Gods scream when you kill them.
That's the part they leave out of scripture. The white-robed priests in their marble temples never mention that cramming a Forgotten Creek Deity into a 6x9 card makes him shriek like a teakettle with a death wish.
"Help! I'm the guardian of this stream! Frogs and carp have worshipped me for a thousand years!"
"And now my bank account's gonna worship you," I muttered, fingers flying across the neon-blue hologram flickering through the dusty air. "Shut it. You're screwing with my mana flow."
The air in my cramped workshop smelled like ozone, old paper, and divine desperation. The Glitch Shop—my store, my prison, my monument to bad life choices—squatted on the outskirts of District 9 like organized chaos given physical form. Metal shelves groaned under the weight of thousands of cards lining the walls. Not playing cards, obviously. These held monsters, weather phenomena, crystallized emotions, and occasionally, minor deities unlucky enough to meet me on a Tuesday.
The system interface in front of me flashed red. Last resistance.
[TARGET: Lesser River Deity (Divine/Water)]
[RESISTANCE: 12% → 8%]
[INFINITE GRIMOIRE: Force Extraction Active]
The deity—a water blob shaped like an old man with an algae beard—clawed at empty air. But golden mana chains, manifestations of my personal cheat code, dragged him down like debt collectors on payday. His body flattened, swirled like a clogged drain, then got sucked into the blank mythril card with a pathetic wet plop.
Process complete.
The card fell into my palm. Cold, slimy, trembling slightly.
[CARD CREATED: The Frog King's Idol]
[RANK: Rare (B-Grade)]
[EFFECT: Summons a knee-high localized flood in a 50-meter radius. Increases amphibian morale by 200%.]
[VALUE ASSESSMENT: 450-600 Gold Coins]
"Knee-high flood?" I snorted, wiping the slime onto my already filthy pants. "Target market: rich farmers too lazy for irrigation, or bored teens looking to ruin their parents' garden party."
I reached for the inventory ledger to record this fresh asset. Pen in hand, ink ready. Then the sensation hit.
Conceptual Backflow.
See, every time I shove a god into a card, pieces of them leak back into me. Divine pollution. The Infinite Grimoire doesn't warn you about that part. Human brains aren't built to process divine concepts. Right now, the River Deity's whole 'go with the flow' schtick was seeping into my skull like sewage into groundwater.
The urge to record profits evaporated. My eyelids went heavy. The city's chaos outside felt distant, irrelevant—ripples on some vast, tranquil lake.
Just drift, a foreign voice whispered in my head. Why chase gold coins? Coins are hard, rigid. Water is soft. Be like water, Rax.
My grip went slack. The pen slipped from my fingers, rolled across the wooden floor. I stared at the stack of bright red electricity bills on my desk—power disconnection notice, 24-hour deadline.
Usually, that red triggered panic mode. Math. Solutions. Survive.
But now? Paper boats, my brain supplied helpfully. Fold them up. Let them drift down the gutter. Money's just... heavy, man.
"No." I ground my teeth together, forcing my business brain to fight back against this artificial zen. "Focus. Water doesn't pay rent. Inner peace doesn't buy canned food for Miri."
CRACK.
The sharp sound of something breaking shattered the moment like a hammer through glass.
Consciousness snapped back. The water-calm exploded. I whipped around toward the corner.
Miri—a spirit creature shaped like a white puffball with oversized purple eyes—sat perched atop my stash of Mana Crystals. In her mouth: a shard of blue crystal she'd just bitten clean in half. Glittering powder dusted her snout.
"Miri." My voice dropped low. Dangerous.
"Awoo?" She chirped, mouth stuffed with expensive sparkles. She swallowed with effort, then licked her lips. Zero guilt.
"That was a Sapphire Grade Mana Stone," I said, stepping closer while gathering the shattered remains. "Two hundred gold per ounce. You just ate two weeks of our living expenses as an afternoon snack."
Miri didn't look sorry. She hopped down, flicked her tail, and pointed one tiny claw at her belly.
Hungry, her voice echoed directly in my skull through our soul bond. Tasted bland. Want spicy.
"You're getting discount kibble tonight," I threatened, knowing it was a lie. Miri was a Card Spirit—the only card I couldn't sell. If I didn't feed her quality mana, she'd start eating my merchandise. Or worse, my furniture.
The wind chime above the front door jangled harsh and loud.
Customer.
I took a long breath, shaking off the last wisps of River Deity laziness, and slapped on my professional mask: a thin smile, friendly but calculating.
The door swung open. A man stepped in with an aura that filled the cramped space wall to wall.
Full plate armor, polished to a migraine-inducing shine—the kind that blinds you if sunlight hits it wrong. Greatsword on his back. Silver Fang Guild emblem pinned to his chest.
Gareth. Regular customer. The 'Hero' type—all trust fund, zero brain cells.
"Rax!" His voice boomed like thunder in a tin can. "I need a miracle. Now."
I skipped the pleasantries. My eyes locked onto the coin pouch at his belt—heavy, jingling. Music. "Miracles are top shelf, Gareth. Destruction's bottom shelf. What's your poison?"
Gareth slammed two cards onto my oak counter. Both looked pathetic.
[Card 1: Rusty Iron Golem (Common)]
Condition: 15/100. Metal fatigue. Moves at arthritic-snail speed.
[Card 2: Screaming Mandrake (Common)]
Effect: Screams. Just screams. No damage, pure hearing loss.
"Iron Forest raid tomorrow," Gareth panted. "Guild Leader says I bring a real contribution or I'm off the main team. Combine these. Make something... lethal."
I raised an eyebrow. "You want me to fuse tetanus scrap and a shrieking vegetable into a murder weapon? Your math's as bad as your taste in armor."
"Eighty Gold Coins. Cash."
I stopped. Eighty gold. That covered the power bill, landlord bribe, and Miri's crystal snack fund.
"One condition," I said, snatching both cards. "Don't ask how the sausage gets made. And don't blame me when the result's weird."
"Just do it! I'm on the clock!"
I dropped both cards onto my fusion bench. No big machine—I used Infinite Grimoire raw, manual control.
Golden chains slid from my fingers, spearing through both cards. In my mental vision, their core concepts lay bare.
Iron. Weight. Hardness. (Golem)
Sound. Scream. Raw Emotion. (Mandrake)
Most Cardsmiths just glue physical traits together. I stitch concepts. I pulled Physical Resilience from the Golem and forced it to slam into Sound Projection from the Mandrake.
Resistance. The concepts ground against each other like rusty gears.
[WARNING: Concept Clash]
[Theme: "Aggressive Noise" + "Heavy Metal"]
[Processing...]
I pushed harder. That's when the shift happened.
The River Deity's residual calm suddenly boiled in my brain. The steam evaporated, replaced by something rougher. Hotter. Static distortion screaming through broken speakers.
Not water anymore. Fire. A feedback loop from hell.
Sudden urge to break something. Flip the table. Tell Gareth his armor was tacky and life was a cosmic joke with no punchline.
I bit my tongue until I tasted iron. Hold it. Focus on the money. Don't go full anarchist yet.
Blinding light exploded on the workbench, accompanied by phantom electric guitar screeching. Miri yelped and dove behind my legs.
When the light faded, a new card lay smoking, vibrating like it was barely holding back a seizure.
[CARD CREATED: Heavy Metal Vocalist Golem]
[RANK: Unique]
[EFFECT: Golem with magical amplifier embedded in chest. Skill "Death Growl" shatters enemy armor via sonic vibration and causes ear hemorrhaging.]
[FLAVOR TEXT: "IT'S NOT A PHASE, MOM!"]
I handed it over with shaking hands. Cold sweat ran down my spine. My throat felt raw, like a primal scream was lodged in there trying to claw its way out.
"Done." My voice came out like I'd been gargling gravel. Post-concert metal vocals. "Take it. Go. Now."
Gareth snatched the card, eyes gleaming with that Unique-rank madness. He threw the coin pouch onto the counter without counting. "You're a crazy genius, Rax! I'm telling everyone about you!"
He bolted. Door chime rang loud.
I gripped the counter edge, breathing hard. The Backflow from that fusion hit harder than expected. The concept of Sonic Rebellion pulsed in my skull like a migraine with anger issues. I wanted to kick the shelves. Burn those bills. Dance on the ashes.
"Miri," I hissed, eyes wild. "Door. Lock it."
Before Miri could move, the door swung open again.
Not a customer.
Two men in dark blue robes stepped in. Trade Inspectorate uniforms. Behind them stood a short, fat man spraying cheap lavender perfume into the air around himself like chemical warfare.
Barnaby. Owner of the Golden Chalice Guild.
His lavender perfume tried hard, but failed spectacularly to mask the real stench rolling off him—the fishy reek of his shop that peddled discount monster lube and pure greed. He looked at my shop like he'd just stepped in something a dog left behind.
"Mr. Rax," one inspector said, tone cold, bureaucratic, dead inside. "We've received reports of illegal fusion activity and suspicious magical noise pollution."
I tried to stand tall. Tried to be diplomatic Rax.
Calm down, my logical brain begged. Speak politely. Show the business license. Don't let the metal music in your brain take the wheel.
"Pollution?" My voice shook, but not from fear. Suppressed bass vibration.
"Correct," Barnaby cut in, voice shrill behind his silk handkerchief. "The energy here is filthy, Inspector. Unstable. Look at the owner. He looks like a mana addict who failed rehab."
Filthy.
That word lit the fuse.
My logic snapped. Social filter exploded. The Rebellion concept saw Hypocritical Authority, and the reaction was a nuclear meltdown in my frontal lobe.
Instead of bribing the inspector or showing paperwork, I jumped onto the counter with a violent stomp.
"FILTHY, YOU SAY?!"
My shout wasn't human. It was backed by residual Mandrake resonance. The sound wave hit them physically—inspectors' robes whipped back, perfume bottle in Barnaby's hand cracked down the middle.
"YOUR SYSTEM'S FILTHY! YOUR BUREAUCRACY'S RECYCLED GARBAGE! AND YOU, BARNABY—" I pointed a trembling finger at his fat face. "YOU'RE JUST A FISHY RAT SCARED OF INNOVATION BECAUSE YOU KNOW YOU'RE OBSOLETE!"
Silence.
Ear-ringing, soul-crushing silence after that sonic storm.
My scream's echo still hung in the air. Breath coming rough and ragged. Heart racing to imaginary double-bass drums.
Reality slowly seeped back in, cooling the metal rage. I saw Barnaby's face, ghost-white. The inspectors, red with fury—and because their slicked hair now stood up in wild tangles from my sound blast.
I climbed down slowly. Knees a bit weak.
Idiot, I cursed internally. That wasn't negotiation. That was commercial suicide.
The inspector smoothed his robes with stiff, hateful movements. He didn't yell back. Too bureaucratic for that. Just pulled a stamp from his pocket, blew on it gently, pressed it hard onto his paperwork.
BAM.
"Article 405: Verbal Assault on an Official and Disturbing the Peace," he said, ice-cold. "Plus suspicion of advanced mental instability in a business owner."
He ripped the red paper off and slapped it roughly onto my chest.
"Business license suspended. Administrative fine: Five Thousand Gold Coins. Due in 72 hours. Failure to pay results in asset seizure and state auction."
Barnaby lowered his handkerchief. A thin victory smile carved into his rat face. "Such a shame, Rax. I was just about to make an offer on your metal shelves for my warehouse scrap pile."
They turned and left. Door clicked shut with painful finality.
I stood motionless in the dim shop. The fine notice felt heavy on my chest—heavier than Gareth's full plate armor.
Five Thousand Gold Coins.
I looked at the coin pouch on the counter. Eighty Gold.
The difference was mathematical impossibility.
Miri hopped onto my shoulder, licked my ringing ear. Boss? We bankrupt?
"Technically? Yes." My voice returned to normal, but hollow. I walked to the window, watched Barnaby laughing with the inspectors across the street. His lavender perfume probably empty by now.
They thought they won. Thought the legal system would stop me.
But they forgot one thing. I wasn't a normal merchant. I was the guy who turned Gods into discount cards and monsters into loudspeakers.
"Miri," I said, eyes scanning the shop inventory. Not the expensive cards in the front display—the dusty cardboard box under the counter labeled 'PRODUCTION FAILURES / HAZARD / ILLEGAL'.
"We're not paying that fine."
I crouched down, opened the box. Inside: a pile of glitched cards, broken ones, cards with side effects too unethical to sell on the open market.
My hand closed around one pitch-black card with unstable red edges flickering like dying neon.
[Card: Mass Hysteria Signal (Glitch)]
Effect: Broadcasts false neural signal to NPCs within 5-mile radius that there's a "99% Discount + Free Giveaway" at designated target location.
I smiled. A smile that had nothing to do with happiness and everything to do with mathematically calculated desperation.
"Barnaby wants a clean market? We'll give him a market collapse."
I slipped the card into my vest's inner pocket. Right over my heart.
"Pack your bag, Miri." My gaze locked on the Golden Chalice across the street, still lit up like a beacon of smug victory. "We're going to give that bastard exactly what he deserves."
A little economic terrorism.
The Golden Chalice would burn.
Not with fire.
With greed.