In a world where card ranks determined your future and your power level dictated your wealth status and career, Keyos was the first djina to be drafted for the Annual Card Selection Ceremony.
Today was the day that would decide not only his fate but the fate of his entire race.
He was the first ever djina to be found with a flicker of magic in his blood.
A month ago, a government scout had discovered it when Keyos placed his trembling hands on the testing orb and it let out an impossible glow—weak, but undeniably there.
The scout had stared at the orb for a full minute, convinced his equipment was malfunctioning.
The government, after decades of pretending his species never existed, suddenly decided to pick him for sponsorship of his education. A political stunt, maybe.
A cruel joke designed to appease bleeding-heart liberals while changing nothing substantial. Who knew? But Keyos didn't care—he had magic. He had power. However small, however pathetic they thought it was, it was his.
He is the first djina in over four hundred years to stand in the Hall of Choosing.
The moderator's voice boomed across the marble chamber, each word echoing off walls inscribed with the names of legendary cardholders. "The cards come in five ranks," he announced with theatrical flair, as if anyone in the packed hall needed to be reminded.
"Diamond ranked at the top, followed by platinum, then gold, then silver, and lastly bronze."
A pause.
"And then there is the unranked." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, yet somehow reached every corner of the vast hall. "The card nobody wants to wield."
Keyos swallowed hard, his throat feeling like sandpaper. He wouldn't get an unranked. He couldn't.
Not after being the first of his kind to even make it this far.
The djina watching from the segregated section in the back—his people, his family, everyone who'd pooled their meager savings to buy him decent clothes for today—they were all counting on him.
One by one, the chosen candidates stepped forward.
A silver-haired girl placed her manicured hand on the glowing screen atop the altar.
An abnormal crack of light split the air and faded, revealing a shimmering gold-rank card floating above her palm.
The girl shrieked with pure joy, actually jumping up and down like a child on her birthday.
The moderator's voice swelled with genuine excitement. "Lightning card! Gold rank! Congratulations—the lightning card hasn't been seen for three decades!"
The girl held the card aloft like a trophy as it dissolved into sparkles and reformed as a lightning mark on her forehead, crackling with residual energy.
She practically floated down from the altar, her family in the VIP section weeping with pride.
"Next, Gilbert Crown!" The moderator's voice boomed with renewed energy.
A tall boy with the kind of build that suggested expensive personal trainers and premium nutrition stepped forward.
He placed his hands on the screen with casual arrogance.
A resounding BOOM shook the entire hall, making the ancient windows rattle and everyone wince at the thunderous sound. Even the moderator stumbled backward.
His card materialized in a blaze of blue fire. "We have a PLATINUM!" the moderator announced, his voice cracking with excitement. "The Blue Flame card! You, boy, are our next Supreme General!"
The whole hall erupted in applause—except for Keyos.
He didn't applaud. He didn't want to.
He didn't need to. Let them celebrate their golden children. His turn would come.
Gilbert smirked with the satisfaction of someone whose victory had never been in doubt. His card faded and a blue flame mark appeared on his forearm.
"Next..." The moderator's voice wavered, uncertainty creeping in. "Keyos... Leray..."
The name hung in the air like a curse word spoken in church.
Keyos started his long walk to the altar from the very back of the hall.
A thousand eyes tracked his movement—some curious, most hostile, all waiting for the spectacle to unfold.
The hall went deadly silent.
Then the whispers began, spreading like poison through the crowd:
"That trace of magic must have been a misreading..."
"Watch it get bronze. Or better yet, get nothing at all!"
"Maybe we'll finally see someone get the unranked."
"Why is it even here?"
They called him 'it.' Like he didn't have a gender.
Like he wasn't a humanoid being with his own intelligence, his own dreams, his own beating heart.
Keyos ignored them, forcing his face into a mask of calm determination.
Let them whisper. Let them sneer.
Soon he'd rub a gold-rank card in their faces—or better yet, a diamond. Imagine their faces then.
He'd make sure to remember every single person who was sneering at him now, so he could pay them back with interest later.
He reached the altar and placed his palm on the warm screen, feeling the magic sensors probe his palm.
Silence.
Everyone waited. No one moved. Even the whispers died.
Keyos waited, his heart hammering against his ribs.
One breath.
Two.
Nothing.
A minute crawled by. Still nothing.
A murmur arose in the crowd, growing louder:
"Is the screen broken?"
"I knew it! It has no power!"
"Maybe the sensors don't recognize slave blood..."
Keyos's chest burned with humiliation and rage. All this hope, all this waiting, and for what? Nothing?
The moderator sighed with barely concealed impatience. "You can move aside for the rest. We don't have all d—"
A burst of light erupted from the altar like a small sun being born. Blinding red light flooded the entire hall, forcing everyone to squint and shield their eyes.
Shouts erupted from every direction:
"Is it platinum?!"
"That light—it's so bright it has to be gold!"
"Holy shit, it can't be diamond! That can't happen!"
"Does this mean salvation for the slaves?!"
Even the moderator was stunned into silence, his mouth hanging open like a fish.
The card slowly materialized, sliding into view as the light faded.
Small.
Frayed.
Pathetic.
The unranked.
The massive screen above the altar projected the card's details for all to see, each word appearing like a death sentence:
THREAD CARD
Rank: — Null
Combat Potential: 0
Recommended Use: Textile Repair
The moderator's laughter started as a chuckle, then built to something high and shrill, like a man losing his sanity in real time. "The Thread Card!" he wheezed between gasps. "The unranked card! Oh, this is perfect!"
The crowd exploded into cruel laughter, the sound echoing off the walls like the baying of hunting hounds.
Like they were all genuinely happy he'd gotten nothing special.
Like they'd all secretly hoped he'd stay bound in slavery where he belonged.
"Go sew socks, slave!"
"I almost had a heart attack for this..."
"A tailor! We got ourselves a magical tailor!"
"Go mend robes, thread-boy!"
Keyos stared at the card in his palm. It pulsed once, weakly. Twice, even weaker. Like a dying heartbeat.
His gaze swept over the laughing crowd, taking in their cruel, delighted faces. Every sneer. Every pointing finger.
Every person who doubled over with mocking laughter.
Then he looked back to where his people were watching from the segregated section—their faces a mixture of broken hopes and familiar resignation.
His fingers slowly curled into fists as the card faded and a jagged red stitch mark appeared around his neck like a collar.
And in that moment, sixteen years of accumulated rage crystallized into one single, burning promise.
Let them laugh. Let them sneer. Let them think they'd witnessed his humiliation.
With this joke of a card—this useless, pathetic unranked piece of nothing—at least he had something. A card. A hope. A flicker of light in the darkness.
I will turn this whole fucking government upside down.
I'll tear down this entire system with these very hands, and they'll all watch me do it.