He stares down slowly at the cards in his hand, his eyes narrowing.

...Wait.

He picks up a single card with two fingers and holds it up to the light, his expression as serious as if he were appraising a bomb detonator.

This... this is no mere card.

His hand holding the card trembles, and he lowers his voice like the protagonist of a tragedy.

This... this card... is not yet meant for this world. Playing it now would guarantee my victory, but that would be far too cruel a conclusion.

He shuts his eyes tight.

This, which grants the opponent not even a shred of hope, is not a card but the blade of judgment. The moment I play this, the fate of this game is sealed. How could I make such a momentous decision so lightly?