Lucian's hand was steady as he laid out the materials on the aged wooden table. A cured hide shaped into a card rested in the center, its surface smooth and leathery, while the other side of the table held a cage containing an Ironhide Pangolin. It was a somber sight, the small creature's scales shimmering faintly under the dim light. It moved sluggishly within the confines of the cage, its fate sealed.
Triboulet's voice was ever-present, curling through Lucian's thoughts like smoke. "You only bought one batch of beasts. But do you have the focus to complete it all?"
Ignoring the taunt, Lucian closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. He visualized the end result he desired. A scales hard as iron yet flexible enough to allow movement. His mind conjured images of overlapping plates, a seamless mesh of protection that could turn even the sharpest blade.
The whispers began as they always did when he tapped into the chaos, faint at first, like the rustle of leaves, then growing louder until they were a cacophony. Lucian forced himself to focus, clutching the Soul Carver in his hand. The weapon felt cold and alive, its pulsing energy syncing with the chaotic hum in his mind.
"Focus, Lucian. The soul won't carve itself," Triboulet whispered, his voice sharp yet coaxing.
Lucian opened his eyes and brought the Soul Carver down, pressing it against the Ironhide Pangolin beast. Despite the Ironhide's natural defense mechanism transforming its form into a defensive sphere, the Carver slipped through its surface effortlessly. The intangible essence was its true target.
The beast began to convulse within the cage, a low, keening wail escaping its throat. Blood seeped from its eyes, ears, and mouth, staining the wood below. Lucian's grip tightened as he connected to the beast's blood through the chaos. This was not his first time, and he knew what to expect. The whispers would grow, the pressure would mount, and his head would pound with a ferocity that threatened to split it open.
The beast's blood flowed, a shimmering crimson thread weaving its way into the cured hide. The carving process began in earnest, guided by Lucian's will. He maintained his focus on the image of the scales, his mind carving their patterns into the hide as the whispers clawed at his sanity.
Minutes felt like hours as the process dragged on, the hide glowing faintly as it absorbed the beast's essence. Finally, the Carver's hum subsided, signaling the completion of the first stage. Lucian exhaled heavily, his vision blurring.
Triboulet's laughter filled his thoughts. "Well done! The first step is finished. Now, let's see if you have what it takes to complete the rest."
Lucian's lips curled into a grimace as he summoned the Soul Carver once more. The Ironhide Pangolin, now at death's door, lay before him. The Carver struck true, piercing its neck, and the cries of its fractured soul echoed in his mind as its soul was absorbed into the pommel of the dagger. Lucian could feel the soul trapped within the blade, swirling chaotically. He kept the Soul Carver in its dagger form, its edge sharp and unrelenting.
"Now comes the hard part," he muttered to himself.
Within his mindspace, Lucian visualized the Ironhide Pangolin's soul. He struck it with his will, each blow forging the soul into something resembling the Club Suit. The process was draining, every strike echoing within him as though he were hammering away at his own soul. Slowly, the wild soul began to take shape, the soul crystallizing into a dense, club-like form. At that moment, Lucian willed the dagger to transform into a chisel, preparing for the final step.
"Ah, the artistry of madness," Triboulet purred. "Keep going, Lucian. Show me what chaos can create."
Lucian used the chisel to carve intricate pathways into the club-like structure, each stroke requiring absolute precision, guided by the chaotic energy coursing through him. When the final line was etched, the object shimmered, already in its card form, pulsing faintly as though alive. The whole card pulsed, as if holding the soul of the Ironhide Pangolin within a smaller, tangible form. Its surface bore an intricate design of interlocked scales, exuding a palpable sense of power.
Lucian set the card on the table, his body sagging with exhaustion. Two more remained. The pangolin's lifeless form lay forgotten as Lucian turned to the other materials. The Shadowclaw, caged and restless, hissed continuously at him, its feline eyes glowing with a mixture of fear and hostility. Its sharp claws scraped against the iron bars, creating a dissonant, nerve-wracking rhythm that filled the air.
He paused for a moment, steadying his breath. The Shadowclaw's fear mirrored his own unease, but he couldn't falter now.
"Hold steady, Lucian," Triboulet's voice broke through the mounting tension. "You've come this far. Don't let them break you."
Lucian grit his teeth and pressed on, visualizing the image of claws imbued with shadow, swift and deadly, capable of slicing through any obstacle. The process began anew, the whispers screaming louder, as if they sensed his weakening will.
The Shadowclaw thrashed as Lucian brought the Soul Carver down. Its cries sent shivers down his spine, but he pushed the feelings aside, focusing entirely on the carving. The beast's blood flowed, wild and chaotic, fighting him with every step. Lucian's limbs felt like lead, exhaustion dragging at him as the whispers grew deafening. When the second card emerged, Lucian slumped forward, breathing heavily.
Finally, he turned to the Zephyr Lynx. The sleek creature moved restlessly within its cage, its energy palpable even in confinement. Its blood would grant speed and the agility of wind itself. Lucian's vision blurred as he began, his body running on sheer willpower. Every motion was slower, more deliberate, and the whispers clawed at his mind with relentless force. He refused to yield. By the time the final card was completed, he collapsed against the table, every part of his body screaming for rest.
The three cards sat before him, faintly glowing in the dim light. The husks of the creatures used in their creation lay scattered on the table, a grim reminder of the cost. Lucian stared at the cards for a long moment, his hands trembling. He reached out, touching each one. The Wildcard mark on his hand pulsed with greater intensity, its glow brighter and stronger, as though it recognized his accomplishment.
Triboulet's laughter erupted, sharp and wild, breaking through the oppressive silence. "Lucian, you're something else," he said, his tone laced with delight. "You've done well and far better than I expected. Most Wildcards would have shattered long ago, yet here you stand."
Lucian exhaled, his chest heaving as he glanced at the glowing mark on his hand. Triboulet's voice softened, a note of satisfaction bleeding through. "Keep this pace, Lucian, and you'll rank up soon. The chaos favors those who endure."
A chill ran through Lucian as the room seemed to darken, shadows twisting and elongating unnaturally at the edges of his vision. His breath hitched as the whispers returned, louder and more menacing, wrapping around his thoughts like iron chains. The flickering light of the lantern dimmed, and from the growing darkness, shadowy figures emerged.
Lucian blinked, his heart pounding, as the shapes coalesced into forms he recognized. His parents. Their faces were pale and gaunt, their eyes hollowed pits that burned with accusing light. Their voices rose above the whispers, sharp and venomous.
"Why, Lucian?" his mother hissed, her tone filled with contempt. "What did you do to these poor beast?"
Her voice echoed through the room, each word cutting deeper. His father loomed closer, his shadowed form towering over Lucian. "You brought this curse upon yourself. A disgrace to the family!" he spat, his voice cracking like thunder.
Lucian staggered back, clutching at the table for support. "No... no, you're not real," he said, shaking his head violently. But their words burrowed into his mind, feeding his doubts, amplifying his guilt.
"You were never strong enough," his mother sneered, her form shifting unnaturally, her mouth widening into an unholy grin. "You've always been weak. A failure."
Lucian's voice broke as he shouted back at the phantoms. "Stop it! I didn't choose this! You don't understand!" His words echoed in the room, but the figures only advanced, their presence suffocating. He raised the Soul Carver, its blade trembling in his grip. "I won't let you control me!" he screamed, pointing it at the shadowy forms.
The figures halted, their twisted faces contorting further as they spoke in unison, their voices deep and resonant. "Then why are you embracing the chaos? You already belong to us. Chaos consumes everything. Even you."
Lucian's breathing was ragged, his head pounding as he gripped the blade tighter. He lashed out wildly, slashing at the air, his strikes passing harmlessly through the shadows. "You're not real!" he bellowed. "You're not real!"
From the depths of his mind, Triboulet observed silently, his glee unrestrained. He leaned forward in Lucian's mindspace, his grin stretching impossibly wide. The joker made no effort to intervene, reveling in the chaos unfolding before him.
The shadows surged forward suddenly, their movements erratic and violent. Lucian cried out as their hands reached for him, cold and unyielding. His father's form grasped his shoulder, his mother's clawed fingers reaching for his throat. Their faces twisted and warped, voices overlapping in a cacophony of accusations and threats.
Lucian's vision blurred, and he screamed again, slamming the Soul Carver into the table. The sound rang out like a bell, and the shadows dissipated instantly, leaving the room eerily silent. He stood frozen, his chest heaving, the faint hum of the cards before him grounding him in reality.
The lantern's light flickered back to normal, and Lucian blinked rapidly, his surroundings becoming clear once more. His parents were gone. The room was as it had been, save for the trembling figure he saw in the reflection of the Soul Carver. His own face stared back at him, pale and wide-eyed, with a faint flicker of madness in his gaze.
His trembling hand brushed against the Wildcard mark. It pulsed strongly, almost mockingly, as though acknowledging his collapse. As it glowed and throbbed in rhythm, Lucian suddenly felt a faint connection, like a thread of energy reaching outward. It tugged at his awareness, and his focus sharpened as he sensed its origin. Somewhere in Triboulet's form, near the chest area, the same pulse echoed faintly, resonating with the mark on his hand.
Lucian took a shaky step back, realization dawning on him. The bond between him and the joker was deeper than he had ever known. For a moment, the implications overwhelmed him, and he forced his breathing to steady, straightening his posture.
"No," he muttered, his voice hoarse but determined. "I'm not broken. Not yet."The shadows at the edges of his vision wavered, but they didn't return. The mark on his hand glowed faintly as though in acknowledgment, a promise of chaos yet to come.
Lucian straightened, his gaze falling to the three cards on the table. Their faint glow pulsed in time with the mark on his hand, as though calling to him. Steadying his breath, he took a step forward, his fingers twitching with anticipation.
He reached out toward the first card, to see what he managedĀ to created.