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The air itself seemed to scream.
Russell's breath caught in his throat as the massive figure behind Blake Whitmore solidified, its form blotting out the rising sun. Ghosts—actual, horrifying ghosts—swirled around the giant hand descending from the sky, their wails piercing through the morning air like nails on glass. The hand was wreathed in black energy that seemed to devour light, and Russell could feel it in his bones—the palpable, suffocating presence of death itself.
The hand fell toward the manor below like judgment from an angry god.
"BLAKE WHITMORE!"
The roar came from the ground, raw with desperation and rage. An old man Russell didn't recognize stood in the manor's central courtyard, his arms raised as thick fog erupted around him like a geyser. The mist was dense, almost solid, as it surged upward to meet the descending palm.
It looked impressive. Defiant, even.
It was utterly useless.
The black hand punched through the fog like it was tissue paper. Russell watched, his stomach twisting, as the old man's eyes went wide with the terrible realization that he couldn't stop this. That nothing he did would matter.
The hand struck the earth.
BOOM!
The sound wasn't just heard—it was felt. The shockwave rippled outward, hitting Russell's chest like a physical blow even from their position high above. The ground convulsed, cracks spiderwebbing outward from the impact point. Buildings collapsed in on themselves with sounds like breaking bones—wood splintering, stone shattering, glass exploding in glittering clouds.
The fog dissipated, blown away like smoke in a hurricane.
Where the Wu family's luxurious manor had stood moments ago, there was now just... rubble. Smoking ruins. Centuries of wealth and prestige reduced to ash and broken stone in the span of a heartbeat.
"Just a small punishment," Blake's voice rang out across the devastation, cold as winter frost. "
Russell stared at the destruction below, his mind struggling to process the scale of it. Teacher, he thought, somewhere between awe and disbelief, you call this a 'small' punishment? You just erased their entire fucking estate from existence.
"Blake Whitmore," a new voice cut through the settling dust, sharp and controlled. "You've crossed the line."
Russell's head snapped to the side. A middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed goatee hovered nearby, having appeared without any warning Russell had noticed. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes were hard as he stared at Blake. The power radiating from him made Russell's skin prickle—another Master Cardmaker. Had to be.
"Why, William?" Blake's tone was almost conversational, but Russell could hear the steel underneath. "Are you going to stop me?"
William was silent for a long moment, his jaw working like he was chewing over his words carefully. "I know you are angry, but—"
"Don't talk nonsense." Blake waved his hand dismissively, cutting him off mid-sentence. "I know you want to put the 'overall situation' first. The problem is that I am working diligently on the front line, and these good-for-nothings are sitting back and enjoying the fruits of my labor." His voice dropped lower, gaining an edge that made Russell's hair stand on end. "They are even trying to attack my disciple. Is it wrong for me to fight back?"
He paused, and Russell saw a glint of something sharp in his teacher's eyes. "Besides," Blake added almost casually, "didn't you save these people from the Wu family?"
Russell listened in silence, his mind racing. William. Another Master Cardmaker he'd never heard of, never seen in any official capacity. The imperial court's hidden ace, he realized. They've been holding him back, keeping him out of the public eye. The thought was both fascinating and deeply unsettling.
William's carefully neutral expression cracked, revealing a flash of exasperation. "Now that you have let out your anger, can you sit down and talk calmly?"
Blake's eyebrows knitted together, deep lines forming across his forehead. His lips pressed into a thin line. Russell could practically see the calculation happening behind his teacher's eyes—weighing options, considering consequences. Finally, Blake sighed, the sound carrying a bone-deep weariness that made him suddenly look every one of his years.
But he didn't answer aloud.
Instead, his voice resonated directly in Russell's mind, sounding tired in a way that made Russell's chest tighten. "Young Russell, what is your opinion?"
Russell kept his face carefully blank as he looked at William, not wanting to give anything away. In his mind, he answered, "Teacher, let's talk first. I don't want to make things difficult for you."
Something warm touched Blake's mental presence—gratitude, maybe. Or approval. What Russell didn't know was that if he'd said to keep attacking, Blake would have done it. Would have fought William if necessary, would have brought the full weight of his power down until the Wu family was nothing but a memory. Blake's time was running out anyway—what did he have to lose?
"...Then let's talk," Blake said aloud.
The tension in William's shoulders visibly eased. He let out a breath he'd been holding, running a hand through his hair. Russell caught the relief on his face, quickly masked but unmistakable. He was actually scared Blake would keep going, Russell realized. Even another Master Cardmaker wasn't sure he could stop him.
The three of them descended, the ground rising up to meet them as they floated down into the wreckage.
The old man from before—Patriarch Wu, Russell assumed—stood among the ruins like a ghost himself. His expensive robes were torn and bloodstained, his carefully styled hair now a disheveled mess. Ash and dust covered him head to toe, and blood dripped from a cut above his eyebrow, tracking down his face. But it was his eyes that caught Russell's attention—wide and haunted, still processing the fact that he was alive.
Those eyes fixed on Blake Whitmore with a mixture of terror and barely suppressed rage.
"Master Blake is willing to talk to you," William snapped, his earlier politeness gone. "Why don't you hurry up and get ready!?"
Patriarch Wu's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles going white. Russell could see the man's jaw working, grinding his teeth as pride warred with survival instinct. Slowly, painfully, survival won. He bowed his head, the gesture so stiff it looked like it physically hurt him.
"Master Blake, please come this way." The words came out rough, forced through a throat tight with humiliation. "This time, the fault is all mine. I hope you will spare my life."
Blake stood there, eyes half-closed, as still as a statue. He could have been carved from stone for all the reaction he showed.
Patriarch Wu's face went pale. Seconds ticked by in agonizing silence, each one seeming to drain more color from the old man's face. Finally, his legs gave out. He dropped to his knees on the broken stone, bits of rubble digging into his flesh. His head bowed lower.
"I hope you will give me a chance."
"Hmph." Blake's eyes opened just slightly. "Lead the way."
Russell watched the exchange in silence, his expression carefully neutral. He felt no sympathy for the man kneeling in the wreckage. You tried to have me killed, he thought coldly. You sent your piece-of-shit son after me with orders to end my life. Now you want mercy?
Patriarch Wu pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. He led them through the devastation, picking his way over fallen beams and shattered stone, until they reached a building on the outer edge of the estate that had somehow survived mostly intact. Just surface cracks and broken windows—nothing structural.
Wade was already inside, kneeling on the floor.
Russell's eyes locked onto him immediately. Wade's head was bowed, his expensive clothes dusty but undamaged. His hands rested on his thighs in a picture of perfect submission. But Russell could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his fingers.
Blake's eyebrows rose fractionally, but he said nothing.
"You evil creature!" Patriarch Wu's voice cracked like a whip. "Why don't you come over here, kowtow, and admit your mistake!"
Wade's head jerked up slightly, then back down. He shuffled forward on his knees, the sound of fabric on stone somehow loud in the tense silence. He stopped in front of Russell, so close Russell could see the dust in his hair, could hear his breathing.
"Russell," Wade said, his voice low and carefully controlled. "I was wrong. I shouldn't have attacked you. I hope you can forgive me and let me go."
He lowered his head—that proud, arrogant head that had looked down on Russell so many times—and slammed his forehead against the stone floor. The impact made a solid thunk. When he raised his head, there was a red mark on his skin.
Russell's face remained expressionless, but inside, he was watching carefully. Wade's eyes, just for a second when he lifted his head, flickered up to meet Russell's. And in that split-second glance, Russell saw it all: the jealousy burning like acid, the resentment coiled like a snake, the rage barely contained beneath a thin veneer of forced submission.
You're not sorry, Russell thought. You're just scared. And the moment you think you can get away with it, you'll try again.
Patriarch Wu's expression twitched—frustration, maybe calculation—before smoothing into an ingratiating smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Russell, as a token of our appreciation, our Wu family is willing to undertake all the expenses of your silver-level card making in the future."
Russell almost laughed out loud. The offer sounded generous on the surface, sure. Cover all his materials, all his costs while he was silver-level. But it was a joke. He'd probably reach gold within months at his current pace, and for a family like the Wu clan, this was pocket change. A meaningless gesture dressed up as generosity.
Before Russell could respond, Blake's frown deepened, the lines around his mouth going harsh. "Not enough."
William cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. His expression was thoughtful, almost too casual. "I have a suggestion. How about letting Wade publicly disclose what he did and apologize?"
Patriarch Wu's head whipped around to stare at William, his eyes going wide with disbelief and betrayal. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly for a moment. The suggestion seemed helpful at first glance—just an apology, nothing too severe. But Russell could see past that immediately, and so could Patriarch Wu.
It's a death sentence, Russell realized. A public admission that Wade had tried to have a fellow cardmaker killed? The Wu family would be pariahs. Cardmaking required creativity, imagination, collaboration—all things that depended on connection with others. Cut off from the broader community, tied exclusively to the imperial court... they'd wither and die.
Russell watched the emotions play across Patriarch Wu's face: shock, then anger, then a terrible, dawning understanding that he had no choice. He looked around at the ruins of his estate, at Blake's cold expression, at William's carefully neutral facade.
"Do I have any other choice?" The words came out flat, mechanical.
But then something shifted in Patriarch Wu's eyes. A spark of desperate cunning. "But I have one request." He straightened slightly, making what looked like his last stand. "Let my son compete with Mr. Russell. If my son loses, everything will be done as you say. If he wins, he will pay compensation according to our original proposal."
Blake's gaze slid to William. Russell saw the look they exchanged—Blake's slight narrowing of eyes, William's minute shrug. His teacher knew exactly what William was doing, pushing the Wu family into a corner where they'd have no choice but to become the court's lapdogs. It was political maneuvering dressed up as mediation. Disgusting, really. These aristocratic families with their power plays and parasitic existence...
But Blake's expression made it clear: he didn't want to deal with any of this. He was sick of these games, these people. In the end, though, he wouldn't make this choice for Russell.
Blake turned his pale eyes to his student. "Young Russell," he asked, his voice carrying the weight of the question, "what do you think?"
Every eye in the room focused on Russell. Wade's head came up slightly, hope and calculation flickering across his features. Patriarch Wu leaned forward almost imperceptibly. William watched with clinical interest.
Russell stood there, feeling the pressure of the moment settle on his shoulders, knowing his next words would determine everything.
Plz THROW POWER STONES.