A lone maiden of golden tresses sat quietly upon a windswept hill, her gaze drifting over a worldly tapestry below—an island realm where the modern, the futuristic, and the traditional blended so seamlessly that not a single edifice appeared out of place before she rose an ancient shrine, regal and serene, as though it had silently borne witness to ages long forgotten.
Her simple white sundress rippled in unison with her oversized tan sunhat, dancing to the identical rhythmic pulses of wind sliding across the grassy slope. As she clutched the brim of her hat to hold it firmly in place, a sound—a gentle rustling of footsteps—stirred behind her, heralding the arrival of another.
The intruder was a youth of similar age, clad in a blue windbreaker trench coat and slim indigo trousers tucked meticulously into black leather riding boots. His neon-colored hair, tousled like a half-forgotten dream, lent a stark brightness to his otherwise subdued attire. Pausing a few paces away, he cast his gaze upon the seated girl, and in return, she offered him a soft, knowing smile.
"Let me guess," she ventured with airy playfulness. "Grandmother tried again to convince you to change your hair so you'd 'fit in' this year?"
The boy, expression weary, raked a hand through his unruly locks.
"It's the same litany every year," he grumbled. "I can't be bothered anymore."
Her features softened.
"She's only concerned you'll be bullied again," she mused gently, returning her gaze to the idyllic panorama before them. "But truly," she added, her voice brimming with optimism, "we stand at the threshold of something wondrous. A new world, far greater than any we've yet seen."
The boy's lips tightened in a faint, skeptical line.
"The Duel Academy," he said, finishing her thought. Even as he spoke the words, uncertainty flickered in his tone.
Silence fell between them, momentarily hushed by the whisper of distant breezes. At length, the girl rose to her feet, shaking free the grass clinging to her dress.
"Well," she announced, "with this being our final day of summer, we have time for one last duel before we test our might against the best."
She slid a mischievous look toward the boy, then strolled to the hill's edge. He followed her movement, sensing the glint of mischief in her eyes.
Suddenly, she bolted, sprinting down the slope toward a line of swaying trees.
"LAST ONE TO GRANDPA'S SHOP BUYS LUNCH!" she shouted, her laughter echoing in the wind.
Irritation crept into the boy's features.
"YOU CHEATER! THAT'S HARDLY FAIR!" he shouted, his cry swallowed by the rustle of leaves as the girl disappeared into the thicket.
They raced through the canopy of verdant branches and tangled undergrowth until they briefly glimpsed the back courtyard of a school building—a place trimmed with benches and a small, well-used stage. The vision flashed instantly, replaced by a thick forest as they pressed forward.
The boy, breath growing labored, began to gain on the girl. She glanced back, unruffled, and clicked her tongue in annoyance. She rolled back her sleeve to reveal a curious white apparatus encasing her forearm. Inscribed with black symbols, it bore a dark orb-like screen near her wrist, something unmistakably arcane.
She veered swiftly into a side path, vanishing from the boy's line of sight. Yet he forged onward, driven by a sudden, renewed resolve. Amid the hush of the woods, the girl slowed her pace, eyes falling shut as she steadied her breath. She turned away from her original destination and began to chant in a strangely archaic tongue:
"Twelve Crowned Powers,
The Lords and Ladies rightfully enthroned beyond our mortal sight,
Bear witness to my devotion and guide me toward my highest good."
Her voice fell to a reverent hush as she withdrew a handful of dried olives from her pocket. Pressing them against her heart, she continued:
"Hear me, Empress of Desire,
O Aphrodite—
She whose gentle laughter ensnares the soul with longing and devotion,
The Irresistible Allure that blossoms within hearts and eyes alike.
Let your soft radiance unveil the essence of genuine affection,
Let your irresistible presence awaken my devotion,
That all you grant be woven into the deepest parts of our being.
Aphrodite the Beguiling!"
Then, lifting her forearm, she released the dried olives. Rather than scattering to the forest floor, they hovered in midair, forming a circle as though cradled by an unseen force.
"I Command Thee!"
The strange device at her wrist glowed a vibrant, rose-hued light. Almost instantly, the suspended olives began to rotate, drawing leaves and dust into a swirling vortex. The girl's face contorted in a brief flash of pain as she poured concentration into this display of sorcery.
Then, all at once, the miniature cyclone ceased. Leaves and dirt fell away to reveal a blue hoverboard, hovering briefly before it dropped to the ground with a dull thud. Exhausted, the girl sank to her knees, breath ragged, yet her eyes gleamed with a triumphant, mischievous light.
"Jackpot," she whispered, a grin of near-gleeful malice curving her lips.
Duikang pressed on through a cramped thoroughfare, alive with boisterous energy. The space brimmed with food stalls and eager vendors, and the mingled scents of savory ramen broth and garlicky gyro lamb stirred the senses. Over the din, hawkers cried out:
"Five dollars for fresh Takoyaki—best in town!"
"Fried eggplants! Three dollars a serving, don't be shy!"
Duikang slipped between the jostling crowd, intent on continuing his flight until a familiar voice halted his steps.
"Duikang!"
He spun around, spotting a muscular, dark-skinned man sporting a red bandana patterned with tiny white dots. Beneath it, he wore a white tank top and tan cargo trousers, the ensemble hinting at both vigor and practicality. Recognizing Duikang, the man flashed a beaming smile.
"I heard you and Fenna finally earned spots at the Duel Academy! You two should drop by my stall soon—I'll treat you both."
His voice was as hearty as his physique, and he flexed a thick bicep as though the mere mention of his cooking demanded a show of strength. Duikang, torn between politeness and hurried impatience, managed an uneasy grin.
"I'm not sure if we can today, Mr. Howard, but I'll try."
Mr. Howard nodded enthusiastically.
"No pressure, my young duelist! Still, I'm convinced my world-renowned six-star cuisine shall bless your first day at the Academy with fortune and triumph."
A brief, awkward chuckle escaped Duikang. Then, with a sudden spark of mischief, he pointed into the crowd behind Mr. Howard.
"Look, sir—someone's waiting at your stall!"
"What?!" The chef whirled about, only to discover his stall empty of patrons. Confused, he turned back—and found Duikang had vanished. With a knowing chuckle, Mr. Howard ambled toward his booth again.
Yet before he could settle behind the counter, a blur of motion raced by, weaving deftly between passersby. That fleeting, speeding silhouette slowed to a halt in front of a quaint café, revealing Fenna astride a sleek hoverboard. The moment it touched the ground, she lifted it under her arm and entered the establishment, a little bell chiming overhead.
"I'm home!" she announced brightly.
An elderly man wearing a cozy turtleneck stood behind the counter, eyes half-lidded as he polished a white porcelain cup. He greeted her with a warm nod.
"Welcome back, sweetheart."
Fenna set the hoverboard against a corner, glancing around.
"Is that loser here yet? He promised me lunch," she said casually.
"Mr. Kang?" The old man echoed. "No, I—"
He paused as the front door swung open again, heralded by the same cheerful bell. Duikang stepped in, panting, sweat beading his brow. Fenna's lips curved into a smug grin as she watched him struggle for composure.
"What kept you?" she teased, laughter nearly spilling from her tone. "I've been here for ages."
Looking utterly defeated, Duikang ambled over to the counter beside Fenna. He noticed her hoverboard resting casually against the wall in the corner of his vision.
"You cheated not once, but twice?" he hissed, the indignation in his voice softening into exasperation. Fenna only shrugged, unruffled.
"Hardly my fault you never mastered the commanding praises," she said blithely. "I told you to speak with Father Richard about them, but you never bothered. It's basic, and I've shown you at least six times."
"Six? You're exaggerating," Duikang complained.
"Am I?" Fenna retorted, quashing his protest with a disarming smile.
Before further bickering could ensue, the old man gently slid a glass of water toward each of them.
"Now, children," he said kindly, "since tomorrow marks such a splendid new beginning for the both of you, your lunch is on the house."
Fenna and Duikang exchanged delighted looks at this generosity. Then Fenna's curiosity sharpened when her gaze drifted to the muted television above the old man's station, its flickering newscast catching her attention with silent headlines. Something in that broadcast—the images, the scrawling subtitles—seemed to herald unforeseen tidings looming out of reach.
Fenna lifted her gaze toward the old man behind the café's counter. She asked softly, yet with restrained excitement:
"Grandpa, could you turn up the TV?"
A nod of acknowledgment followed, and the volume rose with a deft press of the remote. The screen illuminated with an ongoing interview, introducing a middle-aged man in a neat suit, stubble grazing his chin, and a somewhat stern air about him. A bright headline crawled across the bottom:
"Three-time Reigning Champion of the Apex of Pantheons Tourney, Louis Sora, Speaks on Defending His Title!"
Standing at Louis's side, the interviewer—a tall, poised woman—held a microphone close to her lips:
"I'm here today with the thrice-crowned champion of the Apex of Pantheons, a remarkable achievement by any standard. It is especially noteworthy in your case, Mr. Sora, as no major association backs you. Can you confirm that still stands?"
Louis inclined his head slightly.
"Yes, that remains the case."
"I know our time is limited, so I'll cut to the heart of it—the question everyone's been clamoring to have answered: Will you defend your title this year, or shall we see someone else ascend the throne?"
A faint smile crossed Louis's features, tinged with quiet resolve.
"I do plan on defending it. I have no intention of relinquishing the title of 'strongest' any time soon—regardless of the burden."
The interviewer pursed her lips in mild intrigue.
"That's quite a serious assertion, Mr. Sora. I hope I'm not overstepping, but rumor has it you intend to challenge Seto Kaiba upon his return from certain...expeditions. Is there truth to this speculation?"
For an instant, Louis was silent. A solitary bead of sweat traced a path down his temple, betraying the tension beneath his calm.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Sora, we can move on if—"
"It's true," he cut in quietly.
Startled, the interviewer faltered.
"W-What?"
"I, Louis Sora, eternal champion of the Apex of Pantheons, challenge Seto Kaiba—Lord of KaibaCorp—to a duel. Should he be willing to do the same, I'm prepared to wager my life."
Watching from the café, Fenna and Duikang exchanged shocked glances while the old man winced at the bold decree.
"That's... a very bold statement, Mr. Sora," the interviewer managed, trembling.
"That is all," Louis concluded. Without another word, he exited the camera's view.
Onscreen, the interviewer pivoted toward the lens.
"You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen: Louis Sora, champion of the Apex of Pantheons, has challenged Seto Kaiba himself to a duel—to the death, no less! Stay tuned, Neuvo Village, as we bring you the latest. This is Missy, signing off!"
The broadcast switched to commercial abruptly, leaving the room in a thick hush of disbelief. Fenna took a last sip of her water, setting down her glass with a clink.
"Louis Sora is challenging Kaiba?" she murmured. "Even I wouldn't be that reckless."
Duikang, for his part, frowned thoughtfully.
"As foolish as it sounds, I doubt it's purely for the spotlight."
Fenna lifted an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"He's likely baiting Kaiba into revealing some hidden vulnerability for all the world to see," Duikang replied, his voice plainly indicating concern.
Fenna's lips pressed into a thin line. She nudged her empty cup toward Grandpa, who continued polishing another porcelain vessel with patient skill.
Beyond the café window, the day rolled on—yet an unspoken tension clung to the air as if shadows of a more significant conflict had begun to stir.
Fenna's brow furrowed as she considered Duikang's meaning.
"So when you say 'the world,' you're including the Daybreak Chalice too?"
Duikang gave a solemn nod in reply. Fenna sank deeper into thought until it overwhelmed her in a sudden outburst of frustration. She roared, startling Duikang into a wary retreat.
"Grandpa!" Fenna exclaimed.
"Yes, dear?" the old man responded, glancing up from his polishing rag.
"Could you bring out our decks so we can run one last practice before tomorrow?"
A sigh escaped Grandpa's lips, but he obliged. He retrieved a small assortment of card chips from beneath the counter—each etched with distinct icons—and spread four of them on the table. The first chip bore a bright orange orb adorned with a single crimson star; the second revealed a skull wearing a straw hat; the third displayed a fanged, menacing skull wreathed in dark aura; and the fourth boasted a blue headband attached to a silver medallion, embossed with mysterious symbols.
"Though these are all starter decks," Grandpa explained, "each introduces you to an archetype. Learning the core of a deck is far more important than merely knowing individual cards. Choose carefully."
Fenna reached toward one chip, but Grandpa gently kept her hand.
"I've set aside a special one for you, sweetheart."
She looked puzzled, but he smiled quietly and beckoned her to follow. He led her to a brown door marked "Employees Only." Drawing a small brass key from his pocket, Grandpa unlocked it and gestured to Fenna inside. The door closed behind them.
Left alone, Duikang studied the four chips on the counter. Familiar memories tugged at him; he had tried these archetypes before, yet none felt like a valid extension of his style. His indecision deepened until the door swung open again, revealing Fenna reemerging—her posture radiating newfound confidence. Without a word, she strolled to the café door.
"You'll find me outside when you're ready, Duikang," she said.
The little bell chimed softly as she exited. Grandpa returned behind the counter, his polishing rag once more in hand. He observed Duikang's troubled expression.
"Having a hard time choosing?" he asked gently.
Duikang exhaled a weary sigh.
"I don't hate these decks... but whenever I play them, I feel I'm second-guessing each move."
Grandpa let out a good-natured chuckle.
"That's because you're playing the cards, not the deck—just like you recite words but never truly praise the gods."
Setting the porcelain cup aside, Grandpa moved to the café's entrance and flipped the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. Duikang mulled over the old man's cryptic remark. Playing the cards and not the deck? Aren't they the same thing—summoning monsters and casting spells from the same pile?
His reverie was interrupted when Grandpa called him by name. Duikang looked up, seeing the old man roll up his sleeve to reveal a machined bracer similar to Fenna's, though etched with deep green and crimson inscriptions. With the quiet authority of a practiced ritualist, Grandpa began an incantation in hushed, resonant tones:
"Twelve Crowned Powers,
The Lords and Ladies rightfully enthroned beyond our mortal sight,
Bear witness to my devotion and guide me toward my highest good."
He raised the device, aiming it at Duikang.
"Hear me, Lord of the Vine,
O Dionysus—
He who rends the veil of mortal inhibition,
Liberator of hidden passions and creative madness.
Let your wild abandon cleanse me of stagnation,
Let your revelry spark the embers of my soul.
Dionysus the Boundless,
I Command Thee!"
Duikang tensed, half-expecting some wonder to manifest—an arc of light, a swirl of energy—yet nothing came. Grandpa merely resumed his place behind the counter. At the puzzled look on Duikang's face, he explained:
"There is order in praising the gods. It's not just words. It is a rhythm of conditions."
"Rhythm of conditions?" Duikang echoed.
Grandpa nodded gravely.
"First, call upon all the gods. Then, name the particular god you seek. Next, you extol that deity's virtues. Finally, you humbly request—knowing they may choose to grant or withhold their power."
The old man tapped the bracer lightly.
"And do you know why nothing happened just now?"
Duikang hazarded a guess:
"Because... you didn't believe hard enough?"
Grandpa chuckled, softly shaking his head.
"Not quite. Each god demands a sacrificial item—something that resonates with their essence. For Dionysus, it's the grapevine. Because I offered none, the invocation lacked its required tribute. But that doesn't mean praising cannot happen at all; only that to wield significant blessings, you need an offering of proper purity."
"Purity?" Duikang repeated, brow furrowed.
"A handful of raisins can serve, though the power gleaned is minimal. A holy grapevine, blessed and steeped in waters possessing divine potency, might unleash terrors beyond mortal comprehension. Do you see?"
Duikang felt his mind reel under the weight of this new knowledge. Still, he pushed his worries aside and posed another question:
"What about the difference between commanding and simply summoning? Why can I participate in the card game but not invoke miracles?"
Grandpa gave a wry smile.
"It's simple. The gods find entertainment in the game—they'd allow an infant to play if it could hold the cards. But to command their direct intervention? That's a different matter entirely."
This revelation left Duikang deflated as if his past achievements held less meaning.
"Then... why even bother going to the Academy? How did they accept me if I'm so—so unremarkable?"
Grandpa's expression softened.
"Because you have something far more important than raw strength or perfect skill. You have heart. Which is preferable—a mighty duelist who quits after a single defeat or a weaker one who tenaciously perseveres?"
Duikang gazed at the chips before him, a fresh spark of determination igniting in his eyes. Grandpa continued:
"Now that you grasp the rhythm of praising apply it to playing as well. Each turn has conditions—a precise sequence that, when followed, yields true power."
Steeling himself, Duikang closed his hand over one of the chips.
"I think," he said quietly, "I finally know which archetype I'm meant to wield."
A quiet resolve settled over him. At that moment, a new path seemed to unfold—one where the line between ephemeral game and sacred rite grew ever fainter, hinting at untold potential waiting to be awakened.