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HC: Card Slinger | Ch. 68 - Tropical Monk
🕑 Added 2025-06-12 17:18:43 +0000 UTCIt had been a few hours since Deckard cut a deal with Cerberus’ farming team. He sat in their midst, waiting for the next Red Macaw to spawn
It had been a few hours since Deckard cut a deal with Cerberus’ farming team. He sat in their midst, waiting for the next Red Macaw to spawn.
Every one of them had signed a system-backed contract. That would help him keep things quiet. The NDA didn’t just bar them from sharing anything about his identity or hidden class—it also prohibited them from recording footage of him during the fight.
It offered him a layer of protection. But it didn’t remove the risk.
Sure, the agreement made it harder for them to leak information to the rest of the guild—but signatures didn’t equal silence. And even if the game enforced heavy penalties, players could still talk in real life.
Still, the contract guaranteed one thing: they couldn’t back out. He was going to get the cards he needed.
Rook had already shown him the two skill cards dropped by the Red Macaw—spoils from previous kills. But those wouldn’t be handed over until Deckard held up his end of the deal.
As part of the forward payment, he’d already secured all the Blue Macaw drops. He took a moment to admire the new cards in his possession.
The card art showed a massive, ground-running macaw mid-sprint—its wings tucked in, talons kicking up mud, beak stretched open in what looked like a taunt.
Its effects rewarded guesswork. But even if he played it blindly, there was still a 50% chance that its effect would trigger. If timed right, it offered three points for two costs. Not bad at all.
He not only had the copy he’d captured, but an extra one given by the Cerberus’ farming team. He didn’t need it, but if he was going to squeeze value from this deal, he might as well do it properly.
He moved on to the skill cards—six in total. Most were passable, but one stood out:
The feather tokens were worthless on their own. But obtaining three tokens for the price of two cards was a way to cycle out trash or fuel a bigger move on the next turn. It was an excellent skill in a tempo deck.
The other skills were fine, but forgettable.
He glanced around at the Cerberus players, their boots kicked up as they lounged near the spawn point. Banter drifted lazily through the air. They’d hunted Blue Macaws so many times that only three needed to stay active to keep the zone clean. The other four could afford to rest.
He wished he had time to be alone with his thoughts. But with Marty around? Impossible.
“—so I told her, yeah, you can keep the plant, but not the dog. I mean, come on. Right? Fair’s fair.” Marty leaned closer, elbows on his knees. “You ever date someone in VR? Deckard? No?”
Deckard said nothing.
“Didn’t think so. You’ve got that lone wolf energy.” Marty chuckled. “Cool vibe, honestly. So hey, how long you been playing solo?”
Deckard kept still. Didn’t even blink.
The silence stretched. Marty let it hang for half a beat, then filled it like it had never been there.
“Nova Cardia to AstroTerra’s gotta be weird, right? Full-dive VR is a whole other beast. Which one do you prefer?”
No reaction.
“Speaking of which… that Blue Macaw earlier? I mean, whoa. I blinked, and it was gone. Still had most of its HP, too. You use some kind of skill, or was that an item?”
As the player kept hitting him with questions, not once stopping smiling, Deckard couldn’t help but feel some respect for the man. I have to admit, Deckard thought, I’ve never met anyone with such thick skin.
Marty kept dropping real-life details about him mixed into his questions. One of the team members used to play Nova Cardia and recognized him almost immediately as Deckard, the Lone Tiger.
VR games didn’t let players make significant changes to their base appearance. No gender changes. No major height shifts. Minimal age adjustments. Just enough wiggle room to roleplay—never enough to deceive. Even changing species couldn’t mask the basics.
It was a smart system, meant to protect kids and teens from catfishers and creeps. But for someone like him, it made anonymity harder to maintain. This was the price of being semi-famous.
Still, it didn’t matter.
Knowing who he was wouldn’t help them figure out how he’d unlocked his hidden class.
Marty grinned, undeterred.
“They say hidden classes come with odd requirements. Yours tied to capturing animals? Are you like a zookeeper or something?”
He laughed at his own joke.
“Speaking of which… you here because of Terralore? I’ve never tried it, but they say it’s addictive. Have you played it?”
Deckard stayed silent as he observed the others.
They acted like they weren’t listening, but the occasional glance gave them away. Especially Rook. They were watching. Waiting. Trying to get him to slip.
So he kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to get what he needed and move on.
These people were just a means to an end. And the fact that they were using bait tactics to pry information out of him only steeled his resolve. The less they knew, the better.
He sighed. How much longer until the Red Macaw spawns?
*
Rook acted like he wasn’t listening. Eyes on the horizon. Fingers twitching around the hilt of his blade. But his ears were tuned to every word.
The stranger said nothing. Didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. He just stood there like a statue.
Watching Marty try was painful. The guy asked a new question every minute. Shared bits of his own life, told weird stories, cracked dumb jokes—none of it worked. Deckard stayed locked up.
Rook had reread the contract three times now, looking for a loophole. Something they could use to send a message to the guild. But the deal was ironclad.
This player knew exactly what he was doing. He hadn’t left any cracks—at least none Rook could see.
Pure luck had gotten them one helpful piece of info. One of the squad had recognized the guy from Nova Cardia, the old card-battler. Turned out he wasn’t just a pro—he was a world champion.
That explained the confident posture. The cold discipline. You didn’t become the best in a card game without serious brains.
But it didn’t explain the hidden class.
And Rook needed to know what it was.
He’d been captain of this farming squad for six months now, ever since the last leader ditched them for a shot at high-tier drops with a rival team. Rook had been grinding ever since, trying to prove himself.
He’d spent so long in this jungle that every time he closed his eyes, he saw macaws.
But if Deckard delivered—if he guaranteed them one more [Scarlet Marrow]—it would be huge. They were already ahead of the curve this month, thanks to a couple of lucky runs. One more, and Rook might finally get noticed by the upper ranks.
Maybe he’d finally get a promotion. A ticket out of this place.
But if he could do more—if he could pry loose even a sliver of info about this hidden class—then maybe the whole team could rise. Maybe he could leapfrog the ranks entirely. Maybe even land a seat on a real raid team.
So while Marty babbled and Deckard stonewalled, Rook did what he could. Dug through old footage. Scanned the guy’s socials. Searched every post, every scrap of metadata.
All he found were throwback interviews from Nova Cardia’s prime, and highlight reels from the World Championships. For AstroTerra, it was all just scenic clips. The beach. The jungle. Him entering the capsule.
Nothing he could use.
Maybe—just maybe—if he recorded the upcoming encounter with the Red Macaw, it would give him something. Anything he could pass to the higher-ups.
The problem was the cursed agreement. The contract banned recordings. He couldn’t film it himself.
Was there someone he could ask? Someone he trusted enough?
He tried to wrap his head around it. Came up empty.
Still, even if he couldn’t record it, he’d be glued to Deckard the whole fight. Eyes peeled. Watching for that mysterious skill in action.
And he just hoped it would be enough for the top brass.
*
Deckard was starting to develop a headache. Marty just wouldn’t stop talking.
Still, he kept his expression blank, his posture composed. Years of Nova Cardia had trained him for this. Back then, toxic players spammed emojis and pinged nonstop mid-match, trying to mess with his head. He’d learned to block them out.
At least this’ll be over soon.
He’d watched a few Red Macaw fights from the rim of the caldera, and earlier today he’d watched it up close, shadowing the Cerberus team. In the end, the kill went to the Hydras.
Back then, he’d sat out the hunt, telling his partners that his skills were on cooldown.
A subterfuge. But a useful one.
It bought him time to gain more understanding points and boost his odds of capture.
Now? He felt ready.
“Did you get trophies and stuff when you won the Worlds?” Marty asked. “Like, real ones? Were they heavy?”
Deckard stood up. “Gentlemen.”
It was the first word he’d said in hours.
Heads turned. “Y-yes?” Rook asked.
“How long until the Red Macaw spawns?”
“Uh… five minutes,” Rook said.
“Perfect.”
Deckard opened his inventory and began pulling out coconuts.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
He placed them in a precise circle on the floor and sat cross-legged in the middle, eyes closed, perfectly still.
Marty blinked. “W-what are you doing?”
“Quiet,” Deckard said. “I need to concentrate.”
The Cerberus players watched in frozen silence as he meditated among coconuts like some kind of tropical monk.
“What’s going on?” one whispered.
“Is this... part of his class?” another asked.
“Shh,” Rook hissed.
A full minute passed.
Then Deckard stood up without a word.
Marty leaned in. “Are you like... a coconut guy? Is this like a fruit-based class?”
Deckard didn’t answer.
Instead, he stepped on each coconut one by one.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.
Shells split. Coconut water trickled out.
Deckard nodded. “OK. I’m ready.”
He walked off, leaving them stunned.
Behind him, he heard one of them murmur, “...What kind of skill requires that?”
Deckard smiled.
Good luck explaining that to your superiors, he thought.
Deckard waited as the seconds ticked down, the Cerberus team still murmuring among themselves, debating what the coconuts could mean.
Then it happened. That familiar pressure rolled through the air like heat off sunbaked asphalt.
Fumaroles burst across the caldera floor. Superheated steam hissed skyward, the scent of sulfur thickening into a stinging cloud that painted everything yellow.
And then came the sound.
A low, resonant caw—the same one he’d heard days ago, echoing through the jungle while he’d been making his way toward the macaque dungeon. This close, it vibrated in his chest, sharp enough to clip bone.
“Eyes up!” Rook barked.
From the steaming haze at the crater’s center, a shadow stirred.
The Red Macaw stepped forward. Its massive talons cracked the scorched stone, wings flaring just enough to fan the fog aside. It looked like it had climbed out of the earth.
Its bulk was staggering up close. A hulking, ground-bound titan swathed in blood-red feathers. Its beak glinted like metal. Its eyes glowed with the kind of focus only killers possessed—cold and calculating.
“Positions!” Rook shouted, already in motion.
The Cerberus squad snapped into formation with practiced speed. Two spearmen took the front. Two players with ranged skills shifted behind them. The flanks filled in with melee players bearing polearms, curved blades, or blunt weapons—each one slotting into place like part of a machine.
They’d done this before. Many times.
Deckard stayed back, just outside their ring.
The Red Macaw let out a second caw—louder, harsher—then lunged.
It didn’t move like a bird. It moved like a battering ram. Its clawed feet tore through the ash-laden soil as it surged not at them, but across the field, veering toward another squad downrange.
“It’s going for the Krakens first,” Rook said, smiling. “Good news for us.”
Deckard nodded. True. Good news indeed. The less HP it had when he made his move, the better his odds of capture. He clenched his fists.
I’m almost there. I’m only one step away from completing my collection!
