The Battle Angel’s Morning.

4:50 a.m.

The Battle Angel awoke in a luxurious bed with an exchange value of 9,999 points.

A gentle breeze fluttered the poetry collection he had left by his pillow last night and forgotten to close. 

He looked out the window at the sky. The grayish sky was beginning to fade, with hints of blue peeking through. At this moment, the sky hadn’t yet decided what color to be; it hovered on the boundary between day and night, and as you gazed at it, you couldn’t tell exactly what time it was. 

Perhaps all melancholic hues stem from a sky like this. He suddenly felt a faint sense of melancholy. 

Even though he was currently the highest-tier SSR, even though he had never suffered a defeat—at worst, he’d only drawn with the Demon King—even though he was the most popular combat card among players, even though he owned a 10,000-square-meter card space, and even though he led the light deck to become a top-tier deck.

But on this ordinary morning.

He still felt a faint sense of melancholy.

That sense of detachment and loneliness toward the sky, toward life, toward the future, and toward the world. 

Especially when he opened his unread messages on his all-in-one card—

Demon King: “Why aren’t you here yet? I’m already at the arena.”

Demon King: “Holy shit, bro, are you still sleeping? We’re about to fight—how can you possibly sleep!” 

Demon King: “Bro, come chop me up!” 

Battle Angel:“………. ”

This card—the only one in the card world with combat value on par with his, and who could barely be called a friend—was always swearing like a sailor. 

This was nothing like the life he’d imagined—one where he’d converse with scholars and associate only with the educated. 

Looking back to those days, he, too, had once handwritten a challenge letter—drafted on parchment with a quill pen, sealed with golden wax, and finally sent through the Light Teleportation Array to the Demon King. 

Not only did the Demon King fail to reply—he couldn’t even read.

Although this might have had something to do with the Ancient Latin used by the Battle Angel in his letter, the fact that his combat value is comparable to that of the card world being illiterate still left him feeling a touch of melancholy. 

At 5:00 a.m. today—the time of their duel.

The reason for choosing such an awkward time was that, for the demon race—which is active at night and rests during the day—this marked the end of their day, the time when they were about to fall asleep. 

For the angel race, who follow a diurnal schedule, this was far too early to be awake. This arrangement was uncomfortable for both sides, making it relatively fair. 

The Battle Angel thought for a moment; he was feeling so melancholy today probably because he hadn’t gotten enough sleep. In any case, the Battle Angel headed to the rendezvous in a melancholy mood. 

He was already irritable from not getting enough sleep, and to make matters worse, his opponent was distracted.

The Battle Angel was really annoyed.

When the Battle Angel is annoyed, he never swears; only the ring of his sword—his sword speaks for him. “You just zoned out.”

What a lousy morning.

In a world where nearly all battle cards lack artistic flair, aesthetic sensibility, and literary depth, the Battle Angel has had enough. 

He couldn’t discuss his aspirations, his tastes, or the loneliness and depth of his soul with anyone; all he could do was post card logs, hoping to find intellectual resonance among the players.

But unfortunately, the vast majority of players only see the glory that surrounds him, failing to perceive the loneliness behind it. 

Just as he wrote in a card log he posted long ago: 【Your heart is like a melancholic forest shrouded in thick mist (image)】

Under this card log, many players and members of the light deck left comments, each one filled with the highest praise.

It’s just a shame that no one could discern the deeper meaning behind his words.

Sanity value, mist, heart.

Sigh. He had clearly written it so plainly.

He could have put his artistic vision into practice through battle, but who would’ve thought even the battle itself would turn out to be so dull this time…

“Dude, look at this photo—didn’t they add the ‘Charm’ skill to it?”

Until that line was spoken.

He furrowed his brow. His expression turned cold. He turned around. And then he saw the photo.

Time seemed to stand still in that moment. Amid the utter silence, the Battle Angel suddenly recalled the poetry collection he’d placed by his pillow that morning. The page, fluttered open by the wind, read:

“How can I compare you to summer? You are lovelier and gentler than it.”

Spring—the peak season for “literary melancholy”—yet the N card in the photo seems to hold an entire midsummer in his eyes—a midsummer that can banish all damp gloom and dispel all dark mists.

Radiant, passionate, sunny, warm, bright, and full of vitality.

The Battle Angel seemed to hear the chirping of cicadas.

Then he realized—that was the beating of his own heart.

This morning, he had despised his own soul seven times… He had always blamed the devil for slandering his muse, but that was not his true intention; in fact, he firmly believed that Tang Mian was a pure and innocent card. 

Because no matter what kind of photos Tang Mian posted, they always exuded a sense of cuteness, innocence, adorableness, and charm. He could tell that Tang Mian was absolutely not cut out to be a “bad card.” 

The reason he acted this way was that he feared the Demon King would run off to become Tang Mian’s lapdog the very next second. 

At the same time, he harbored another vague concern:

He had no idea what his Muse’s voice sounded like. What if he kept spouting the battle card’s catchphrase, “Holy shit,” at every turn? It wasn’t until morning prayers that he heard his Muse’s voice—pure, melodious, and heavenly.

People tend to swear when they’re exhausted, but even when Tang Mian was so tired he was gasping for breath, all he said was something simple, cute, vulnerable, and polite like, “I really can’t go on anymore.” Oh heavens, there will never be a better card in this world than Tang Mian.

The Battle Angel made the sign of the cross over his heart and, for the first time, sincerely thanked the God of Cards for sending his Muse to him on this early morning. 

But judging by Tang Mian’s voice message, it was clear that neither the R card Hunter from the mist forest nor the brainless Demon King could properly care for the delicate, sensitive, and melancholic Muse. Only he could shoulder this heavy responsibility.

Take rescuing people, for example: using the power points he’d left behind in the mist forest, he could have saved Tang Mian a step ahead of the Demon King.

If only the power of the holy protection decree hadn’t been exhausted at that moment, unable to bear the weight of his immense power—leaving him no time even to unfurl a single wing—he could have not only saved Tang Mian but also poured a glass of water for his little Muse.

His little one had run until his throat was parched, and being near the Demon King—that human-shaped dryer that scorches the air around him—must have made his throat feel unbearably dry. As perfectly suited as he was, he was frustrated by his inability to find his Muse’s contact information for the time being.

Bluntly asking the Demon King for his contact information was absolutely out of the question; even if the Demon King were as slow on the uptake as he was, he’d still sense something was off.

Just as the Battle Angel was pondering whether to venture into the mist forest to track her down using the traces left behind by Tang Mian, the gears of fate began to turn—

He spotted the Demon King’s latest card log.

Damn it, he recognized this as Tang Mian’s handiwork at a glance! 

Such exquisite capture of light and shadow, the perfect angle where the character and the mist complement each other, and the way the gaze is captured—even a shallow, vulgar monster like the Demon King could be photographed in a way that conveys a sense of storytelling. This clearly demonstrates his Muse’s natural talent for mastering the camera—something the Demon King and that bunch of vulgar fools from the dark deck could never achieve.

Why did the Demon King take Tang Mian into the dungeon? And why did his muse help the Demon King take photos?

In the blink of an eye, the Battle Angel—who had been racking his brain all morning—suddenly had the answer. 

He quickly opened Boss Direct Hiring, searched for job postings related to the “dark deck,” and sure enough, found a position for a boss’s personal assistant.

Salary: 10,000–20,000 exchange value per month.

So the Battle Angel immediately created a similar job posting for a Boss Assistant, then kept raising the salary until it reached the level typically reserved for SR-tier positions.

If he weren’t afraid that raising it any further would make it look too much like a “pig-slaughtering scam,” Battle Angel would have loved to set the salary at a million exchange values a month. 

Next, Battle Angel clicked on the hidden criteria and entered Tang Mian’s card name. 

To prevent any mix-ups with people sharing the same name, Battle Angel added the following criteria to the hidden requirements: blonde hair, green eyes, fair skin, long legs, a slim waist, beautiful…, and so on. 

After filling out this information, just to be safe, Battle Angel also noted in the dungeon history that he had previously cleared the Mist Dungeon. With everything ready, Battle Angel held his breath.

“Ding-dong~”

Tang Mian: “Hello, boss. My name is Tang Mian, and I’m very interested in the position you posted!” The brightness of the angelic halo gradually increased, and its radiance spread out in all directions. 

Tang Mian: “Here’s my top-rated card log! I think I have some experience managing card logs!”

【Tang Mian has shared a card log with you】

He had already seen this “cat stretch” post before.

Tang Mian’s posture was textbook-perfect; stretching and relaxing after exercise was only natural. It was just that his Muse’s figure was too alluring and his writing too casual, which attracted a bunch of guys who presumptuously called him “wifey,” “master,” and “baby.”

Art has its levels of quality.

This group of players is just too vulgar. 

The Battle Angel shook his head, looking melancholy. He took a two-second detour to admire Tang Mian’s slim waist and pert buttocks. 

【Tang Mian shared a card log with you】

【Tang Mian: Let’s have breakfast together ^-^ (picture)】

Battle Angel:“!!!”

In the photo, Tang Mian—wearing a light beige apron—held up a spatula alongside a plate of freshly cooked egg fried rice. The steam rising from the dish created a sense of movement, bringing the still image to life. Even more vivid and lively was Tang Mian’s radiant smile—it was as if his muse were standing right before him, smiling warmly as she invited him to join her for breakfast.

In an instant, the Battle Angel composed a poem: 

“When I woke up

the sun hadn’t risen yet

but you chose to smile

your smile was brighter than the sunlight

sweeter than an apple

you said you’d have breakfast with me

this morning is truly so wonderful”

What a pity. This poem doesn’t seem all that wonderful. Perhaps happiness drains one’s creativity, while suffering sparks a flood of inspiration. Still, he composed it quickly and used plenty of separators to make up for it.

Battle Angel nonchalantly deleted the text he’d typed and glanced at the comments section for Tang Mian’s card log. 

Top comment:

“I want my baby to feed me~.”

Battle Angel:“………. ” What a bold one.

Battle Angel: “Hello, Baby.”

He paused. Then he added a “^-^” emoji—the same one his Baby had used—at the end; that seemed a bit friendlier. 

Just before sending it, Battle Angel checked it over one more time.

No. What if using the exact same emoticon was mistaken for me trying to copy someone else?

After careful consideration, Battle Angel finally sent his first message: “Hi, Baby ^^.”

His “Baby” was likely a freshman card who had just graduated from Card Academy, with little experience interacting with players—he didn’t even realize he’d been taken advantage of. 

Battle Angel: “Baby, your card log is great, but I think there’s still some room for improvement.”

For example, include more profound captions; it’s best to avoid selfies and instead take more artistic photos, so that these presumptuous folks can first understand Tang Mian’s soul—only then will they be qualified to call him “Baby.” 

But since he’s already achieved a spiritual connection with his muse, he can call him “Baby” directly.

“Baby” means “treasure.”

Tang Mian is his muse, so it makes perfect sense for him to call Tang Mian “Baby.”

Tang Mian:“!!”

Tang Mian: “I think there’s plenty of room for improvement, too! We shot that too hastily back then. I think I should’ve worn a little pink strawberry apron and gone topless—that would’ve been perfect. Too bad the Card Mall doesn’t sell such cute aprons.”

Battle Angel:“?”

Battle Angel:“………. Baby, was it too hot back then? Be careful not to catch a chill dressed like that.” 

Tang Mian: “Huh? Of course not.”

“It’s just that this way is much better for soft-core thirst traps.”

Battle Angel:“………. ?”

Soft-core… soft-core what? Soft-core wiping of the kitchen counter? That must be it! You’re such a hardworking, hygienic good baby. Everyone else is focusing on your flawless beauty, but only you noticed a bit of grime on the stove. 

Tang Mian: “Though this kind of explicit angle works better for guys with big muscles, like the Demon King with his massive physique and wheat-toned skin. I feel like wearing a lace dress underneath to go for a cute vibe suits me a lot better~.”

Battle Angel:“…..?”

Wait… my muse… how could he… say something like that?…2

At this moment, SSR·Light of Judgment·the world’s only tournament-level literary gentleman in the Battle Card world·poet·musician·veteran masked character·ancient Greek fashion curator·film photography enthusiast·light deck Boss·Cassius Oratier·Battle Angel, faced his darkest morning yet. 

【The Battle Angel Has Left】