---
Michael shot awake, his consciousness snapping back into place. The first thing he noticed was an unfamiliar ceiling looming above him. He sat up, peeling off the blanket that had kept him covered, and realized he was resting on a massive, plush bed. Its softness was a luxury he hadn't indulged in for… well, forever.
Where was he?
He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears that the bright daylight had coaxed from his eyes. As he looked around, he took in the sheer size and sophistication of the room. It was the kind of space that belonged in a mansion. His mind raced to piece together the events leading up to this moment.
The previous night had been anything but favorable. He'd set out to hunt A-rank combatants, only to be bested by the weakest of them—Tier 50. It was humiliating. But even more maddening was the reason for his failure: he had allowed his perversions to cloud his judgment. And yet, despite losing, he wasn't dead.
"I just like my things slow-paced."
Those had been the last words she spoke before he'd fallen unconscious.
Unfortunate, really. He had no plans to stick around long enough to find out what else she had in store for him.
Swinging his legs off the bed, Michael stood and began to make his way out of the room. His movements were careful, his senses sharp. The corridors outside seemed endless, each one blending into the next with identical flower vases and ornate wall paintings. It felt like he was trapped in an infinite loop.
"What is this, some kind of revenge?" he muttered, narrowing his eyes at his surroundings. "Pretty lame, I must say."
And just as the words left his lips, the hallway vanished.
He now found himself standing in the middle of a sprawling compound. A grand fountain gurgled nearby, its crystalline waters shimmering under the sunlight. The air was calm, yet he couldn't shake the unease creeping over him.
He wasn't alone.
Turning his head, he spotted her—the woman from the previous night. She sat under a shaded pavilion, a steaming cup of tea in hand. Her eyes were closed, her expression serene, as if she were meditating. For a moment, Michael thought she might be an oracle performing some sort of divination. But that couldn't be right. She had used summoning abilities against him—a clone, to be specific.
And being an oracle was a completely different type of power.
As if sensing his thoughts, she opened her eyes and smiled. "Are you just going to stand there gawking all day?"
Michael hesitated, his pride warring with his pragmatism. He didn't want to engage with her, but he didn't know where he was, how to escape, or why his magic wasn't working. His system interface hovered in its usual transparent manner before his eyes, but none of its functions responded.
With no other option, he approached the pavilion, forcing himself to meet her gaze. This time, he was careful not to let his eyes wander lower.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked, his voice low and edged with irritation.
"Tea?" she offered, ignoring his question.
A maid appeared seemingly out of nowhere, her ample frame distracting enough to make Michael scowl. She poured tea into a delicate porcelain cup and placed it in front of him.
He didn't touch it. "I don't drink tea," he said flatly, staring at the cup with mild disgust.
"If I wanted you dead, you'd already be dead," she said casually, taking a sip from her own cup.
Michael frowned. "I'll ask again. Who the hell are you?"
"You could say I'm a decoy," she replied, setting her cup down. "My job is to lure foolish assassins like you into traps."
"Thanks for the clarification." His fists clenched. "Now, why am I here? This doesn't exactly scream 'revenge.'"
"You're right," she said with a sly smile. "This isn't about revenge. I brought you here for… other reasons."
"I'm not interested."
Her smile didn't falter. "You don't have a choice." She leaned forward, her blue eyes gleaming with amusement. "Unless, of course, you're not interested in leaving here alive."
Michael's jaw tightened. "What are you proposing?"
"A contract," she said simply, her tone turning serious. "I want you to kill the Queen."
Michael didn't flinch. His silence spoke volumes.
"I see we're already on the same page," she said, noting the look in his eyes. "You've thought about it, haven't you?"
The Queen. The second-most powerful monarch in the world, her identity shrouded in secrecy. Only the Top 50 had any knowledge of her true form, and their loyalty to her was absolute.
The hierarchy was divided into tiers: A-ranks, S-ranks, and the nearly untouchable SSS-ranks. The latter group consisted of only five individuals: the Rook, Jack, Bishop, Ace, and Knight. Together, they were known as the Heart.
But Michael wasn't interested in loyalty. He was a Card Monarch, a system user driven by greed and a thirst for power. His ability allowed him to steal others' skills, and the rare SSS-rank abilities were his ultimate goal.
Still, his failure against an A-rank haunted him. Could he truly take on the Queen herself?
"Why do you want her dead?" he asked finally.
"That's confidential," she replied smoothly.
"Confidential, yet you're willing to trust a stranger with the task? You're oddly confident for someone asking me to take on an elite."
"You're not just anyone," she said. "You have potential. I saw it the moment you fought my clone. Your determination could take you far."
Michael's lips thinned into a hard line. "And what's in it for me?"
"I'm letting you live, aren't I?" she snapped, her patience thinning.
"If I die during the attempt, it won't benefit you either," he countered. "You need me alive."
Her eyes narrowed, but her smirk returned. "Fine. What do you want in return?"