As the two battlers collapsed against each other, a heavy silence fell over the arena. This fight had been unlike any other—brutal, unrelenting, a contest to see who could be more ruthless. Unlike Levi's previous opponents, this warrior sent in secret by the group that gambled Echo memories, the one who didn't hesitate or overthink. He fought like a feral blade, every strike aimed to gut, maim, end. Even so, Levi countered most of his strikes, a deadly dance of fire and steel. In the end, to finish the match, he was forced to trade a grievous wound for a decisive blow. It was a costly gamble but it worked.
The arena lamps dimmed as Levi collapsed. A murmur rose, then died. From the shadows, Veylan rushed to the platform, taking no chances. He wouldn't let anyone risk harming Levi in their twisted greed for some imagined Memory which he didn't even have in the first place. He caught him and quickly carried him to the ultimate guest room. He laid him down gently, his eyes narrowing at the deep gash, raw, nearly severing the shoulder, exposing bone glistening like wet marble. He shook his head in disbelief at Levi's courage as he began cleaning the wound.
Just then, the announcement echoed through the arena: Shadow Slayer had won his fifth match. But this time, instead of lashing out in frustration over lost bets, the crowd reacted differently. No jeers. No fury. Instead, a murmur of excitement rippled through them as they began weaving theories, trying to explain the impossible force that was Levi.
"Hey, you think the Shadow Slayer's gonna show up for the next match?"
"Man, what a fight. I don't think we've ever seen that kind of bloodshed in the Iron Ring arena."
"Such a shame. I told we should've bet on the Shadow Slayer! Grimspine's been losing his edge lately."
"Hah! Liar! When did you say that? I clearly remember you telling me the boy was on a losing streak. And now look, didn't that noble just hit the jackpot? You were all laughing at him earlier."
After the match, the crowd began to trickle out of the arena, the hour edging past midnight. The rain continued falling, hastening their departure. It whispered over the crooked rooftops of Gloam Rest district, turning soot-streaked bricks to charcoal black and pooling in the worn, uneven cobblestones. Gas lamps sputtered in the downpour, casting sickly yellow halos that flickered across walls plastered with peeling posters: "30 Solari Reward for Murder," "Sunlight Soap," "Wilmott's Rents – Cheap Lodgings." The whole district reeked of damp rust, forgotten lives, and quiet desperation.
A figure moved through the rain like a shadow. He paid no mind to the downpour; his coat was already soaked through. Each step was deliberate, cautious. His sharp eyes swept across doorways and windows, alleys and rooftops, always watching, and aware.
He was Jonas, slipping beneath the crumbling archway marked Wilmott's Rents, his boots near-silent on the slick stone. He stopped beside a beggar cloaked in black, hunched near a drain. Without a word, he knelt and pressed something into the beggar's outstretched hand, something clearly not a coin.
Then he rose and vanished into the next alley, swallowed whole by the gloom. Later, two more figures approached in the same silent manner as Jonas. They paused beside the beggar, handed him something small, like a folded slip of paper and disappeared just as quickly, melting back into the shadows.
Only once the alley was truly empty did the beggar stir. With a soft exhale, the illusion dropped like mist peeling away. His true form emerged, a shadowed figure with ember-glowing eyes, clad in tattered robes painted with faded flowers. A wide, weatherworn conical hat sat atop his head, its edges fraying into threads. From his back and shoulders jutted crooked branches, their gnarled limbs tangled with blossoms on his cloak, creating the haunting image of a living scarecrow, a druidic sentinel caught somewhere between bloom and decay.
The figure held a small, broom-like bundle, its purpose unclear. It could've been a ceremonial object, a concealed weapon, or something symbolic. He didn't linger, moving with purpose into alleys, as if drawn to a destination only he knew.
He slipped through the maze of narrow streets until the crumbling city gave way to something stranger, an abandoned amusement park. At its center loomed a weather-beaten sign that read: Welcome to the Carnage Carnival.
The word Carnage was scrawled in jagged, blood-red letters, and above it sat a grotesque sun-shaped skull, its grin wide and mocking.
The entire scene was washed in a grim, bluish hue from storm clouds and the dead of night combined. The atmosphere clung to everything like cold mist, thick with rot, rust, and the memory of laughter long since gone silent.
To the left, a rusted Ferris wheel leaned precariously, its skeletal frame creaking in the wind, half of its cars missing or broken. To the right, the warped silhouette of a roller coaster loomed, its twisted tracks disappearing into shadow like the ribs of some long-dead beast.
At the heart of the park stood a circus tent, once vibrant, now decaying. Its striped fabric sagged and tore in the wind, and a grotesque clown face grinned at the entrance, its paint peeling, teeth jagged.The scent of burnt sugar and rust clung to the air, undercut by the warped whine of a calliope, it's static-twisted melody humming a tune only madmen danced to.
The figure didn't hesitate at the threshold. A black crow swept down from the dark sky and landed on his outstretched arm. As if on cue, the two vanished into the tent, swallowed by the tenebrous haze.
Inside, the floor was sticky with spilled wine, old blood and carnival rot. Warped mirrors lined the entryway, throwing distorted reflections of the figure from every angle. His image multiplied, stretched, shrunken, fractured, watching him from all sides. From somewhere unseen, a manic, singsong voice echoed, poetry wrapped in madness:
With a SPROING! and HISS! and three puffs of steam,
The Jester arrived - or at least that's the dream.
His boots were two pistons, his hat a small flue,
And his smile? Just gears stuck with factory glue!
GOOD EVENING, YOU GLORIOUS COG-FACED SCHMUCKS!"
He bellowed so loud that three rivets popped loose.
"You paid for a show? WELL THE JOKE'S ON YOU
THE TICKET MASTER'S A PICKPOCKET TOO!"
As the voice echoed in his ears, the figure winced and clutched his head in frustration.
"This psycho's started again," he muttered through gritted teeth, forcing himself to move forward.
But the maze of mirrors had no mercy. He walked straight into one with a dull thud, recoiled, changed direction only to smack into another. His patience wore thin, and his temper snapped. "Hey, Jester, you fucking lunatic!" he shouted, voice ricocheting off the glass. "Has anyone even come to your damn circus, or are you just putting out mirrors for your own amusement?"
Silence answered him. Only the quiet creak of the tent and the distant echo of that haunting voice remained. The crow, watching from above, finally stirred. With a flap of its wings, it soared ahead, weaving through the mirrored labyrinth. The figure followed, ducking and twisting in its path, until at last he stepped into an open space.
A stage.
And standing at its center, illuminated by a single pale spotlight, was a masked jester dressed in crimson and midnight blue. His costume shimmered with shadow-silk stripes, each step marked by the soft jingle of bells that seemed to whisper lies. His boots were etched with runes that pulsed faintly with every movement—a performer poised between madness and magic.
The jester moved with serpentine grace, illusion-laced gloves swirling through the air like enchanted ribbons. His painted smile stretched unnaturally wide, dagger-sharp and gleaming beneath the stage lights. Behind him, a marionette danced and laughed, cracking hollow jokes to an audience of empty chairs. No one sat to applaud. No one was meant to.
From the edge of the stage, the man with the crow finally spoke, his tone dry and edged with disdain. "Don't you ever grow tired of telling the same old jokes? Honestly, it's a blessing no one comes to this circus. Your humor doesn't entertain, it scars."
But before he could finish, the sharp sound of applause cut through the gloom.
He turned.
At the far end of the rows of crumbling seats, a woman in a straw hat sat quietly, a young girl beside her clutching a worn leather box. The same pair who had saved the slum kids earlier. They watched in silence, eyes revealing nothing.
The jester froze, then slowly turned toward the black crow figure, his bells hissed secrets with every step. "Ah… you poor little straight man in a crooked world," he said, voice smooth as silk stretched too tight. "You think laughter is supposed to heal? Fool."
He gestured grandly to the empty seats.
"And this circus? It's not empty. It's echoing, with every laugh they swallowed, every scream they buried. You call it trauma."
He leaned forward, voice dropping to a gleeful murmur. "I call it awakening."
"Enough, you two," the woman said calmly, still seated with her straw hat casting a shadow over her face. "Let's talk about what we came here for. Any word on the Sovereign... Masquerade?"
The man with the black crow nodded, pulling a few worn papers from within his coat. His eyes scanned them as he replied, "Our informants are tracking the disruptions. Too many things are happening out of sequence."
He began listing them, each item more curious than the last. "A skirmish between two kids and Mad-Eye's gang in the low quarters. A clash in the upper districts, two groups, all combatants above Order six. A young heir from the Veryathis family showing behavior far too composed for his age." He paused, tapping the last sheet. "And then there's a boy in the Blood Spire Arena. Goes by 'Shadow Slayer.' Displaying skills far beyond his years, likely using a face-shift potion.The pieces... don't add up."
He continued, but was soon interrupted by a lilting voice. "Oh, my queen," the jester purred, tilting his masked head. "Why are you smiling at the mention of those two kids? Did you find something 'extraordinay' in the ordinary?"
His bells jingled as he twirled once, eyes gleaming behind the mask. "Or are they the joke no one's ready to laugh at yet?"
The woman, momentarily lost in thought at the mention of the two boys, snapped out of her reverie at his words. "Yes... I met both of them. And I have a feeling the rest of you will meet them too, sooner or later. After all, Power is a lodestone. It drags kindred hungers into the same grave."
She paused, her gaze drifting as she considered her next words. "Don't you think it's strange? Two boys behaving strange at the same day... Could it really be coincidence?"
Masquerade, the man with the crow, tilted his head slightly. "You mean Shadow Slayer and veryathis prodigy?" he said. "Unlikely. The level of skill and the sheer ruthlessness he's shown in the arena, he's more than qualified to join our Carnage Troupe. He's no ordinary pawn."
Satisfied with his answer, the woman turned toward the jester. Her voice remained poised.
"And you? What do you think of him, Could he be the next Sovereign?" The jester tilted his head, mask catching the pale light.
"I think," he said slowly, "that whoever the Chosen Sovereign is... they don't have the guts to step into the light."
He twirled once, his voice rising into a theatrical lilt. "Not after what happened to the last one. No, no... If the Sovereign has returned, he's hiding. Cowering beneath a dozen false names, with blades waiting in every shadow, all thirsty for the same neck."
He grinned wider, somehow you could feel it, even behind the mask. "Wouldn't you, if you knew your crown came with a coffin?" His words hinted at the Throne of Wisdom, the one every Sovereign secretly covets.
"Whatever the truth is," the woman said after a long silence, "we have to find him. He's our only key to the Shattered Veil Domain. Without a powerful Oracle Echo, we can't predict where the key will manifest."
She leaned back in her seat, eyes shadowed beneath the brim of her straw hat. "Where are the others?" she asked. "The rest of our Carnage Troupe?"
Masquerade, arms crossed and voice laced with casual disdain, replied, "Scattered across the continents. Most won't risk returning yet. They suspect the domain's reawakening on the Southern Continent might be a trap... a façade designed to draw us out."
The jester chuckled darkly. "So many knives dancing in the dark, all waiting for someone foolish enough to bleed first."
The woman didn't respond immediately. Instead, her eyes drifted to the girl beside her, still silent, hands resting protectively on the leather box. Then she rose, slowly, deliberately. Her voice was low but resolute. "Facade or not... we move forward. If the Sovereign is hiding, we will find him. The Veil is thinning, and when it breaks—"
"—the world won't be ready," the jester finished for her, bowing low with exaggerated grace.
The wind howled outside the broken circus tent as the crow let out a low caw, flapping its wings. Rain drummed on the sagging canvas above like a ticking clock, counting down to something none of them could stop.
In the shadows of the Carnage Carnival, decisions were carved not by crowns or holy books, but by claws and cracked masks. And somewhere far from there, a boy called 'Shadow Slayer' bled into the sand, unaware that Powerful Echoes were already forming in his wake.