Miracle Card Shop: All My Cards Can Be Actualize

Chapter 365: Epilogue

— Three days prior - Sector Alpha City, Prosperity Hall Auction House —

Aryan Sharma jolted awake in the plush embrace of a Prosperity Tower suite. A dull throb pulsed behind his eyes, a souvenir from whatever just transpired. Opulence surrounded him: thick carpets muffled his steps, gleaming marble reflected the cityscape sprawling beyond panoramic windows, the very air itself reeked of exorbitant comfort.

Yet, a sense of unease gnawed at him, the memory of how he ended up here hazy and unsettling.

The last sliver of clear recollection was the face – a face with skin the color of rich mahogany, etched with a knowing smile that grated on Aryan's nerves. It belonged to a man built like a brick wall, his head a testament to the futility of hair growth.

The man had rattled off a string of words that sounded less like language and more like gibberish dipped in dark magic. Then... oblivion. One minute Aryan was staring down that infuriating grin, the next he was waking up in this gilded cage.

Aryan cursed under his breath, frustration twisting his gut into knots. His head throbbed like a bassline gone rogue, and the plush carpet felt like mocking his predicament.

"Where the hell did that bald bastard go? If I ever got my hands on that guy, I'd rearrange his face that even his mother can't recognize." He clenched his fists, and displayed an awkward shadow boxing picturing the satisfying crack of bone against bone, the smug grin wiped clean.

A chillingly familiar voice echoed in the opulent silence. "Ah! enjoying yourself, are we?" Aryan whipped around, his blood turning to ice. The smirk on the burly man's face was like a neon sign reading "trouble," and Aryan knew he was in deep shit.

Aryan's temper flared like a cheap lighter, sputtering with more noise than heat. He shot the bald guy a one-finger salute, his eyes darting around the room like a hamster on a sugar rush searching for an escape hatch. Spotting a lone wine bottle, he lunged for it like a starving man at a buffet, brandishing it like a drunken knight's sword.

"Back off, baldy!" he barked, his voice cracking like a teenager's on his first date.

"Taekwondo, Kung Fu, Bajiquan, the whole shebang, baby! And I'm a black belt in... uh... Everything!" Aryan continued, his voice rising in a pathetic attempt to sound like Bruce Lee on a bad day. (Author note: Yes, Bruce Lee is still a legend in this timeline.)

He knew it was all a bluff, a desperate act fueled by fear and enough adrenaline to power a small city. He was just like an average Joe caught in a superhero movie, and the only superpower he possessed was some type of magic that he didn't even know how to use.

The bald guy rolled his eyes so hard Aryan thought they might escape his skull and start their own adventure. Aryan's attempt at intimidation was as effective as a kitten trying to roar.

"Yeah, yeah, real scary," the bald guy muttered, his voice a smooth charm. "Look man, you don't need to worry that I would hurt you." He cleared his throat, and continued. "The thing is, you're kinda under... special protection, let's say. Messing with you would be like stepping on a hornet's nest with bare feet. Not exactly my idea of a good time."

Hearing this, Aryan discerned a bit of truth. He wasn't naive. He knew his place in the Sharma household – a stain on the family tree, a constant reminder of his father's transgression. The only reason they tolerated him was his ability to line their pockets with loads of money.

In the grand scheme of things, the Sharmas were minnows in a sea of sharks. Wealthy, yes, but devoid of the real power that lurked in the shadows.

No, it wasn't the Sharmas who ensured his safety. The memory of his first act of defiance against his enigmatic employer, Daniel Emberweave, still sent chills down his spine.

He'd come face-to-face with the Veneziale gang's "hospitality," nearly getting a permanent residency in an underwater reef. But since aligning himself with Daniel, the Veneziales treated him with reverence, their respect laced with a healthy dose of fear.

The evidence was undeniable. Daniel Emberweave wasn't just powerful; he was likely a force to be reckoned with in the world of magic. Aryan cleared his throat, a question burning on his lips.

"Quick question," he began, hoping to squeeze some information out of the man before him.

The man, however, remained stoic. He shrugged, his dismissal as eloquent as any words. "Questions for my employer. He, too, seeks your favor." It was clear Aryan wouldn't be getting any answers today. This man had no intention of playing therapist.

Aryan Sharma, ever the pragmatist, donned a black suit and tapered pants, ensuring his attire held an air of respectability despite the unusual circumstances. He paired them with luxurious shoes that felt like an extension of his feet, a small comfort in this unsettling situation.

Following the bald-headed goon through the opulent hallway, Aryan's gaze darted around, taking in the sights that defied his ordinary world.

Elves, with their pointed ears and ethereal beauty, moved with an otherworldly grace. Winged humanoids, perhaps fairies, flitted around, their vibrant attire adding a touch of whimsy to the scene. And then there was the woman, her lower half a sinuous snake tail, gliding with an elegance that both fascinated and unnerved Aryan.

He'd only seen such creatures in ancient mythology, and here she was, real and captivating.

Aryan's initial awe gradually morphed into cautious curiosity as he approached a set of imposing double doors. A guard, his expression a study in gruffness, stood sentinel, a silent guardian to the secrets held within.

"Enter, Mr. Montgomerry awaits, Mr. Sharma," the guard rumbled, his voice stoic but lacking hostility.

He stepped aside, the heavy oak doors groaning in protest as they swung open to reveal an opulent chamber. Exquisite works of art adorned the walls, each a testament to the owner's refined taste and wealth.

Intricate sculptures, their forms both captivating and enigmatic, stood sentinel throughout the room like silent guardians. With a silent gesture, the guard ushered Aryan and the bald man inside, his gaze lingering on Aryan for a fleeting moment before returning to its stoic neutrality.

The vast room was a veritable museum, its walls adorned with oil paintings and sculptures bathed in the natural light streaming through expansive windows. In the center, enthroned upon a plush white armchair beside a cascading man-made waterfall, sat a bald Caucasian man. A gentlemanly mustache and goatee adorned his face, and a glass of wine swirled lazily in his hand.

Behind him stood a figure in stark contrast: a tall elven woman with an air of quiet efficiency. Though her attire hinted at a formal nightgown, her posture and the way she held herself spoke more of a personal assistant or perhaps even a bodyguard.

"Welcome, Mr. Sharma!" boomed the man, his voice surprisingly jovial for someone presiding over such an opulent setting. "Please, do come in and take a seat." He gestured towards a plush chair facing him, where a table overflowed with an array of delectable treats and exquisite wines, each item meticulously arranged as if for a guest of honor.

"Viper," the man continued with a sly wink, "consider this your reward for the, shall we say, 'unorthodox acquisition of our guest.'" The elven woman, her lips curved in a hint of amusement, retrieved a golden plate engraved with intricate details from a concealed compartment within her dress.

She presented the plate to the bald man, Viper, who accepted it silently, his expression betraying no emotion. "Thank you for your service, Mr. Montgomery," he rumbled, his voice unexpectedly deep and smooth.

A fleeting glance and a playful wink towards the elven woman passed between them, only to be met with a professional smile and a subtle shake of her head. Viper's shoulders slumped slightly, a hint of dejection flickering across his face before he offered Aryan a nod and a curt goodbye.

With silent grace, he exited the room, leaving behind an air of quiet mystery. Aryan perched on the edge of the offered seat, the unease of his recent arrival momentarily eclipsed by a burning curiosity. The man's lavish hospitality, a stark contrast to his brutal "acquisition," left him bewildered.

What could have possibly motivated this old man to orchestrate such an elaborate charade? The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions, demanding answers that only the man before him could provide.

"Mr. Sharma," began Montgomery, a hint of anticipation lingering in his voice. "I have a proposition for you. Have you ever considered pursuing a path in the arcane arts? Perhaps enrolling in a school of magic?" He gestured towards the opulent surroundings, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Believe it or not, Mr.

Sharma, this very building houses such an institution. No need to venture to faraway London, nor is it affiliated with the Hightower, save for the legalities of its establishment."

Aryan's brow furrowed in confusion. "The Hightower? What is this Hightower you speak of?" he inquired, the unfamiliar name echoing in his mind.

Montgomery sighed, a hint of disappointment flickering across his face. "It seems, Mr. Sharma, your knowledge of the magical world is more… limited than I initially anticipated. Perhaps," he added with a hint of amusement, "it's time to start from the very beginning."