Tawakizra charged toward the puppets, grabbing one by the head and slamming its face into the ground.
A thick black liquid, like oil, gushed from its neck… splashing onto Tawakizra's face. He wiped it off with his hand, smirking coldly.
Marceline smiled faintly, cracking her knuckles.
"I've never fought puppets before. This should be… entertaining."
She lunged into the fray, seizing two heads in her hands and smashing them together with brutal force.
A puppet behind her swung a sharp sword. She dodged swiftly—but not enough to avoid a deep gash across her shoulder.
"You damn puppet…" she muttered, grabbing its head and slamming it into the wall, then driving her knee into its stomach until it split open.
She took the sword from its limp hand and smirked coldly.
"Now… a real weapon I can use to carve you all up."
Elsewhere, Joline was leaping from puppet to puppet, mercilessly ripping off heads. A cold smile on her lips as she whispered:
"Ripping their heads off is easier than I thought."
But then…
Three advanced puppets appeared—faster, stronger, smarter. They surrounded Joline.
She dodged two attacks, but the third slashed her side with a sharp blade. She staggered back, wincing in pain.
At the same moment, a puppet lunged at Marceline from behind, about to tear into her neck—
But Tawakizra intervened, crushing it under his foot.
The three of them stepped back, sweat on their brows, breath heavy… and Joline clutching her wound.
"Something's not right… Every time we kill one, two more show up," Tawakizra said anxiously.
"They're multiplying, not decreasing…" Marceline said, wiping blood from her cheek.
"Ugh, I'm starting to hate puppets," Joline gritted her teeth, her gaze sharp and worried.
Suddenly—
The puppets froze completely, as if a switch had been pulled from their souls.
Then they began to rise—toward the ceiling—like a massive vortex in the sky was sucking them up!
Silence. Shock. Confusion.
"Hehe… Guess they're scared of my fangs," Joline quipped sarcastically.
Marceline shot her a dry look.
But Tawakizra was staring intently at the ceiling.
"The vortex… it's still there. Something's coming."
Suddenly… thick black threads descended—huge, glowing with a cold aura, like frozen shadows.
From the heart of the vortex—
A giant puppet.
Bound from every limb by the threads.
Its eyes burned with a violet light, violet lines trailing down its cheeks.
Its face bore a disturbing smile—split, fixed in a sickly permanence.
Its hair was long, white, flowing like a curtain behind it.
A golden crown adorned with three emeralds rested on its head.
In its right hand, it held a curved, broken sword.
Its other hand glimmered with golden rings.
It wore a brown coat drenched in blood.
"What the hell is that? Is that… the Puppet King?!" Joline gasped.
"No weapons… no powers…" Tawakizra growled.
"Is this training? Or suicide?!"
Marceline pulled her hair back, fire in her eyes.
"Looks like Master Isaac raised the bar this time."
The puppet moved forward slowly, then pointed toward its crown and spoke mockingly:
"Who is the king here?"
"The king faces only those worthy of the title."
His voice was deep, eerie, and his smile exploded into madness.
Tawakizra muttered to himself as he stared at him:
"That's not just a puppet… That's an Aura, but twisted… rotting. Not a servant… a being with a will of its own."
The Puppet King raised his head and said:
"Circora… sent you? I had hoped she'd send me a king… worth my praise."
Tawakizra stepped forward slowly, but Marceline grabbed his shoulder:
"Don't rush. That thing… isn't human. It's on a whole other level."
Tawakizra smiled at her.
"My training always ends in blood. That's how Saint Isaac teaches."
He took another step, looked straight at the king, and declared firmly:
"If you want to face someone… then face me. The king."
The Puppet King tilted his head slightly, smiling savagely—then casually lifted a finger.
In an instant, Tawakizra was crushed into the wall as if a mountain had slammed into him. Blood splattered around him. The ground shook from the force of the impact.
"Tawakizraaaaa!" Joline and Marceline screamed together.
The Puppet King laughed maniacally, adjusting his crown with a finger:
"A king? Who falls from a single touch? What kind of king are you?! Hahahahaha!"
He paused.
Everyone stared at Tawakizra.
Suddenly—
"I'm not a king… I'm just someone trying to finish what he was assigned."
Tawakizra spoke hoarsely as he stood, wiping blood from his face.
The Puppet King tilted his head slightly—he liked that answer.
"I like your spirit."
"You're not a king, but you stand like one… Very well, then. I shall give you a death… fit for a king. Alongside these two little cats."
He then spread his arms wide, his grin growing even more deranged:
"I am… The Aura of Puppets."
"One of the kings of the Jester's Forest. I shall make you my pawns… with threads no longer bound by Circora's will."
Meanwhile… on the other side—
In a semi-large graveyard, clusters of black and crimson-colored graves were spread across the land.
Statues stood above many of them, each posed differently: one sat in deep philosophical contemplation, another expressed silent psychological torment, and a third depicted the slow agony of death.
The earth was fertile, covered with green grass swaying gently in the cold breeze—
A breeze that carried with it eerie, unsettling laughter.
Above them, the sky mirrored the graveyard—but with disturbing details that didn't exist in reality:
Corpses crawling from graves, lightning striking tombstones, and rain falling downward… only to reverse and ascend back into the clouds.
The graveyard's design was circular. At first glance, it gave the illusion that there was no exit… just an inevitable, enclosing loop.
Faithless slowly opened his eyes, glancing toward Eric, who was lying on his back, and Marianne, who was slumped against a grave, her hand resting limply on its edge—unconscious.
He stood up, dazed, his eyes sweeping across the haunting landscape.
The only way to describe it was simple—hell.
"Every time I try to forget what happened in that dimension… fragments of it come back to haunt me," Faithless said with a faint smile.
He walked over to Marianne and gently shook her, calling softly, "Marianne."
She opened her eyes, looking up at him with confusion as his hand steadied her shoulder.
She looked around and spoke with a questioning tone:
"Where are we… and what happened to everyone else?"
"It seems that dear Circora split the groups and sent us each to different places… at least, that's what I'm guessing," Faithless replied.
Eric stood up, fixing his cold gaze on Faithless.
"I was right next to you. You didn't even wake me, Prince… were you hoping to keep a juicy prey all to yourself?"
Faithless's face twisted in a mix of surprise and confusion, while Marianne looked at him with a faint, knowing smile.
Eric brushed off his clothes, a worried expression creeping onto his face:
"Seems like Master Isaac is dragging us into the depths of hell with this bizarre training of his."
"And the annoying part is we don't even have wooden swords this time. We'll have to rely on our fists," Marianne added, folding one hand over the other.
Suddenly, Faithless's eyes widened.
He turned sharply, sensing something behind him.
Marianne noticed it immediately.
"What is it, Faithless?" she asked.
Eric leaned against a nearby tombstone, watching with one eye.
Faithless clutched his chest, feeling the weight of an ominous pressure—
And then came laughter.
Maniacal, disjointed laughter—growing louder.
Faithless turned to Eric and Marianne, his expression tight with concern:
"Do you hear that laughing? It sounds like someone who's completely lost his mind."
Both Eric and Marianne exchanged confused glances.
"I didn't hear any laughter… are you okay? You don't look too well," Marianne said softly, placing her hand gently on his shoulder.
"I'm not sure what's happening to you," Eric added, tapping his chin thoughtfully.
"But maybe the Jester's Forest… or the collision of locations is affecting your mind."
"Or maybe… he's just scared of my laughter. Hahahahaha… Faithless, how's life treating you?"
They all turned around—
Behind them stood a tall man, walking steadily as he held onto the brim of a black hat, styled in European fashion.
Now I feel the aura and the laughter Faithless sensed… but how did he pick it up before us? Marianne wondered to herself, eyes locked on the mysterious figure.
The man's hair was short, messy, and black.
His eyes—completely black, with white pupils.
He wore a white shirt beneath a black vest, and his face was painted in vivid yellow and red… a jester's mask.
"At last, I've met my special guest… and his lovely companions.
Welcome, dear attendees, to what is known as The Jester's Graveyard.
And I go by… The Liar."
"The Liar?"
They all blinked in surprise—the name sounded more like a title than a name.
Without hesitation, Eric dashed toward him.
The Liar stared at him with his eerie eyes—
Eric's movement shifted, as if distorted by an optical illusion.
Then—he landed a powerful blow across the Liar's face—
The jester's body exploded into a burst of gore.
The group stood stunned.
Eric looked around, puzzled.
"That… that wasn't even a strong hit."
"Behind you, Eric!" Faithless yelled.
The Liar placed a hand on Eric's shoulder.
Eric swallowed hard, feeling the crushing pressure of the aura radiating from him.
He quickly retreated back toward Faithless and Marianne.
"Who is this guy?" Marianne asked anxiously.
"I don't think he's someone we can fight."
Why does it feel like I've met him before…? Faithless thought to himself.
"Don't worry, I'm a fun guy," the Liar said with a sarcastic, dark tone.
"I'll enjoy playing with you for a little while."
Then, in the same chilling voice, he pointed toward Faithless:
"And the fun will be so much sweeter…
with the faithless one… or should I say…
Mad Jester."