece of his mind. The moment his awareness touched the figure waiting outside, every complaint died in his throat.
Teacher?
Russell scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over his own feet. His pulse kicked up another notch—not from fear, but something closer to nervous anticipation.
"Go," he muttered, fingers already weaving the summoning pattern. A Shadowkhan materialized from the darkness pooling in the corner of his bedroom, its blue skin seeming to absorb what little light existed in the pre-dawn gloom. "Entertain him. I'll be down in five minutes."
The dark minion dropped to one knee, its glowing eyes fixed on Russell for a heartbeat before it melted into the shadows and vanished. Russell was already moving, grabbing a shirt from his chair and pulling it on while simultaneously splashing water on his face at the bathroom sink. Shit, shit, shit. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to make himself look less like he'd just rolled out of bed. This has to be about Wade.
Outside, Blake Whitmore stood with the patience of someone who'd lived long enough to know that rushing rarely helped anything. The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint smell of dew-soaked grass and the distant sounds of Northgate beginning to stir awake. He could have used his master-level mental power to check on Russell's situation inside the house, but he didn't. The kid deserved his privacy—what little of it remained after becoming his disciple.
The door swung open with a soft creak.
Blake's eyebrows rose slightly. Instead of his student, two rows of creatures in black stood before him, their blue skin almost luminescent in the early morning light. The Shadowkhan bowed in perfect unison, their movements synchronized like a well-trained honor guard.
Unique, Blake thought, studying the cards with the detached interest of a Master Cardmaker. He'd seen countless card systems in his decades of work, but Russell's aesthetic choices never failed to be... distinctive. The initial surprise faded quickly—when you'd reached his level, very little could truly shock you anymore. Still, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. The kid has style, I'll give him that.
One of the Shadowkhan gestured deeper into the house, its movements somehow conveying both respect and invitation despite its inhuman features. Blake followed it through the entryway and into a living room that was surprisingly well-appointed for someone Russell's age. Another Shadowkhan was already there, setting out tea with movements that were almost eerily graceful.
Blake settled into an armchair and picked up the porcelain cup. The tea was still steaming, the aroma rich and complex. He took a sip and let out a quiet laugh. This kid really knows how to enjoy life. Even his cards made better tea than most people.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and Russell appeared, slightly breathless, his hair still damp at the edges. "Teacher," he said, his voice carefully controlled despite the obvious hurry he'd been in. "You're back."
He didn't ask why Blake had come so early. They both knew.
"Well, don't be so reserved. Sit down." Blake gestured to the sofa across from him, taking another sip of tea. "Your card's tea-making skills are quite impressive."
Russell lowered himself onto the sofa, his posture just a touch too straight, his shoulders tense. This was his house, his space, but having Blake Whitmore in his living room made him feel like a student called to the headmaster's office. He'd spent more time with Hazel over the past months—her sharp instructions and tactical drilling had become almost comfortable. Blake, on the other hand, was still more legend than teacher to him.
Blake set down his cup, the soft clink of porcelain on wood somehow loud in the quiet room. He studied Russell for a long moment, and Russell fought the urge to fidget under that penetrating gaze.
"I have accepted you as my disciple for such a long time," Blake said finally, his voice carrying a weight Russell wasn't expecting, "but I have never taught you well. You must have some resentment, right?"
The words hit Russell like a punch to the gut. He blinked, completely blindsided. "No," he said quickly, leaning forward. "The help you've provided me is already very great." And he meant it—every word. Blake Whitmore had been his angel investor when he had nothing. Without that initial backing, that opened door, Russell would probably still be scraping to get stronger, eating instant noodles . Blake had never asked for anything in return, had never demanded repayment or service. No matter how you look at it, I'm the one who made out like a bandit.
Blake shook his head slowly, his experienced eyes seeing right through any potential pleasantry to the truth beneath. A flicker of something—guilt?—crossed his weathered face. "Let's not talk nonsense between master and disciple." He straightened in his chair, his tone shifting to something more businesslike. "Put out your cards and let me see your progress."
Russell's breath caught. Without hesitation, he pulled out his deck and channeled his power. One by one, his silver-level cards materialized in the living room: Fubuki and other They filled the available space, their combined presence making the air feel suddenly heavy.
Blake went very still.
He wasn't dissatisfied—he was too satisfied. His mind raced as he took in the lineup before him. He'd been stationed at the coastal defense line for months, dealing with pocket dimension breaches and coordination nightmares. Hazel, bless her taciturn soul, had never been one for detailed reports. He'd known Russell was doing well, but this...
This is extraordinary.
Every single card radiated quality. Not just competent work—exceptional work. The kind of craftsmanship that took most cardmakers years to develop. Russell had entered the silver level what, four months ago? Five? Nobody would believe it if they saw this lineup.
Russell's cards tensed, their instincts screaming danger. Fubuki's eyes narrowed, green energy beginning to shimmer around her hands. They could feel the master-level power radiating from Blake like heat from a furnace.
"Don't be nervous," Russell said quickly, his voice low and soothing. "That's is my teacher."
The tension bled out of them gradually, though they remained alert. Fubuki's energy dissipated.
Blake let out a long, heavy sigh that seemed to carry years of complicated emotions. "Sometimes I wonder if it was right for me to accept you as my disciple." He paused, and Russell's stomach dropped—until Blake's lips quirked into a slight smile. "I think it would be more appropriate to introduce you to young Yves."
Russell stared at him. Yves St. Clair. Palace-level Cardmaker. One of the strongest on the entire continent. "Teacher," he said, forcing a note of fake irritation into his voice, "that's not a very funny joke."
Blake's smile faded, his expression becoming serious once more. "Russell, you should know why I came to you this time."
Russell swallowed. "Wade?"
Blake nodded, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "He wanted to become my disciple before, but I refused. Because I think that kid is a bit..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Impetuous."
Impetuous? Russell thought incredulously. *He's a fucking menace. A
sociopathic, entitled piece of shit who tried to have me killed.* But he kept his expression carefully neutral. His teacher's assessment was... diplomatic, to say the least.
"But you, Russell, you are different." Blake's voice softened, carrying genuine warmth. "You are a good kid."
Then his face went cold—not gradually, but like someone had flipped a switch. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "So I won't say anything to make you swallow your anger. Maybe I haven't made a move for too long, and some people have really forgotten my prohibitions." His eyes glinted with something dangerous, something that reminded Russell that this man held the title [King of Hell]. "It's time to move these old bones."
Russell's thoughts whiplashed. For a split second, he'd been preparing himself for a lecture about maintaining peace, about not rocking the boat between the Association and the court. But this? Blake wasn't just backing him—he was going to war.
The title [King of Hell] wasn't just because Blake specialized in underworld-themed cards. It was because when he decided someone had crossed a line, he became judge, jury, and executioner. And apparently, Wade had crossed that line.
Blake's expression remained deadly calm, but there was steel in every word. "You don't have to worry about what you say affecting the relationship between the Association and the court." He leaned back in his chair, his posture almost casual despite the weight of what he was saying. "Tsk, are they worthy?"
The sheer arrogance of it would have been absurd coming from anyone else. But Blake Whitmore was a Master Cardmaker. He could back up every word.
"And in the end, it was you who did the best for me," Blake continued, gesturing toward Russell's still-manifested cards. "After checking your cards just now, I was able to decide how to deal with them." His eyes gleamed. "If your performance had not been so perfect, I might have chosen a slightly gentler approach."
Russell felt something twist in his chest—not quite pride, but something close. Blake was saying that Russell's own excellence had earned him this protection. That he'd proven himself worthy of his teacher going all-out.
"But I don't think that's necessary anymore," Blake said quietly. "You'll be able to stand on your own soon enough. Until then, let me continue to shine and provide warmth."
Holy shit, Russell thought, his mind reeling. He's actually going to do this.
Blake stood in one fluid motion, his decision clearly made. "Let's go and find them."
Russell recalled his cards with trembling fingers, their forms dissolving back into their card states. His heart was pounding now, adrenaline singing through his veins. He followed Blake to the door, stepping out into the morning air that suddenly felt charged with potential energy.
One moment they were standing in his doorway. The next, the world lurched.
Russell's stomach flipped as space folded around them. Master-level teleportation—he'd experienced it before, but it never stopped being disorienting. Colors blurred, distance became meaningless, and then—
They were hovering in the air above a sprawling manor complex outside Northgate's walls. The estate stretched out beneath them, its manicured gardens and grand architecture screaming old money and older privilege. The morning sun was just cresting the horizon, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.
Russell's breath caught in his throat.
Behind Blake Whitmore, a massive figure began to materialize. It rose up like a mountain taking form, its presence so overwhelming that the air itself seemed to thicken and press down. The divine figure was incomprehensibly huge, wreathed in black energy that writhed and coiled like living shadows.
Russell had seen powerful cards before. He'd created powerful cards.
This was something else entirely.
This was a Master Cardmaker's trump card.
This was why people whispered Blake's name with fear and respect in equal measure.
This was [King of Hell] about to pass judgment.
PLz throw powerstones.