The world began from a single card—

That’s the kind of line that, in this world, is spoken with complete seriousness. No irony, no joke. Just an absolute conviction that everything, from the creation of the world to its end, can be defined by a card.

This is a world where a card game can literally destroy the world as a whole.

In anime that feature TCGs—Trading Card Games—wild and over-the-top settings are the norm. Cards that form worlds, cards that shatter reality, or battles that decide the fate of the universe—those kinds of things happen all the time. They’re so common that no one even bothers to question them anymore. It’s reached the point where those tropes are simply accepted as part of life.

But what would you do if you actually got reincarnated into such a world?

Would you curse your luck? Would you get angry at how absurd it all is?

For most people, that would be the natural reaction. No one would willingly choose to live in a place where a simple duel could mean the destruction of the world.

But I’m different. I’m an otaku who has spent years playing and loving TCGs.

To be honest, even if this world really was one where a card game could lead to its end, there’s something about it that deeply appeals to me. Because here, card games aren’t just games—they’re the center of culture, of value, of life itself.

Here, cards can come to life.

Monsters and spells that once existed only as illustrations printed on paper now appear before your eyes in full, tangible form. It’s a system similar to what in my old world would have been called “solid vision”—a mechanism that brings cards to life in the real world. When I first witnessed it, it was breathtaking.

In this world, being good at card games is seen as a significant measure of a person’s worth. Winning a duel can earn you respect, admiration, and even fame. Losing one can cost you opportunities or standing. Behind everyday life, in places hidden from the eyes of ordinary citizens, card battles determine the course of history and the destiny of nations.

It’s a world where card games rule everything.

And as a lifelong TCG enthusiast, I can’t deny how thrilling that is. Living here feels like stepping into a dream designed just for me.

In such a world, I achieved one of my own dreams—I opened a card shop.

If you’re talking about TCGs, you can’t leave out the importance of a card shop. It’s the heart of the community, the foundation of every player’s story. And for someone like me, who wants to live surrounded by the scent of fresh packs and the sound of shuffling cards, owning one is the perfect life.

But even as the proud owner of my own shop—a place I built from scratch, a little kingdom of my own—I had one particular problem weighing on me.

And that problem was—

□□□□□

In the provincial city of Tenka, located in a specific prefecture, not far from the city center, just a short walk from the train station, stands my shop.

It’s a two-story building that I purchased and completely renovated.

The first floor is lined with glass walls, allowing passersby to see inside, and posters of various cards cover the glass in colorful layers. Above the glass, a large signboard bears the shop’s name:

Card Shop “Duelist.”

That’s the name of my store.

I borrowed the name from a certain great and famous TCG franchise of my old world—because, well, if you’re going to open a card shop in a card-obsessed world, you might as well have some fun with it.

Little details like that matter. They give personality to the shop.

“Alright, we’re starting the final match of today’s shop tournament. Contestants, please step up to the central field.”

My voice rang out clearly across the store.

As soon as customers entered, they would find rows of tables for casual play, and further inside, a stage-like area that served as the central battlefield. Along the walls were glass showcases, storage boxes, and rows upon rows of card packs and singles, all neatly organized and gleaming under the lights.

It was the weekend—the day of the weekly shop tournament.

Shop tournaments here worked much like those in my previous generation. The rules varied by store, but at mine, we used a Swiss draw, double-elimination format. Players could lose once and still have a chance at the finals, but a second loss meant elimination.

Right now, the final match was about to begin.

The biggest difference between this and the tournaments back in my old world was that here, the competitors didn’t just sit at a table—they stood on a large stage at the center of the shop, known as the “Field.”

Today’s finalists were two young boys, both elementary school students.

One had a spiky, two-toned hairstyle that looked as if it were on fire, a walking embodiment of energy and confidence. The other had smooth, cool blue-tinted hair, calm eyes, and an air of quiet intelligence.

They looked exactly like a protagonist and his rival straight out of an anime.

And in fact, they really were rivals. They had once worked together to resolve a major incident in this city—an incident that, from what I’d heard, involved monsters going berserk and nearly causing massive damage before being stopped through a card battle.

They were, quite literally, living embodiments of the “card game anime” archetype.

“Today, I’m finally gonna beat you!”

“Hmph. No matter how many times you try, I’m still the stronger one.”

The two exchanged their usual banter, their rivalry as heated as ever, before shouting in perfect unison:

“Ignition!”

The name of the card game that defined this world was “Ignition Fight.”

In my personal view, card games could be divided into two broad types: those that used resource systems like mana—typified by “Magic: The Gathering”—and those that didn’t, like “Yu-Gi-Oh!”

“Ignition Fight,” or “Ignition” for short, fell into the latter category.

If I had to explain it plainly, it was like a cousin of Yu-Gi-Oh—a game where monsters, spells, and traps were all defined by card effects, and where creative combinations could lead to spectacular plays.

The boys stood on an “Ignition Field,” a specially constructed platform that projected monsters into reality.

Within the field, the monsters they summoned could move, fight, and unleash their abilities as if alive. The technology behind it—or magic, or whatever it was—made duels in this world incredibly dynamic and thrilling.

The first time I saw a battle on the field, I recall being stunned into silence. Watching holograms wasn’t even close—it felt like witnessing a real fight between living creatures.

“I’ll take the first turn!”

“Hmph, go ahead and try.”

And with that, their fight—no, their “Ignition Fight”—began.

The crowd inside the store leaned forward in anticipation. Some watched intently, cheering and murmuring at every move. Others were at the side tables, casually playing their own free matches, but even they occasionally glanced up to watch the finalists.

Even the tables had built-in systems that could project small monsters into reality. Tiny dragons and warriors darted across tabletops, their movements fast and precise.

My shop wasn’t large—it was just a small local shop—but it was alive with energy.

Due to limited space, we were only able to install one full-size field in the center. Players could reserve it in advance for official matches. Those who wanted to play casually either used the tables or went outside, where portable battle systems—similar to duel disks—could be used.

However, space was still limited, and allowing everyone to use portable fields inside would be chaos.

So being allowed to fight on the main field in the finals was, in itself, a kind of honor—a reward reserved for the top players.

Leaving all those mundane considerations aside, the two boys were giving their all. Their fight was fiery and fierce.

“Go, Battle End Dragon!”

“Not so fast! Counter it, Azure Reaper!”

Their ace monsters collided—one, a majestic dragon whose crimson wings glowed like molten metal; the other, a reaper cloaked in dark blue mist, wielding a massive scythe.

The dragon’s claws came down like lightning, but the reaper intercepted with its scythe, sparks flying as their weapons clashed. Then the dragon inhaled deeply, unleashing a torrent of blazing breath that engulfed the reaper.

The clash filled the field with light and smoke. When it cleared, the reaper staggered and fell to one knee. The dragon roared triumphantly.

The dragon had won the exchange.

“Next, I activate Battle End Dragon’s effect! I return one card from my cemetery to the bottom of my deck, then send the top card of my deck to the cemetery! If that card’s a monster, Battle End Dragon can fight again!”

The hot-blooded boy declared his effect loudly, his voice echoing through the shop.

He was going for the finish.

The crowd murmured in excitement—everyone knew that this ability was one of Battle End Dragon’s signature finishing moves.

When the ace monster of a protagonist had a battle-related effect like this, it always made for a dramatic ending.

And this one was no exception.

With a final strike, the dragon charged again, routing the reaper.

The battle ended with a bright explosion of light—and with it, the hot-blooded boy’s victory.

“Yes! I did it!”

“Tch…”

Usually, the cool boy had the upper hand when things were even. But today, the hot-blooded one had pulled off a rare win.

That unpredictability was what made their rivalry so entertaining to watch.

“That’s it! The winner is Nekka. Congratulations.”

I walked over to the field and addressed them both.

Nekka—that was the name of the hot-blooded boy.

The cool one was named Kurō.

“Manager! Hehe, I told you! I’m the strongest!”

“Don’t get too carried away, Nekka. If you let your guard down, Kurō will take you down next time.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Hot-blooded kids like him were easy to read—always brimming with energy, always jumping ahead.

Still, that kind of personality was a strength as well. It meant he never gave up, regardless of the circumstances.

“Manager! Next, I wanna fight you! Come on, let’s play!”

“Hey, that’s not fair, Nekka! I wanna fight the manager too!”

And just like that, both of them started clamoring for a duel with me.

Honestly, it was endearing seeing them so eager, but I was the shop manager during business hours. I couldn’t exactly stop everything to entertain them.

“Of course not. The shop’s full of customers right now.”

“Aw, come on, just one match!”

Nekka gave me a pleading look, his eyes big and full of desperation.

Sorry, kid, but that’s not gonna work.

No amount of puppy eyes is going to make me drop my responsibilities.

“It’s fine, manager. While you’re playing, the customers will all be watching, so I can handle things by myself.”

That voice came from behind the counter.

It was a girl—my shop’s only employee.

She’d been quietly sitting there, carefully assembling random booster packs, watching the tournament without saying a word until now.

She was small in stature, but didn’t look childish; her silver hair shone under the store lights. Her outfit was casual, frilly, and cute, and over it, she wore the store’s apron.

A mountain of neatly stacked booster packs sat next to her, proof that she’d had plenty of time on her hands—or maybe she just enjoyed making them too much.

Honestly, weren’t there too many?

But still, she had a point.

As soon as she said that, Nekka and Kurō’s faces lit up with excitement.

And not just them—the whole shop started buzzing.

Apparently, seeing me duel was something of an event to them.

While I was still wondering why that was—

“It seems… the time has come.”

The sound of a deep, dramatic voice echoed from the entrance.

Everyone turned.

A man stood there, dressed like a samurai from another era—traditional kimono, wooden sandals, and a real sword at his waist.

His presence was so entirely out of place that the entire shop fell silent.

“Card Shop Duelist’s manager, Tanafuda Mitsuru! Allow me to test the true essence of your strength!”

The samurai declared loudly, pointing a card at me as if it were a blade.

So this was another one—someone who had come to challenge me.

Apparently, even he was convinced of the “mystery” surrounding my skill.

“…Hey, Kurō.”

“Yeah, I see it too, Nekka. That guy… he’s strong.”

The two young duelists, sharp as always, calmly assessed the samurai’s aura.

And to be fair, they weren’t wrong.

Even I could tell this man wasn’t just some random eccentric.

But still…

“Sorry, but duels with me are taken in order. I have to prioritize the customers who’ve been waiting first, alright?”

I told him calmly.

The samurai looked surprised for a moment, then nodded solemnly. “Understood…” he said in a low voice, stepping back to wait his turn.

□□□□□

There is a problem with me.

It was the strange way everyone in this world seemed to view me.

For some reason, people around me were convinced that I was the “protagonist from the previous series.”

That samurai was just one example. He’d traveled all the way here after hearing rumors of my strength, just to test me himself.

I didn’t really mind being thought of as skilled.

I was confident enough in my abilities—I had good draw luck, probably thanks to being a reincarnator, and I could hold my own against most players.

But still—

Unlike those fiery young heroes, I didn’t have any grand past or legendary tale to my name.

I hadn’t saved the world, I hadn’t solved any significant incident. I was just a guy who opened a shop because I loved cards.

And yet, for some reason, everyone around me was convinced that I was secretly the previous generation’s protagonist—a man who had once saved the world, then vanished quietly to live in peace, hiding his true history.

They believed it completely.

No matter how many times I denied it, the rumor only grew stronger.

And now, challengers like that samurai kept showing up one after another, determined to uncover “the truth” about me.

…Honestly, what kind of joke was this reincarnation supposed to be?