(Third Turn)
(9th hour)
The streets of Drakehelm, a city where iron towers clawed at a sky choked with soot, pulsed with rare excitement. Beneath the watchful glow of gas lamps, a chorus of youthful voices cut through the morning mist—paperboys, their hands ink-stained from freshly printed news, shouted their headlines with unrestrained fervor.
"Step right up! Step right up! The Crimson Masquerade returns tonight! The greatest circus in all of Aetheros! Only one night, don't miss it!"
The air buzzed with anticipation. Families wove through the bustling streets, their boots clicking against damp cobblestones as they gathered around fluttering paper flyers that danced through the air like autumn leaves. Women in tailored dresses of deep plum and emerald held their hats against the breeze, while men in long woolen coats adjusted their brass-capped canes, speaking in hushed, excited tones. Children darted between the crowds, their laughter sharp and bright as they snatched at the gilded invitations that littered the street.
"It's finally here?!"
"It's about damn time."
"Finally something to lighten the mood after the recent attacks."
A young boy, barely past his eighth year, caught one mid-air and clutched it with reverence. His fingers traced the exquisite, curling script embossed in gold ink on thick ivory parchment.
𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐶𝓇𝒾𝓂𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓇𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝒞𝒾𝓇𝒸𝓊𝓈
𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒱𝒶𝓊𝓁𝓉, 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓌 𝓂𝑒𝑒𝓉.
𝒯𝑜𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎. 𝒟𝑜 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀 𝒷𝑒𝓎𝑜𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓋𝑒𝒾𝓁.
𝒯𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉𝓈 𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒜𝓊𝓉𝓊𝓂𝓃 𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓈. 𝒢𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓈 𝑜𝓅𝑒𝓃 𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒮𝓊𝓃𝓀𝑒𝓃 𝐻𝑜𝓊𝓇!
He turned to his mother, his voice quivering with excitement. "Can we go? Please? They say Morrick the Starless is performing tonight!"
Nearby, a merchant polishing his brass pocket watch chuckled at the name. "Aye, the Starless One himself. You've got a good eye, lad."
Another one chimed in, "He's a magician with no Soul Infused Alchemy. Those without the ability to use it are basically normal, but now I've heard he's able to do extraordinary things!"
"Yeah I gotta see for myself now."
At the sound of the name, murmurs spread through the gathered crowd. Morrick the Starless. A performer unlike any other, a man whose feats defied reason, whose very presence seemed to pull the light from the air. Some said he was a magician who had bargained with something beyond reality.
From the depths of the boulevard, a distant tremor rumbled through the streets. The Steel Gear were moving.
Towering figures of brass and iron, their bodies a blend of intricate cogs and alchemic plating, marched through the city in measured, deliberate steps. Their joints hissed with bursts of pressurized steam, their glass-domed cores glowing faintly from within, revealing the pulsing alchemical heart stones that kept them alive. Their blank, expressionless faces turned only slightly as they passed the crowds, heavy footfalls sending faint shudders through the cobblestones.
They were constructs of the empire—watchmen, enforcers, mechanical sentinels that ensured order in places where men dared not tread. And yet, despite their artificial nature, there was something almost… human in the way they carried themselves. As if something deeper lurked beneath the gears and steel plating.
The tremors faded as the last of the Steel Gear vanished around a corner, and the conversations resumed. The excitement for the circus swelled once more, the murmurs now laced with an undeniable urgency.
Tonight.
Tonight, the Crimson Masquerade would return.
….
The circus was unlike anything else in Drakehelm.
The Sanctioned Vault, a sprawling structure of deep crimson and black, stood beneath a veil of golden lanterns that hung like captured stars. The vast tent of the Masquerade stretched toward the heavens, its silken fabric embroidered with twisting patterns of silver and onyx, depicting creatures that had never walked the waking world. Strange, unblinking masks adorned the entrance, each one unique, their hollow eyes following the guests as they entered.
The scent of warm caramel, spiced cider, and the faintest tinge of incense drifted through the cool evening air. Vendors called out from beneath striped awnings, offering sugared almonds and candied plums. A tightrope walker practiced above the main stage, her silhouette dancing across the high beams like a wraith against the flickering light.
Then—
The lanterns dimmed all at once, plunging the crowd into a moment of breathless anticipation. The murmurs, the laughter, the shuffling of boots on sawdust—all fell silent.
Then—
"It's starting! Shh!"
A sudden burst of golden light flared across the grand stage as the curtains flung open with a dramatic flourish. A gust of perfumed wind swirled through the air, carrying the rustle of velvet, the gleam of silver, the promise of something extraordinary.
A figure stepped forward, and the world seemed to shift around him.
With a sweeping, theatrical bow, he extended his arms wide, his black suit gleaming under the stage lights, its deep crimson carvings curling like living veins across the fine fabric. His white gloves flashed as he clapped his hands together, sending a sharp, ringing sound through the expectant hush.
Then—
He laughed.
A bold, ecstatic laugh, full of flair and indulgence, rich with an energy that rippled through the audience like the crackle of fire in a cold hearth. It was the kind of laugh that commanded attention—magnetic, infectious, impossible to ignore.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Children and dreamers! Seekers of marvels and mischief!" His voice boomed with mirth, every syllable rolling off his tongue like a melody. He took a step forward, spinning on his heel, his red crystal earrings glinting as he threw out his arms in invitation.
"Welcome, one and all, to the grand spectacle of the century! The realm of wonders! The kingdom of impossibilities!"
He thrust his cane high into the air—a cane that had not been in his hand a moment before—letting the crowd bask in the theatrical flourish of his movements, his boundless enthusiasm woven into every step, every flick of his wrist, every flashing grin behind the mask.
Through the ivory-carved eye sockets, his dark yellow eyes burned with mischief, glinting like molten rubies as he let the tension build.
"I am your humble guide, your conductor of wonders, your maestro of the impossible—The Great Announcer!" He spun the cane between gloved fingers, then struck it against the ground with a resounding clap that sent sparks dancing across the stage.
His name was really Lucien. Lucien Albrecht.
A roar of applause erupted from the audience, laughter and cheers breaking through the charged air.
Lucien grin widened under his mask, his every movement alive with flamboyant energy, his presence commanding yet impossibly magnetic. He paced along the stage's edge, his coat flaring with every dramatic turn, his excitement radiating through the air like a living pulse. He had a scar on his cheek, and dark green hair in an undercut messy fashion.
"Tonight, dear guests, you will witness wonders unseen, dreams made flesh! Creatures of the abyss! Dances that defy gravity!" He leaned forward, his voice dipping into an almost-whisper, as if sharing a secret meant only for them.
"And, of course, the performance of a man who has no past… no future… a man who walks without a shadow…"
A shiver of anticipation ran through the crowd.
"I give you… the one, the only—MORRICK THE STARLESS!"
With a dramatic flourish, Lucien flung his arm toward the far end of the stage—where the curtain billowed violently, as if something beyond it was clawing to be revealed.
The audience erupted into cheers, hands clapping, feet stomping, voices chanting the name of the enigmatic performer.
Lucien laughed once more, drinking in the energy like fine wine.
Then he stepped back, twirling his cane, his eyes gleaming as the show began.
The air inside the Vault crackled with an energy so thick it was nearly tangible. Gaslight chandeliers flickered overhead, casting long, restless shadows across the crimson-draped stage, where the show was about to begin. The audience leaned forward, breath held, as Lucien Albrecht strode across the stage like a conductor before an orchestra of chaos, his white gloves flashing with every grand gesture.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! Seekers of the miraculous and the morbid!" Lucien's voice rang through the vault, his energy like a wildfire, erratic and consuming. He twirled his cane, his long black coat lined with crimson carvings flaring behind him, and pointed to the great, mechanical stage as it shifted and groaned, gears grinding beneath the wooden planks.
"For decades, men have whispered of his name! Scholars have debated his feats! Superstition has shrouded him in legend!" Lucien's voice dipped into a conspiratorial hush before rising into a booming, ecstatic crescendo.
"Behold! The one! The only! The man without a past! The performer without a shadow! The great, the inescapable—MORRICK THE STARLESS!"
A violent hiss of steam erupted from the center of the stage as the floor split apart, releasing a cloud of golden vapor. A series of great iron chains unraveled from the rafters, their thick links clanking loudly as they lowered a man from above, his silhouette descending through the mist like a fallen star.
And then—he emerged.
Morrick the Starless was a vision of theatrical perfection. His body was wrapped in heavy blackened chains, their thick, rune-etched links coiling around his muscular frame like iron serpents. His skin was pale, his physique lean and sculpted, his bare chest marked with elegant silver tattoos—symbols of old magicians, wards against failure, glyphs of triumph. He wore billowing, deep indigo trousers, the cuffs embroidered with tiny silver stars that shimmered with each movement. His midnight-blue sash, lined with crescent moons, snapped in the heat of the stage lights.
But it was his face that held the audience captive.
His dark violet eyes burned with electric passion, framed by sharp, chiseled cheekbones and a jawline cut from stone. His long, raven-black hair was braided down his back, streaked with hints of deep cobalt—dyed in a ritual that symbolized mastery of his craft. And despite the ominous chains clinging to his body, despite the doom-laden descent, his grin was enormous.
He was radiant, triumphant, unshaken.
Because this?
This was everything he had ever wanted.
As the chains clanked, lowering him further toward the pit below, the audience gasped in horror. The ground beneath him was splitting apart, revealing a swirling chasm of molten gold and crimson fire. Lava bubbled and roared, steam curling toward the ceiling in ghostly tendrils. The temperature in the Vault rose in an instant, sweat beading on the brows of the spectators.
A voice boomed. Lucien's voice.
"A pit of fire! A maw of flame! No man—NO mortal—has ever escaped its grasp! And yet… does he fear? Does he hesitate?! A man who has no soul infused power!
Morrick threw his head back and laughed.
A wild, joyous, unrestrained laugh.
'I was born for this!'
His muscles tensed, veins pulsing as he flexed against the metal constraints. He could hear the gasps of the crowd, feel their fear, their awe, their worship. This was what he craved—this moment, this raw, undeniable proof that he was the greatest performer to ever breathe.
His heart pounded.
'This is what I always wanted. My wish came true..'
He could see himself as a child, practicing escapes in a candlelit attic, his hands bound in stolen rope. He could hear his own whispered promises—One day, they will all know my name.
And now?
Now he was here.
Now he was a legend.
The chains sank lower.
The crowd screamed.
The lava roared, its heat licking his skin like a dragon's breath.
And then—he moved.
With a sudden, violent twist, Morrick flung his arms wide, his entire body tensing with years of practiced precision. The chains snapped loose, some shattering from the heat, others clattering into the abyss. In one fluid, heart-stopping motion, he flipped himself backward, soaring through the steam-laden air, twisting—twisting—twisting—at insane speeds.
And then he landed.
Feet planted. Arms raised. Chains hanging loose around his shoulders.
A single tear slipped down his cheek.
He had done it.
He had become everything he had ever dreamed of.
The crowd erupted in a hurricane of cheers, applause, screams of exhilaration. Hats were thrown into the air, drinks spilled, people roared his name in triumph.
"So the rumors were true…?!"
"That's insane.."
Morrick lifted his face toward the golden lights, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. He closed his eyes, basking in the moment.
And then—
Then, in a single, deafening second—
His head exploded.
A monstrous, gut-wrenching bang shattered the celebration. A violent spray of crimson and bone burst outward, showering the floor in grotesque flecks of flesh and blood. His body jerked violently, his arms spasming once—twice—before collapsing onto the blood-slicked stage.
The audience screamed.
People gasped, shrieked, shoved past one another, scrambling for the exits as shock and terror overtook them.
And in the chaos—standing unshaken—was Lucien, slowly smiling under his mask again.
His red eyes burned beneath the ivory mask, his white gloves stained with blood. In his hand, still smoking from the shot, was a golden revolver pistol, its barrel adorned with twisting red sigils that pulsed with dying embers.
The corpse of Morrick twitched at his feet.
Lucien tilted his head, then sighed, voice dripping with mock disappointment.
"What a damn shame. He was actually pretty good."
The crowd erupted in terrified shrieks, people trampling over each other, knocking over chairs, clawing toward the exit. Lucien, however, remained unbothered, rolling his shoulders as he turned toward the stampeding mass of horrified guests.
Then, in a sharp, almost playfully menacing tone, he called out:
"Relax, people! I just did you all a favor! Can't have a room full of corpses when things go to hell, now can we?"
His grin widened, fangs just barely visible behind the mask.
"Besides. The real show's about to start."
And as he turned back toward Morrick's lifeless, blood-drenched body—
The corpse began to move, his corpse had twitched.
"Bleh. I only shot you because it would make everyone leave. I know it wouldn't kill you easily." Lucien continued, inspecting his gun.
At first, it was a subtle thing—a slight jerk of the fingers, a faint tremor rolling through his lifeless limbs. But then, as if something had gripped him from the inside and wrenched him upright, his body convulsed violently, his spine snapping back into place with a sickening crack. Then, he changed again into his true Tarot body: pale, an androgynous being with a crooked grin, long curly ash blonde hair, limbs impossibly long, balancing on one toe atop a disjointed stage made of shattered mirrors and broken instruments. A crown of spiked chains hung lopsided on its head. Around its wrists and ankles were limp marionette strings, severed, dangling. And his eyes were pitch dark voids.
Lucien continued, "Besides, this was the only way I could get close to you, because you were super hard to find. And I'm not gonna lie, that was pretty fun. The body you inhabit..the man's wife knew something was up with her husband. She knew he had no So Alchemy, he was just a boring guy. Until he starts doing tricks and shit out of nowhere and acting differently? She came to me with a bunch of gold, and now I gotta exterminate ya."
Then—the change began.
A black halo flickered into existence above Morrick's head, a shifting, crystalline ring, its edges jagged like fractured obsidian. His eyes hollowed out into pools of pure blackness, void-like, soulless, infinite. Beneath them, thick black veins crept down his face, branching outward like the roots of a dying tree.
And then, in grotesque, eldritch horror—his body reassembled itself.
Chunks of black, red, and gray rot fused together, knitting torn flesh and shattered bone into something new, something monstrous, something not human. His form bulged, twisted, stretched unnaturally, his skin flaking away as a crimson and black exoskeleton hardened over his body like living armor. His fingers elongated into hooked claws, tendrils of blackened flesh coiling and writhing like dying embers.
Behind him, the air warped. A massive, spinning crest manifested, its black surface shifting like oil on water. It was the shape of a hand, upright, fingers reaching toward the heavens—an omen, a mark of something far worse than death. But he was standing in a performers stance, as he was 18 feet tall.
And then, he screamed.
A howling, feral roar, not of rage—but of recognition.
His pitch-black eyes snapped toward Lucien.
"Y-You…" His voice was distorted, layered with something deeper, something wrong. His mouth curled into a snarl.
"You must be… that Witch Hunter. The one who died….! That energy…you're supposed to be dead…The Tarot of Death should've claimed you."
Lucien didn't flinch.
'This Tarot..is the Dancing Fool. A Minor Arcana Pip card, the last tier of the Tarot. Seeds of Law chaotic yet potent. But it's still a god, nonetheless. No matter how downgraded he is. The man made a contract with a Tarot that aligns with his goal to achieve his dream. But after every contract a human does with a Tarot, that Tarot takes control of their body. Desperate bastards. The ones who make the contract don't know the cost of achieving your dream after..you lose your body and soul entirely.'
Lucien sighed, rolling his shoulders as he stared down the monster that had once been a man. He adjusted the grip on his golden pistol, its red sigils still smoldering, and with casual disinterest, he responded—
"Close, but not quite. I don't just hunt witches. Not anymore anyway. Got scammed out my soul."
He took a step forward, unbothered, unafraid.
"I purge things like you. The gods and beasts who escape their Tarot cards that they were sealed in by some unknown person or thing. The goddess wouldn't tell me much, and said I wouldn't understand. But every time you guys are wandering about, you can't help yourselves and start causing havoc based on your nature or law or whatever. Or, I just hunt anything for a good price. More funds aid my revenge plot I got going in which is kind of a secret. A kill is a kill, no matter the execution." Lucien snarled with a menacing grin. "But I say all that to ask if you can answer some questions I have about all of this? I get no luck asking all the other Tarot gods and beasts I've beheaded. They just don't wanna talk. I feel like I'm being kept in the dark on purpose here. I think maybe if I figure out what's going on with everything, drop some lore on my head, then maybe I can scam the goddess holding my soul in exchange for 1000 Tarot's."
Lucien tilted his head, his voice taking on a mocking tone.
He exhaled, feigning disappointment. "Guess you won't give up any answers either."
Morrick was gritting his teeth, his body twitched, spasmed, as if something was trying to pull him apart from the inside. His black, clawed hands shot up, gripping his skull. His breathing became erratic, his mind struggling to process the sheer horror of what was happening to him.
A final, wrenching roar tore from Morrick's throat as the last remnants of his sanity snapped.
And then, in pure, uncontrollable rage—he charged.
Lucien said, "Fine then. I was getting bored anyway."
Blood slicked the blackened marble of the shattered coliseum floor. Ash spiraled from the cracked roof above as a crimson sigil pulsed behind Lucien, painting his silhouette in a bloodlit glow. His revolver spun idly on his finger. He stood shirtless, grinning—scars still fresh, torso a patchwork of gashes and cauterized burns. Across from him, Morrick's feet barely touched the ground, spinning, twirling, the golden chains humming with anticipation around his body in spirals. The god of the Dancing Fool bowed deeply, mockingly, his hat dipping as he struck a whimsical ballet pose.
Then—snap.
Morrick lunged first, a blur of dazzling footwork and godlike momentum, the spiked chains igniting as they spun with horrific speed. The first whip cleaved through the air and slammed across Lucien's shoulder—shredding flesh down to the bone. He didn't flinch. Another chain struck—slamming into his ribs, the impact sending a crack through the coliseum floor as Lucien staggered back. His chest flared with searing pain—but he smiled wider.
"Mm," he muttered, spitting blood. "Felt that one in the liver. Hit it again, twinkletoes."
Morrick pirouetted with divine grace, slinging a third chain toward Lucien's throat—but it stopped mid-air, inches from impact. Lucien's hand had caught it.
The glove hissed. The moment his fingers tightened, a crimson crest erupted across the chain's length, and it began to vibrate, warping in color—now dripping with chaos. Morrick tried to retract it, but Lucien vaulted forward, dragging the chain with him, and slammed a red-flaming punch into Morrick's chest with an explosive detonation. The impact launched Morrick into the air, spinning wildly, but even as he flew, he laughed, flipped midair, and landed in a ballet pose atop a crumbling column.
Chains snapped back into place, twirling like saws. Morrick leapt—twisting, spiraling, unleashing a storm of chain slashes from above. Lucien sprinted sideways along the wall, dodging by inches as each chain carved stone and sky alike, sparks erupting with every pass. In a flash, Lucien somersaulted forward, catching one of the descending chains mid-spin and ripping Morrick toward him, clotheslining him with a burning knee to the throat.
Morrick twisted in the air, arms wide, body dancing—then spun, launching both chains in a synchronized helix that ensnared Lucien's arms and neck. "Puppet of the Fool…," he whispered as the world slowed. Lucien's eyes rolled back. His body spasmed once—and then he began to mimic Morrick's mockery: a twirling, ridiculous waltz full of sweeping bows and flailing arms. A literal foolish dance they were performing.
After a few swaying of the arms and sweeping of the feet, the foolish dance was coming to an end. Then Lucien's chest erupted, blood blasting outward in a violent burst as his ribcage cracked open. The chaotic brawler dropped to one knee, coughing up gore, and then stood again, bones snapping back into place.
"Ohhh, I loved that one," Lucien crooned. "Let's do it again. Or maybe this time…"
He holstered his revolver, and the crest beside him ignited with a scream, materializing the flaming Warhammer of Chaos.
Lucien hurled himself forward. Each swing of the Warhammer exploded with a red shockwave, and a spectral flaming red echo of Lucien mimicked the exact attack half a second behind, compounding the impact. He smashed it downward, and the ground shattered like glass, debris suspended midair as Morrick flipped backwards, chains weaving a protective cage. Lucien's spectral echo plowed through it with brute force, breaking the defense and slamming Morrick into a column. The pillar collapsed as Morrick rolled to his feet, blood in his teeth.
He danced again—this time in a frenzied tempo, leaping between vertical rubble, running along the sides of walls, the chains forming spirals that moved like living whirlwinds. He launched a chain under Lucien's foot, catching his ankle and yanking it hard—Lucien flipped forward, landing in a bridge on one hand and kicking upward as Morrick descended. Their limbs met in a bone-cracking collision, before Lucien rotated on his single hand and spun into a roundhouse kick, trailing flame and electricity, which slammed into Morrick's spine.
Morrick bashed into the wall, tumbled—then vanished—only to reappear above Lucien, chains dancing in a storm, performing a deadly aerial waltz. Lucien dodged and ducked, then fired three shots mid-spin with his revolver, each bullet trailing red-gold flames. The third shot caught Morrick in the shoulder, blowing off a chunk of divine flesh. Morrick snarled, using the momentum of pain to launch a spinning dance that slammed both chains into Lucien's legs, sweeping him.
Lucien hit the floor hard. But before the dust could settle, he exploded upward in a flaming uppercut. His spectral twin followed, double-punching Morrick into the air. While Morrick flailed mid-air, Lucien vaulted off a falling boulder, drawing both the Warhammer and revolver at once. He threw the Warhammer, the spectral twin mimicking it, and then fired a bullet into the Warhammer mid-flight—igniting it into a supercharged comet of red lightning and flame.
The hammer crashed into Morrick, sending him hurtling down through five stone platforms, bouncing off each with sickening force.
But Morrick was laughing even as he landed—blood pouring from his mouth, chains tattered, mask cracked. "Such rhythm… such fury," he rasped.
Lucien dropped beside him like a meteor, crouched low, bloodied but smiling like a wolf. "You dance pretty well for a clown," he said, twirling his revolver, aiming it lazily. "But I'm just getting warmed up."
Morrick coughed blood onto the floor, chest heaving. His once-pristine outfit hung in shreds. Chains lay limp. But his eyes sparkled—still dancing.
Lucien stood, blood-slicked, his red crest glowing at his back like the maw of a dying god. He raised the revolver—then holstered it again.
"Let's keep playing," he whispered.
Lucien stood over the crater, twirling his joker card between his fingers.
And then—another card appeared.
Then another.
And another.
A Queen. A King. A Jack.
The air around him shifted, darkened, pulsed with unnatural energy. The cards lifted into the air, hovering, their edges glowing with celestial intensity.
Lucien's grin stretched wide.
Morrick, struggling to rise, hesitated. His blackened eyes narrowed as he beheld what was coming.
For the first time since his transformation—he felt fear.
Lucien exhaled, stretching his arms, rolling his shoulders. Then, without looking back at his summoned horrors, he flicked his wrist.
And then, the cards burned.
'Power of the goddess of chaos, the one who annoyingly brought me back to this wretched land of the living…I hate being bound to this power, and her, but…if I'm gonna get my revenge, and get my soul back, using it is the best option. Don't even know what she really wants with me yet. But since I had a second chance, I don't really complain.'
The air twisted and folded in on itself, as if reality itself was reshuffling. The Queen. The King. The Jack. The Joker. Each card lifted, suspended mid-air, glowing with eldritch intensity, their ornate surfaces shifting, warping—then peeling apart like pages of an ancient tome.
And from them—four titanic entities emerged.
The Joker
A towering, nightmarish figure, standing at a terrifying 18 feet tall, its double-bladed scythe resting across its broad, skeletal shoulders. Its body was a chaotic patchwork of black and red, adorned with ornate golden filigree that pulsed like veins of molten metal. But its mask—that was its most haunting feature.
A single, massive porcelain face adorned its head, split vertically down the middle. One half was a manic, grinning jester, its teeth razor-sharp, its painted eye frozen in an expression of endless mirth. The other half? A twisted, hollow-eyed frown, cracked and sorrowful, yet seething with malice. The two halves would shift at random, the mask twisting whenever the Joker moved.
The Joker did not walk. It glided, twisting and bending unnaturally, its form coiling like smoke. With a flick of its scythe, reality itself seemed to split apart, distortions rippling wherever the curved blades carved through the air.
The King
The King descended from above, regal yet terrible in presence, its form clad in a brilliant suit of gilded armor, its deep crimson cape flowing like living silk. Its face was obscured behind a faceless golden helm, with only a single, burning sigil where its right eye should be—a mark of absolute power.
In its hands, it gripped a colossal greatsword of pure celestial light, its blade seemingly woven from the stars themselves. Every movement the King made was precise, deliberate, a warrior who did not waste a single strike.
And yet, despite its grandeur, there was an eerie, hollow weight to it. Something that suggested the King had no will of its own—only duty.
The Queen
She materialized in an instant, stepping forth like a forgotten deity returned to the world. Cloaked in a flowing robe of deep violet and shimmering silver, gold-threaded butterflies fluttering within its translucent fabric, the Queen was a figure of both beauty and quiet menace.
Her eyes were completely white, void of pupils, glowing faintly with a soft, ethereal haze. Her headdress, an elaborate crown of twisting silver branches, extended outward in curling arcs that resembled woven storm clouds. In her hands, she wielded a massive, gilded war fan, its edges razor-sharp, the surface painted with ever-shifting images of windswept landscapes and golden tempests.
When she flicked the fan—the air itself shattered.
A single wave of her hand sent gales powerful enough to sunder stone, the very oxygen in the room bending to her whim. She moved without a sound, as if she existed outside the laws of nature, her presence both soothing and apocalyptic at the same time.
The Jack
The last to emerge was the Jack. And unlike the others, he did not descend with authority, nor did he move with godlike grace. Instead, he swaggered into existence, shifting his shoulders, his movements fluid and unpredictable, like an assassin made of silk and smoke.
His form was wrapped in a sleek, midnight-blue coat, gold thread swirling through the fabric in cryptic, arcane symbols that never stayed the same. A mask of white porcelain covered his face, featureless except for two slanted, slitted black eyes that seemed to shift and change whenever one blinked.
He held a curved, needle-thin rapier, its silver blade etched with ancient, spiraling runes that pulsed dimly with an unsettling glow. But in his left hand, he wielded something far more sinister—a coiling, whip-like chain, serrated at the ends, which shimmered in and out of visibility as if it were phasing between worlds.
Unlike the others, the Jack moved constantly, never still, always shifting, always watching. And though he never spoke, his head tilted every so slightly, as if amused, as if mocking the idea of combat itself.
Lucien barely glanced back. "You guys gonna kill him or what?"
But before a single swing was thrown, the quartet froze.
The Joker, looming and slouched with his double-bladed scythe draped lazily across his shoulders, tilted his head and immediately twitched toward the front, one bony foot gliding out like he was about to waltz across the battlefield. But the Queen stepped in front of him, her serene gaze gentle as a sunset—but her fan now fully open and blocking his path like a polite no. Her smile didn't falter, but the sudden gust of slicing wind that brushed past the Joker's mask made her intentions clear.
The Joker recoiled theatrically, raising one hand to his face with exaggerated offense, his mask splitting between grin and frown. He pointed at the Queen, then at himself, then threw both hands up in dramatic disbelief. As he began pantomiming an overly tragic sob, the King stomped forward like thunder made flesh, shouldering past both of them. He raised his massive sword with perfect, holy stillness and pointed it directly at Morrick.
The Queen gently waved her fan toward him in a mock "after you" gesture.
But then—snap—a slithering chain whipped through the air and wrapped around the King's ankle.
The Jack was already at the edge of the ruined battlefield of the circus, twirling his rapier with a predator's grace, his movements smug and wordless. He yanked on the chain playfully and gave a slow, polite bow, tilting his porcelain mask ever so slightly—his way of declaring, "Clearly, I go first."
The King didn't even look down. He simply raised his foot and crushed the chain beneath it like a bug, without flinching. The Jack paused. The tilt of his head sharpened. The rapier spun faster.
Now all four stood awkwardly in front of Lucien, halfway through elbowing past one another. The Joker pointed at Morrick, then back at himself again. The Queen calmly sidestepped to the center, raising her fan high in silent readiness. The Jack flicked a coin in the air and caught it, tossing it between fingers like he'd already made the kill. And the King… the King merely remained still, sword raised, refusing to acknowledge the chaos around him.
Lucien blinked at the standoff.
"Oh my god," he muttered. "It's like watching toddlers argue over who gets the first cookie. Fine—" He pointed lazily, eyes narrowed with glee. "Whoever kills him first gets dibs on the next god we kill. Make it quick, I'm losing patience here."
'These summons..summons of Artemis, the goddess of chaos. All of Artemis's power is chaos based. They have no loopholes, no tricky stuff, just pure chaos and destruction.'
The Joker somersaulted backward, clapped with giddy violence, and rushed forward—only to be intercepted by a sudden gust from the Queen's fan that knocked him into a lazy spin. The Jack vanished in a shimmer of silk and reappeared mid-dash. The King finally moved, raising his blade with cataclysmic finality.
Lucien laughed aloud, not even watching as he turned away. "Idiots."
The Queen, ever graceful, raised one gentle hand and stepped between the others once more, fan delicately shielding the space like a curtain at the theater's start. She turned to the Jack, her expression unreadable but patient, and gestured with a soft, almost maternal flick of her wrist. The Jack, always eager to turn tension into performance, flourished his cloak and drew forth a single coin—etched in swirling, golden script—before dramatically holding it between two fingers. He glanced between them all: the Joker, hunched and jittering with excitement, bouncing slightly on the tips of his clawed toes; the King, standing like a mountain with that massive sword already raised half an inch off the ground; and the Queen herself, poised and still, yet clearly the conductor of this brief madness. With a reverent tilt of his porcelain head, the Jack spun the coin high into the air.
All four watched.
The coin danced, glinting midair like a blade, then struck the ground. The Joker lunged toward it immediately, but the Queen's fan snapped open in front of his face with a sound like silk slicing granite—he halted, mask twisting into a sharp-toothed pout. The Jack strode forward, squatted beside the coin, and tapped its face with his rapier. He looked up slowly, and pointed at—
The Joker.
The Joker exploded into silent celebration, spinning on his heel like a demented ballerina, arms flailing upward, scythe twirling in tandem like it shared his glee. But before he could take a single step forward, the King moved. One massive boot crushed the edge of the coin, flattening it into the dirt as he walked past them all, ignoring the Jack's exaggerated shrug and the Joker's now dramatically sulking slump. The Queen immediately stepped into his path again, holding her fan gently to his chest like a wall of peace. The King halted. His helm didn't move, but the slow tension in his shoulders said more than words—he did not like being stopped.
But then the Queen reached up and very delicately straightened his cape.
There was a long pause.
The King gave the smallest nod. The Queen stepped aside.
And finally, the air shifted. The ground trembled. And chaos began its ballet.
Morrick staggered.
For the first time, his berserk fury faltered. His void-like eyes flickered between the towering entities with something dangerously close to hesitation.
Lucien, standing before them, flicked his wrist—a simple, final command.
"Make it epic."
The summoned warriors did not speak, but they moved.
Morrick launched forward in a desperate spiral of chains, his limbs weaving erratic, his feet pounding a chaotic rhythm into the stone beneath him as his godlike dance erupted into a full display of frantic destruction. His spiked chains hurled outward, spinning like saws, converging toward the approaching King in a spiraling pincer of divine wrath—only to be cleaved aside in a single, crushing motion.
The King advanced with slow, deliberate brutality, dragging his titanic blade behind him until it whipped up in a heavenly upward carve.
Where it rose, sigils of light seared into the floor in radiant succession before exploding upward in an ascending wave of annihilation. Morrick vaulted backward, the blasts scorching past his heels, but the Jack was already there—vaulting off the rising stone like a phantom, his rapier whipping out in a series of flickering, skull-shaking thrusts.
Each strike was impossibly fast, each blast forcing Morrick to twist, sway, and backbend in a fool's defense. Then, with a spin, the Jack flicked a coin from between his fingers. It slapped into Morrick's exposed ribs—tick—and detonated in a vicious blossom of metal and heat. Jack landed in a crouch, cocked his head playfully, his chain slithering around his leg like a lazy cat, while Morrick staggered with half his body charred, coughing laughter and blood.
The Queen glided in next, silent and graceful, her fan extended in a shimmering curve, then snapped—and a storm erupted. Slicing gales tore through the battlefield in a spiraling helix, lifting Morrick's flailing form into the air. Tiny silver blades danced within the gusts like glittering hornets, embedding into his limbs, his joints, his gut.
He writhed midair like a marionette severed from its strings. With a peaceful tilt of her head, the Queen spun, her robes flaring, and unleashed another sweeping flick—this time sending a gust that crushed him downward like a meteor, the stone floor erupting beneath him. From her side, the Joker twitched. Then, like an unhinged god, he lunged—his scythe spinning in his palm before he hurled it into the air, then guided it with a delicate twitch of his finger. It carved through space with terrifying grace, sailing behind Morrick and nearly cleaving his spine.
Morrick barely ducked, but the Joker was already there, snatching the handle mid-motion, dragging the blade in a lunatic spiral that carved twin crescents of chaos into the floor. With a jerk of the scythe, Joker pinned Morrick's ankle with the shaft—then dragged him face-first across the floor, only to hurl him skyward with a maniacal flourish. The Joker's mask twisted, shifting from weeping to grinning in a single snap.
As Morrick tumbled, broken and bloody, through the air, the King strode forward again, his sword raised parallel to the floor. With a precise slash, he carved through the battlefield. Crests of light exploded in a cross-shaped blast beneath Morrick's trajectory—one in front, one behind, one directly beneath. They detonated in unison, catching Morrick midair in a cage of annihilation, suspending him in a sphere of divine combustion. The Jack leapt through the smoke like a blade in human form, using the exploding energy as springboards. He spiraled through the wreckage, chain in one hand, rapier in the other, driving three consecutive lunges into Morrick's chest, leg, and shoulder at fast speeds.
On the third strike, he wrapped the chain around Morrick's torso mid-flight and wrenched. Morrick's body whipped around like a puppet before the Jack kicked him away, flipping backward and landing in a low crouch with his blade pointed up—saluting nothing.
The Queen arrived again behind Morrick's descending form, her fan wide, her white eyes unblinking. She closed the fan with a graceful snap and turned her back, letting the wind magic detonate behind her, accelerating Morrick toward the ground like a comet.
The Joker caught him before impact, lifting him into the air by the throat with one hand, holding his scythe behind his back in the other.
His porcelain mask rotated slowly—grin, frown, grin. Then with a single pirouette, the Joker slammed Morrick into the earth hard enough to crater the surrounding landscape. He danced back, flipping the scythe into a throw again, letting it spiral straight down like a divine guillotine, brutally slamming down on him.
The Jack approached first, kneeling beside the corpse and gently flicking one final coin onto the broken chest before turning away. It didn't explode. The Queen drifted past him like a falling petal, pausing only to glance at Morrick's corpse, her eyes almost mournful. Joker lingered behind, upside down, head tilted, arms stretched wide, as if asking an invisible audience if they'd enjoyed the performance. The King didn't approach. He simply turned his back, walking away in utter silence.
From above the destruction, Lucien stepped forward, bloodied and smoking, twirling his revolver once before holstering it.
His lips curled into a bloody grin as he looked down at Morrick's corpse.
Then, the sound of shifting rubble snapped him back to the present. He turned just in time to see a massive chunk of debris hurtling toward a small, terrified child—a survivor of the audience that had once filled this cursed theater. Without thinking, Lucien moved.
'Shit!'
In an instant, he was there, scooping the child up and twisting his body mid-air to take the brunt of the impact. The stone crashed into the floor where the child had been standing just seconds before, sending dust and broken wood splintering outward. The kid trembled in his grasp, wide eyes locked onto him.
Lucien sighed, patting the child's head before setting them down. "Get lost, brat."
The child hesitated, staring at him for a beat too long, before scrambling away into the ruins. "Th-thank you!"
Lucien exhaled, rolling his shoulders, when a voice, silken and edged with quiet amusement, slithered from above.
"I forgot you had a soft spot for children, Bloodhound."
Lucien's smirk didn't falter, even as his sharp eyes flicked upward.
Sella Varcosta leaned against a ruined archway high above, the perfect picture of careless grace.
Sella had a striking figure, draped in the shadowed elegance of a Victorian assassin. Her long crimson hair had been braided tightly down her back, a few loose strands falling over her pale face like threads of dried blood. Her eyes were light green with slight tired bags under them, Her complexion, though pale and fair, bore a series of thin, lined scars across her cheek and jaw—each one meticulously inked over in slight red tattoo, as if done on purpose to mark her battle scars even deeper into her body.
She wore a high-collared coat of deep, oil-dark leather, its hem heavy with damp and ash, adorned with burnished brass buttons and intricate threadwork resembling thorned vines. Beneath it, a corseted waistcoat cinched her form, layered over a blouse of gray silk, neck pinned with a brooch of green gemstone set in bronze. A black tricorn hat, stained at the edges and stiff with old wear, fluttered gently with her breath.
Her gloves were ivory-toned but scuffed at the knuckles, and her boots bore the mud and ruin of many dead streets. Slung over her shoulder was a finely wrought firearm—half musket, half arcane device—its engravings glimmering faintly in low light. It looked heavy, but she carried it as though it were part of her spine.
Lucien let out a short chuckle. "You always this dramatic, or were you really hoping I wouldn't notice you before you had a chance to stick a knife in my back?"
Sella's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I'll admit, I was hoping for an opening. It's been a while since I've had a clean kill."
Lucien cocked a brow. "That so? What stopped you?"
She tilted her head, feigning boredom. "I was busy—handling the Steel Gear outside. The Bureau's on their way, by the way. I don't want anything in the way before I kill you."
Lucien snorted. "Should've stabbed me while I was getting my ass kicked by that performer freak, smart one."
"I considered it. But I wanted to see if you'd actually survive. You're nothing if not entertaining. You're oddly…tough. Like the others say.."
Lucien scoffed, but there was no real heat to it.
Sella studied him for a moment, arms crossed. "I haven't seen you in a long time. After all that hunting, all that training, and now you finally show up again—like a bad omen." Her expression darkened slightly. "The Black Chapel won't stop this time, Lucien. They'll send as many assassins as it takes to put you down. And I'm one of them. But I won't blindly rush you like a fool."
Lucien shrugged, completely unbothered. "Yeah, well, I was kinda forced back into the world by some annoying-ass goddess of chaos or something. Have to kill 1,000 Tarot card gods and creatures like Morrick just to get my soul back." He flicked the remains of blood off his coat. "So I can't die. Not yet."
Sella hummed, tapping a gloved finger against her lips. "That is annoying."
"And you just believe me?"
"After seeing you get your ass handed to you on purpose by this freak, I believe it. And I also noticed even some of your smaller wounds regenerated. You let yourself get hit on purpose? You knew I was here."
"Noticed you ever since I pulled the trigger against that fool's head. Had to humble you for a second. Show you how badass I am now."
"Showing me your regeneration is making me look weak. I don't need help from you." Sella made no move to attack, only watching him with the glint of a cat toying with a mouse. He knew her type. She'd try and kill him, sure. But she'd do it on her terms, when it was smart, when it mattered. "I won't miss my chance to kill you, Lucien Albrecht. I'll be watching."
Lucien grinned, wolfish. "I'm counting on it."
As she departed, her parting words lingered like an omen.
"You should be dead, Bloodhound. Killed by the Exarch."
Lucien's grin twitched, his jaw clenching at the name.
'The Exarch of Ash.'
That shadowed figure who ruled through wax-sealed decrees and whispers carried by unseen emissaries. The one who had ordered his execution. The one he had sworn vengeance upon. The head of the Black Chapel, of assassins and Witch Hunters.
Lucien exhaled sharply, shoving the thought aside.
'Fuck him..that just pissed me off. He's the reason I got packed up in the first place. He's the one I have my sights set on.'
He turned back to his summons. The Joker was miming applause toward the Jack, who in turn gave an exaggerated, dismissive wave. The Queen lifted her war fan with quiet finality, and the King—ever silent, ever loyal—stood in unwavering stillness.
Lucien rolled his eyes. "Alright, enough arguing."
He reached for his deck of cards, flicking them outward. One by one, the summons faded, their towering forms condensing into spectral energy before vanishing into their respective cards. The Joker was the last to go, its mask lingering in a half-smirk, half-scowl before dissolving and also waving.
"1,000 Tarot kills… You hear that, damn goddess?! This was the 1000th..."
His voice echoed through the ruined theater, met only by the distant, howling wind.