Deckard had subconsciously wandered back to the NPC he’d spoken to earlier—Janine.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “StubbornTiger!” she greeted him with a warm, genuine smile. “Glad to see you back. You’ve made quite a name for yourself—seven wins in a row? That’s impressive.”

  “Thanks,” he replied, a little guarded.

  “We like to keep exceptional players motivated,” she continued, reaching behind the counter. “Here’s a little something we give to those who stand out.”

  He accepted the book with a curious glance. Stepping aside, he flipped it open—and a system prompt flashed across his vision.

  Do you want to become a Card Master?

  Card Master? His brow furrowed. Is this like Card Slinger?

  He hesitated. The idea of another card-based class hadn’t even crossed his mind.

  Maybe my class isn’t as unique as I thought...

  A seven-win streak wasn’t particularly difficult. Any focused Terralore player with a decent deck and some strategy could manage that. If the effort to unlock it reflected its power, then Card Slinger should still be the more valuable option.

  Still, it might not even be a class.

  He opened the in-game browser and typed in “Card Master.”

  Results were scarce. The few that existed were locked behind premium guides, some of them outrageously priced. One site asked for 1000 gold. Another wanted 500 real-world credits for a single page of content.

  He bit the inside of his cheek. If people are charging that much, it’s probably a hidden class—or at least something close to it.

  He wasn’t about to spend that kind of money. But as he skimmed the title of one of the locked guides, something stood out.

  Information About the Card Master Profession.

  That means it shouldn’t conflict with Card Slinger, right?

  Just to be sure, he ran a quick search on profession limits and compatibility. The results came fast: players could hold up to two professions at a time. If they ever wanted to switch, they could delete one—but all progress in that profession would be lost.

  He gave a small shrug. Seems safe enough.

  Even if he didn’t like it, he could always change later. With that thought, he accepted the mantle of Card Master.

  Congratulations! You’ve become a Card Master!

  You’ve learned a new skill: [Deal the Cards].

  A new icon appeared on his screen, marked with an XP bar. To his surprise, the bar was already filling.

  Congratulations, you’re now level 2 in Card Master!

  The bar continued to climb.

  “What? How have I already gained a level?”

  He quickly opened the details of the new skill.

  Deal the Cards (Common)

  You’ve learned to compartmentalize information within your mind, organizing your learned abilities as if they were cards in a deck. This mental framework enables you to access a broader range of skills and rotate them with ease.

  Effects:

  Passive. You can turn learned skills back into cards.

  Active. You may create two skill decks, each with five skill slots.

  Each deck can be swapped once per 24 hours.

  Deckard stared at the screen, reading the description again. Then again.

  He opened his character page and hovered over the skills section. A moment later, the names pulsed faintly beneath his fingertips. When he tapped [Card Slinging], the text shimmered, shifted, and solidified into a small, tangible card in his hand.

  “No way…”

  The animation was beautiful—clean lines, crisp edges, glowing script curling across the border. His pulse quickened. He tapped [Deal the Cards], and a new interface unfolded before him: two horizontal rows with five empty slots each, neatly labeled Deck One and Deck Two.

  Grinning now, he slotted [Card Slinging] into the first position.

  The card clicked into place with the smooth finality of a puzzle piece.

  He opened his inventory next and pulled out a duplicate skill—[Seagull Poison]. When he placed it beside [Card Slinging], the system accepted it instantly.

  Oh wow… I wasn’t expecting this.

  One of the biggest frustrations with his class was how he gained new abilities. Other players earned skills naturally by leveling up or training with NPCs, choosing freely to match their playstyles.

  He, on the other hand, had to chase milestone objectives tied to card collection—and he never knew what he would get. Progress was slow, unpredictable, and left him with little control.

  This profession flipped that weakness on its head. It opened up the possibility of experimenting, reshaping, and customizing his skill set.

  He glanced at the cooldown beside the deck toggle.

  “Twenty-four hours? That’s rough. And only five cards per deck… not exactly generous.”

  Still, the potential was enormous. And this was only level one—the skill could grow with the profession.

  Which raised the obvious question: how do I even gain XP as a card master?

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  He opened the profession panel. The XP bar sat tucked in the corner, already at 14.

  Fourteen? Where did that come from?

  The bar was three-quarters full, only a sliver away from spilling into the next level. He frowned, pacing as he thought it through.

  “League Points,” he muttered.

  That had to be it. The profession originated from Terralore, so of course, its growth would be tied to League Points. He’d become a Card Master with 24 points. If the first level had cost 10 and the next required 20, the math lined up.

  Pieces were starting to fall into place.

  He hadn’t planned on picking up a profession in the Gaming Parlor of all places, but he wasn’t about to complain. A whole new system had opened up before him, and the possibilities were still sinking in.

  A glance at the clock reminded him that morning in the real world was creeping closer. He had somewhere to be, and not much time left.

  One last errand, then.

  He slipped past the floating cubes and battle arenas, their surfaces glowing faintly as Terralore duels played out within. Curtains rustled as he pushed through, the noise of the Gaming Parlor fading into the cool stillness of the cave beyond.

  It was time to visit Ronan’s friend.

  *

  The Recycling Factory where Ronan’s friend worked turned out to be—of all places—buried deep in the slums.

  After weaving through a maze of dodgy streets, the shacks and alleys gave way to the factory grounds.

  There was no gate. No sign. No security checkpoint. Just a place where the buildings ended and the trash began.

  Somehow, I always end up near garbage.

  As Deckard approached the mounds of recycled waste, memories flickered—Trash Islet, the rust-choked corridors of the Underwater Junkyard. But this place felt different.

  Here, the trash was sorted. Organized. The piles were carefully divided and grouped by type. Low hills of green glass bottles shimmered like crushed emeralds. Nearby, compacted cubes of plastic and metal were stacked with geometric precision.

  But the deeper he went, the more the illusion of order unraveled. Further in, the piles grew chaotic—overflowing mounds of mixed debris, everything from crumpled vending machines to half-melted playground equipment, their colors warped and twisted.

  The smell hit him next—sharp and metallic. The tang of heated alloys clung to the air, leaving a dry taste in his mouth. It tasted like blood. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, half-expecting to find a cut.

  And then, in the midst of the mess, he began to notice signs that this really was a Recycling Factory.

  Conveyor belts snaked between the piles. Trucks rumbled past. NPCs in clean, brightly colored uniforms moved methodically, sorting and guiding the flow of waste.

  Clunky machines with hydraulic limbs scooped materials into steel hoppers, dumping them into funnels that trickled down to the conveyors. The belts groaned under the shifting weight, ferrying the scrap through the landfill like arteries in a mechanical beast. Somewhere deeper in, metal clanged in a steady rhythm, like a distant bell echoing off factory walls.

  Occasionally, something was misread, and an NPC would step in to correct the error, plucking the object off the belt and slotting it onto the proper path. Nearby, two players worked shoulder-to-shoulder with the NPCs, helping sort materials. They looked focused—not grinding, but genuinely engaged.

  “Uh? Are they doing a quest or something?” Deckard muttered.

  The players caught him staring, and waved with a friendly smile. Deckard smiled back and returned the greeting.

  He located the nearest NPC, a stocky man in a crisp jumpsuit. A name tag on his chest read: Sorter Mikal. Let’s hope they’re friendlier here than in the village. If not, I’ll just ask the players instead.

  “Hello,” Deckard said, holding out the sealed letter. “I have a letter for a friend.”

  The man took a step back at first, as if ready to make an excuse. But his eyes landed on the envelope, and his expression softened. He took the letter, squinting at the name scrawled across the front. His frown gave way to a smile of recognition.

  “Oh? Mr. Senn? That’s one of the foremen. He’s usually near the presses. Tall guy. White as a sheet. Can’t miss him. Just follow the conveyor belts with plastic,” the man said, pointing toward one of the belts vanishing into the junk piles.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Deckard set off in the direction given, walking alongside the conveyor. The belt hummed steadily, its segmented track bearing sorted plastics deeper into the facility. After a few minutes, the path ended at a large building pressed against the cave wall. With each step closer, the ground vibrated in regular pulses. A deep, rhythmic thudding echoed from inside—like the heartbeat of some enormous machine.

  The light dimmed slightly beneath a steel canopy, and the air grew heavier. The tang of hot metal thickened in his throat, leaving a dry, coppery taste. Like blood, he thought, swallowing hard.

  Inside, the sound swelled—heavy, deliberate, unrelenting. Massive compression presses dominated the far wall, slamming down with timed precision. Trash fed into their maws emerged moments later as perfect cubes, still steaming from the sheer force and heat.

  Near the largest press, a tall figure moved with quiet authority, clipboard in hand. He circled the machine slowly, checking dials and scribbling notes. His entire body was hidden beneath protective gear—helmet, goggles, mask, gloves, boots, and a thick utility vest stuffed with tools. Bright orange earplugs peeked out from beneath his helmet. The only skin visible was a narrow sliver just under his goggles, pale as bleached paper.

  Even from a distance, the resemblance to Ronan was striking. Same tall frame. Same careful, measured gait—like he was always moving around invisible tripwires. If Ronan looked like a detective from a noir film, this man looked like a foreman from a post-apocalyptic salvage crew.

  Deckard raised a hand. “Hello! Are you Ronan’s friend?”

  The man turned, just slightly.

  “Who’s asking?” His voice came muffled through the mask, yet steady and deliberate.

  “Name’s Deckard. I’ve got something for you.”

  The man blinked behind the goggles, then stepped forward to take the envelope. He tore it open, scanned the contents—and stilled. His shoulders tightened. A breath caught behind the mask.

  He folded the letter once, slipped it into his vest, and leaned in. “Follow me,” he whispered.

  Without waiting, he turned and moved with quick, purposeful strides between the machines. Deckard had to jog to keep up, dodging a rotating spindle and ducking under a swinging mechanical arm. A nearby worker glanced up, eyes narrowing slightly at the sudden pace.

  They passed rows of humming equipment and tangled tubing until the man reached a narrow steel door tucked behind a rack of empty crates. He pushed it open and stepped through.

  A compact office waited beyond.

  As soon as Deckard entered, the man turned the key in the lock with a sharp click. He drew the blinds on the narrow window, casting the room into dim light lit only by a flickering desk lamp.

  Then he finally turned to face Deckard.

  “You weren’t followed?” His voice still muffled behind the mask.

  Deckard blinked. “I… don’t think so?”

  The man stared for a moment longer, then pulled off his goggles and mask in a single motion. Beneath them was a gaunt, pale face, his skin almost translucent under the harsh lighting. His features were sharp, angular—too sharp for comfort.

  Now that he wasn’t hidden under layers of gear, the resemblance to Ronan was undeniable.

  “I’m Senn,” he said at last. “Ronan speaks highly of you in his letter.”

  “He does?” Deckard asked, surprised.

  Senn nodded. “Did you bring it with you?”

  “Yes,” Deckard said, handing over the Fracturer.

  You’ve delivered an important message to Senn.

  +10 reputation with the Zulmers.

  Senn brought the device to his desk and flipped on a bright inspection lamp. He examined the Fracturer closely, turning it over in his gloved hands. A swarm of nanites crawled from beneath his sleeves and slithered into the machine, disappearing inside.

  There was a long moment of silence.

  “Argh… They’ve managed to downsize it. Again!”

  Deckard blinked. “I’m sorry—who are they? And what does that machine even do?”

  Senn didn’t answer right away. He stared at the device in his hands, expression unreadable behind the mask. Then, slowly, he turned to Deckard, the desk lamp catching the gleam of his goggles.

  “Ronan said I should explain, if you made it this far.”

  He tapped the side of his helmet.

  “It’s time you knew who the Zulmerians fear most. Who we’ve fought in the shadows for centuries. Who have already begun to infect your world.”

  He paused.

  “You’re already helping the Zulmerians. Are you sure you want to know more? There’s no going back once you do.”

  Deckard swallowed. He’d come too far to stop now. “Yes.”

  Senn nodded once, slow and heavy. “Then brace yourself.”