CHAPTER 839: 839: DIVINE GAME – CARD SWAP 88

By the time Rita could keep every cursed bell on her body silent no matter how intense the fight, it was already the end of November.

And once again, the annual Divine Game had arrived.

The night before Winterveil, Rita hurried home to share dinner with Lightchaser and Wail. Mistblade, Maple Syrup, and the others had gone to their own teachers in Asaein.

After the meal, when Wail learned the Summer Snowman Rita had given her before was already used up, Rita dug into her stash of winter snow and carefully crafted a new one.

The little snowman was exquisite, shaped into Wail herself—exactly how she looked tonight, a satisfied smile after a good meal, the patterns on her clothes etched into the snow with delicate precision.

But Wail frowned. "Still only seven replays after all this time?"

Rita pressed her lips together and stayed silent. It was true—she’d been stuck at seven replays for too long now. She didn’t even dare bring out winter snow during Rehana’s classes anymore. She acted like a normal art student, head down, sketching.

She painted Blue Star, the blurred faces of her family, Gilane, Moonlight Marsh, Blue Dawn, Chernor Worms and Wail, her friends, her teachers Rehana and GodDraw77, sometimes even Mistake Answer, or the clouds and winds swirling above the treetops.

But most of all, she painted Lightchaser.

Lightchaser crouching in Gilane’s streets with that smiling lie.

Lightchaser resting a longsword across her shoulders at the campfire.

Lightchaser tossing her into the arena without a backward glance.

Lightchaser bending low to ask if she hated her.

And Lightchaser on the icefield, cloak flying, asking: "What were you thinking just now?"

That image haunted her. She had drawn it, then stared at it for hours. Even Rehana, who had stood by watching halfway through, had stared at it for a long time.

Suddenly, Rita turned to Lightchaser. "Do you still want a snowman?"

Lightchaser replied flatly, "If it has fewer than seven replays, no."

Rita quietly reset the cooldown with [School Rule No. 801], scooped fresh snow, and began again.

This time she shaped the Lightchaser from the icefield—arms crossed, cloak of snow whipping high as though real wind swept the room.

It was the finest snowman she had ever made. And still... only seven replays.

She held it up, paused a few seconds, waiting. Lightchaser didn’t reach for it.

Confirming she really didn’t want it, Rita crushed the snowman to powder with her own hands.

Wail patted her chest in exaggerated relief, turning to Lightchaser. "For a moment I thought you’d snatch it before she could break it, comfort her, maybe even call her baby."

Lightchaser actually looked tense. She let out a long breath. "...I almost did. But I held it in."

Then she glanced at her student, wearing an apologetic look. "You won’t cry over your teacher’s coldness, will you?"

Rita stabbed several steaks onto her plate, face stiff, breathing hard. She swore she wouldn’t say another word to either of them tonight.

...

After Winterveil, Rita returned to Moonlight Marsh’s treetop tower, waiting for Mistake Answer to lead them to Dalaran.

The Divine Game of Year 171 would be hosted by Golden Hills.

Last year, after the tournament ended, the three cards had reshuffled in the air before flying straight into Golden Hills’ principal’s office. When the Divine Game began, they would fly back out again.

During assembly, Rita and Fat Goose were locked in heated debate over whether, if all the audience and contestants relocated, the cards might think they’d gone to the wrong place and start looking for them instead.

Motor contributed helpfully with a chorus of "Huh?" "Yeah!" "Makes sense, makes sense." "Really?"

Maple Syrup listened for a while until she felt her brain rotting. She turned to Mistblade. "I can’t believe I was actually worried she’d get nervous."

Mistblade said, "Mm."

Maple Syrup narrowed her eyes. "...You’re not nervous, are you?"

Mistblade shook her head. "Of course not."

"Uh-huh..."

"I’m just thinking, if I lose... what do I do?"

Rita instantly abandoned Goose and Motor to crowd closer. "Is Arcana that strict?"

Mistblade shook her head. "Not strict. She’s the gentlest person I’ve ever met. But her other students... they’re too good. The pressure’s huge."

"Other students?" Rita only knew about Wail. "Who else?"

Mistblade gave her a strange look—clearly wondering the same thing Rita often did, about how their generations even lined up. Then she recited: "Wail. Mistake Answer. Cinders. Berrento. Meltrange."

Rita, Maple Syrup, and Fat Goose all fell silent.

Even Motor, for once, said nothing.

After a long pause, Rita asked sincerely, "How do you even manage to eat these days?"

Mistblade: ...

Her nerves spiked even higher.

Maple Syrup, meanwhile, was puzzling over the tangled web of connections. If her teacher and Mistblade’s were peers, what did that make her and Mistblade? If her teacher and Rita’s teacher’s teacher were peers... then what was she to Rita?

Before she could sort it out, Mistake Answer arrived. No gesture, no word—just like that, the golden teleportation circle lit beneath their feet.

In a blink, they were standing in the Golden Hills rest zone, a cluster of white cottages built atop rolling hills, set aside for visiting competitors.

The cottages, normally sized for one apprentice each, had been expanded by spatial magic to fit thousands. Above each spun a massive white windmill, blessing the whole campus; rumor had it students in Golden Hills grew sharper just by studying beneath their blades.

The region itself was steeped in magic. Just as Grayvale was named for its eternal fog, Golden Hills earned its name from its landscape—and from the golden herb [Kimbori] carpeting its slopes.

When the wind swept across, the fields of Kimbori rippled like golden seas.

No care or cultivation was needed—only the scattering of seeds during the March Festival of Plenty. The laughter of those living here was enough to make it grow.

The contrast was painful. Grayvale’s mist was useless. Golden Hills’ Kimbori? One hundred grams sold for ten gold coins.