Everything Is Resolved by Card Games
What the hell was I doing here?
Before I could unravel that question, a searing heat bloomed across my chest. On this frigid winter day, the warmth should have been welcome—but all I felt was disgust at the sticky wetness spreading through my hair.
My limbs grew numb from the extremities inward, as if submerged in ice water. My vision flickered like a flashlight with dying batteries.
One more time: What the hell was I doing here?
Instead of answering its master's query, my brain dredged up a conversation with my squadmates from the jumbled waves of memory.
My mind, growing hazier like a drunk on the verge of passing out, clung to that recollection like a lifeline.
When was it? It was cold as balls back then too, just like now. We'd scavenged cigarette butts to smoke and chatted about bullshit with my brothers-in-arms.
The topic? Yeah.
If you could be reborn, where would you want to come back? It was my idea.
Not that there was any deep reason behind it. I'd never been one for long speeches or philosophy—my bag strap was too short for that shit.
It was just a way to look away from this godawful reality, even for a moment. Pathetic flailing, if you want to call it that.
Two fingers blown off by grenade shrapnel. The throbbing pain sprouting from the stumps hammered my temples every second. Yesterday's joker of a squadmate turned into a hunk of meat by the next day. The terror that tomorrow, someone in this foxhole might be next—it was enough to drive anyone insane. We needed an escape.
One of the newbies, looking just as ragged as me, had cackled through his grimy face.
A world where you don't have to shoot anyone? Anywhere's fine.
Damn right, that's the dream! Fuck, if only. This shitty world! And those even shittier brass! That's what we all yelled in unison, I remember.
Wait—where's that newbie now? My senior got popped between the eyes. What about Squad Leader Im Hoon-sik? And that pig bastard Bang Tae-hoon, still hoarding snacks in this mess?
As I sifted through memories, my body began to slump. Only then did my brain cough up the answer to its earlier question.
I'd just taken a fucking bullet—or three, probably—to the chest. And here in the pit of this goddamn World War III, I was cooling off fast. Just like the rest of my squad.
What a clusterfuck.
My eyes drifted shut.
I opened my eyes.
A boy stared back at me from the mirror.
Seventeen now, maybe. Dull platinum blond hair. Skin so white it might never have seen sunlight. Amid the overall pallor, crimson eyes locked onto mine—the only splash of intense color.
This was me. Seventeen years in, and it still didn't feel real.
Out of habit, I tugged my cheek. The soft skin stretched like mochi, accompanied by a sharp sting.
A glance back: the boy in the mirror, cheek elongated in my hand, nose wrinkling nonstop, still watching me.
...Yeah. I was reincarnated.
Into the firstborn son of some... medieval fantasy noble house, no less.
When I first accepted it, I nearly puked at the thought of dealing with feudal wars or some shit. But luckily—or unluckily?—that never happened.
The world I was reborn into was... quirky, to put it mildly.
Knock knock.
"Young master, it's time to depart for the academy."
A clear, refined voice slipped through the door with the knock. "Got it," I replied curtly, grabbing the deck of cards from the table and sliding it into the pocket of my uniform jacket. Perfect fit—another reminder of the world I lived in.
"Are your preparations complete, young master?"
I opened the door. The woman standing there bowed politely. A glimpse of ample breasts swaying beneath her pristine maid outfit. A red scarf around her neck, unusually.
Her silver hair gleamed like pure thread woven fine—not a speck of dirt, elegant unlike my own. Below it, a cat-like face with icy blue eyes shining calmly.
My personal maid, Isabella.
"As you can see."
I reined in my gaze, which had instinctively dipped to her chest, and patted my own. The deck vibrated faintly through the pocket.
"Then, shall we depart?" "Mm."
Isabella nodded lightly, as if no other luggage mattered.
No chit-chat on the way to the carriage, but it wasn't awkward.
Two years my senior, we'd known each other for a decade now. She was the quiet type by nature, and I didn't mind. People who talked too much drained me—this silence suited me fine.
"There you are, Ricardo."
"Welcome."
Emerging from the comfortable quiet at the carriage, a kindly middle-aged couple greeted me.
My parents this life.
"Can't believe you're old enough for the academy already, Ricardo."
Lorenzo Bardi, the count with the impeccably groomed mustache—my father this time around—spoke up.
"I have just one piece of advice: broaden your horizons by meeting all sorts of people."
"Yes, Father."
"Some will suit you perfectly; others will feel like blood enemies. But every interaction will enrich the soil of your soul."
"Yes."
Patting my grown shoulder sternly, he glanced at Mother, who was giving instructions to Isabella, then whispered:
"Still, if there's some bastard you really hate, smash him good. Kids grow up fighting. I'll take the heat. A man sometimes needs to raise hell for what's precious."
Solid words. I chuckled and nodded to my father, who still had a boyish charm at forty.
Well. "Smash him" didn't mean fists—or blades, god forbid. Physical violence against people was unimaginable here.
"Ricardo."
"Ah, yes, Mother."
She approached gracefully, done with Isabella. Father's subtle flinch was comical.
"I believe you'll do wonderfully, Ricardo. No need for more words."
You already said it all to Isabella, didn't you? Whether she read my mind or not, she pulled me into a gentle embrace.
Pathetic, really. Amid the soft cosmetic scent and maternal warmth, tears threatened.
Mother. A word I'd thought lost forever—its power hit hard.
In her arms, I could forget, if only briefly, the shitty memories that still clawed my brain. Even without a gun, knife, or pebble in hand, no anxiety.
"Have a safe trip, Ricardo."
"...Yes, Mother."
Federico Academy, founded by the progenitor archmage. Entrance Exam Hall A.
Freshmen with tense faces mingled with relaxed upperclassmen spectating the exams, forming a sea of people.
"Entrance practical exams begin now! Those called, step forward to the battle tables!"
A stern-faced female professor announced in a sharp voice. Amplification magic made it boom across the hall.
"Group A freshmen will duel! Soul Points at 5,000! Decks: 30 Origin Cards, 20 Support Cards—total 50 cards!"
Her bizarre instructions poured out.
No written tests, no swords or spells to prove yourself.
Just prepare a deck by the rules.
Makes sense—this world resolved all conflicts with Magic & Creature. Card games, plain and simple.
Person-to-person dispute? Cards.
Criminal resists? Cards.
Rampaging monster? Seal it in a card.
In this world's wars, guns and blades were useless junk.
Everything was resolved by card games.
Card games were serious business.