The glow of molten ash still lingered in the horizon like dying embers of a wrathful god. Silence draped the shattered land, broken only by the low, humming resonance of a single object — a lone card hovering just above the scorched earth, pulsating faintly with ominous red light.
Ascalon stood amidst the chaos, eyes locked onto the object as though it were the axis of the world itself.
"I-It's… a DRAGON CARD," he whispered, his voice shaky yet filled with awe.
"Really? Dragons also drop cards?" the prince's voice echoed within his mind, laced with disbelief.
Ascalon's brow twitched. "What... what do you mean also?" he asked, a half-smile tugging at his lips — a strange mixture of curiosity, joy, and the subtle thrill of discovery.
The prince took a breath — not of air, but of memory and ancient knowledge. "In this world… when any creature dies — be it human, monster, or even a dragon — they can drop a card. It's a strange rule of the realm. Though, for lesser beings, the drop rate is abysmally low… sometimes nonexistent. But a named monster?" His tone grew serious. "They always leave behind something. A hundred percent guarantee."
Ascalon's eyes glinted. A named monster… the Crimson Dragon…
The enormity of it finally struck him. He had become a legend. And this card — this mysterious artifact — was the proof of that triumph.
But his joy was fleeting.
The cool air brushed against his body, and for the first time since awakening, Ascalon noticed his state. His armor — the Royal Aegis — still shimmered faintly across his body, but the rest… his old equipment, his tools, the belt that once held the magical pouch — all were gone. Lost in the divine eruption of the suicide spell.
Swallowing a growing anxiety, he slowly looked down, eyes searching the belt, the waistline, any trace of that precious pouch.
Nothing.
Reality, cruel and merciless, reminded him of its weight. The pouch was gone.
"Damn… If the pouch isn't here, then…" Ascalon's thoughts spiraled. He glanced at the Dragon Card lying before him, its surface void of any inscriptions. "Where's the Suicide Card? And how are we supposed to use this one? It has no markings, no text…"
The prince answered calmly, "When a pouch is destroyed, the cards inside don't vanish. By the terms of the contract, they're automatically transferred to the Holy Library — a divine vault where all cards are archived upon loss."
Ascalon blinked. "So… if we sign another contract, the cards come back?"
"Exactly," the prince replied. "Either that, or we travel to the Holy Library and retrieve them ourselves."
His voice grew analytical as he studied the dragon card. "As for this one… its silence suggests it's not an active skill. Most likely, it's a passive card."
"A passive card?" Ascalon echoed.
There was a pause, as if the prince needed to rearrange the vast knowledge flooding his ancient mind.
"This world recognizes three primary types of card drops," he explained. "The first — Skill Cards — grant specific abilities. Like the Suicide Card or something basic like Fireball. They have detailed inscriptions. You read them aloud to activate them. They consume mana. Require chants. They're spells, in essence."
Ascalon nodded slowly, absorbing each word like a dry sponge to rainwater.
"The second — Passive Cards — are different. Some consume mana to maintain effects, but many don't. They function in the background — stat boosts like increased health, damage, or speed. Others grant passive regeneration or heightened senses. Once integrated, they work constantly. No chants. No effort. Just… silent strength."
Ascalon's eyes darted back to the Dragon Card.
Could it be… something like that?
"And the last," the prince continued, "are Equipment Cards. These are similar to passives in that they don't drain mana during use. They contain weapons, armors — tangible things. My Royal Aegis armor, for instance, is an Equipment Card."
"But… not the pouch," Ascalon interjected.
"Right," the prince affirmed. "Some equipment cards — like storage devices — need a binding vessel. Your pouch was one such vessel. But for rare exceptions like my armor, the Royal Locket acts as the storehouse. It anchors equipment to the soul."
The locket around Ascalon's neck pulsed faintly, a golden warmth threading through his chest.
"And what about passive cards?" he asked. "Where do they go?"
"Into your body," the prince replied simply. "Most are absorbed directly by the soul and flesh. No need for storage. But again, exceptions exist. If a passive card is too.
The Dragon Card rested in Ascalon's hand like a shard of condensed myth — smooth to the touch, yet trembling with untamed energy. It pulsed faintly, the red aura wrapping around Ascalon's fingers like the breath of a sleeping beast.
Suddenly, the prince's voice grew cautious, his tone veiled in a strange urgency.
"Ascalon… can you please try channeling mana into the card?"
Ascalon blinked. "Mana…?" He stared at the card, then at his own hand. Mana — a word he'd only heard in arcane texts and bedtime myths back in his old world. But ever since waking in this new body, he had felt something pulsing deep within — a strange, voluntary force coursing through his veins. Not blood. Not instinct. Something... more. Something willing.
Is that what he means? That strange flow within me?
He took a breath, steadying himself. Then, with careful intent, he focused on that inner force — willed it forward, channeled it through his arm, into his palm, and finally into the card.
But nothing happened.
"It's not absorbing it," Ascalon said, frowning.
"It doesn't need to," the prince replied. "I only needed a connection."
Then silence fell.
For a heartbeat.
And then — the prince gasped.
"Got it! I've unlocked it!"
His voice brimmed with satisfaction, like a lockpicker finally hearing the sweet click of victory.
Ascalon narrowed his eyes. "What did you do?"
"I accessed the core. The card's identity. But to activate it… we need the chant — the mantra of awakening for all passive cards."
The prince's voice shifted — becoming regal, commanding. Ancient knowledge surged through his words like a priest of forgotten temples calling to the divine.
And he spoke:
"Verba Dormientium — Excitandum Omnia."
(Words of the Sleeping — Awaken All.)
The moment the final syllable rang out, the card in Ascalon's palm exploded with light.
Flames — searing, pure, and alive — erupted around him. Not to consume, but to uplift. The fire danced like sentient ribbons, spiraling upward, enveloping Ascalon in radiant heat. He rose from the ground, hovering above the scorched earth, suspended in a vortex of energy.
His heart raced, each beat syncing with the thrumming power around him.
He was no longer just holding the card. The card was becoming him.
The flames curled in, converging, and with a sudden pulse — they vanished.
Ascalon's feet touched the earth once more.
Silence returned, but now it was sacred.
He exhaled slowly. "Did… did something happen?"
There was a pause. The prince sounded puzzled. "It seems… you can't see passive abilities. They're woven into your body now. Silent. Subtle. But ever-present."
Ascalon nodded slowly. It made sense — the very idea of "passive." No grand fanfare. No visible signs. Just… change.
But then something shifted.
A breeze — cold and unnatural — brushed against his skin. It wasn't from the charred trees or the broken land.
It came from within.
Ascalon stiffened. "Prince… are you feeling that?"
"Yes…" The prince's voice had dropped into a whisper, laced with caution. "But… what is it?"
And then—
A third voice.
Deep. Ancient. Roaring like a volcano buried under centuries of stone.
"So… you're the tiny second soul."
It echoed not from the world, but from within — from behind the prince's presence inside Ascalon's consciousness. An unfamiliar weight filled the air, as though the soul-space inside Ascalon's body had gained a third occupant.
The prince froze, stunned. "Who—?"
The presence laughed — a low, guttural rumble that sent shivers down Ascalon's spine.
"Ah… so this is what rebirth feels like," it growled. "Trapped, yet free. Weak, yet eternal. My body may be ash, but my soul…"
A sharp pulse radiated through Ascalon's chest.
"…survives in you."
Ascalon's eyes widened in horror. "No… it can't be—"
"Yes," the voice snarled. "You dared kill me. And now I shall live within your flesh."
The card had not merely granted power.
It had preserved a fragment.
And now, deep within his own soul, Ascalon realized…
The Crimson Dragon had not truly died.