(Third Turn)
(9th hour)
The streets of Drakhelm, 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 heartstones thatkept 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 Drakhelm.
The Sanctioned Vault, a sprawling structure of deep crimson and black, stood beneath a veil of goldenlanterns that hung like captured stars. The vast tentof the Masquerade stretched toward the heavens, its silken fabric embroidered with twisting patterns of silver and onyx, depicting creatures that had neverwalked 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 coolevening 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 boomedwith 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 hismovements, 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 red irisesburned with mischief, glinting like molten rubies as he let the tension build.
"I am your humble guide, your weaver of wonders,your maestro of the impossible—Lucien Albrecht!" He spun the cane between gloved fingers, then struck it against the ground with a resounding clap that sent sparks dancing across the stage.
A roar of applause erupted from the audience, laughter and cheers breaking through the charged air.
Lucien's grin widened under his mask, his everymovement 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.
"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 theenigmatic performer.
Lucien laughed once more, drinking in the energy like fine wine.
Then he stepped back, twirling his cane, his red eyes gleaming as the show began.
The air inside the Vault crackled with an energy sothick 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 red crystal earrings catching the light, 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 heavyblackened 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. Theground 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 loosearound 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…?!"
"Insane…"
"Impossible!"
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 boneburst outward, showering the floor in grotesqueflecks 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, peopletrampling 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."
At first, it was a subtle thing—a slight jerk of thefingers, a faint tremor rolling through his lifeless limbs. But then, as if something had gripped him from the inside and wrenched him upright, his bodyconvulsed violently, his spine snapping back into place with a sickening crack.
Lucien continued, "Besides, this was the only way Icould get close to you, because you were super hard to find. And I'm not gonna lie, that was pretty fun."
Then—the change began.
A black halo flickered into existence above Morrick'shead, 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, somethingnot human. His form bulged, twisted, stretchedunnaturally, 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 likedying embers.
Behind him, the air warped. A massive, spinning crestmanifested, its black surface shifting like oil on water. It was the shape of a hand, upright, fingers reachingtoward the heavens—an omen, a mark of somethingfar worse than death.
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 mouthcurled into a snarl.
"You must be… that Witch Hunter. The one who died….! That energy…"
Lucien didn't flinch.
Instead, he 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 sigilsstill smoldering, and with casual disinterest, he responded—
"Close, but not quite. I don't just hunt witches. Not anymore anyway."
He took a step forward, unbothered, unafraid.
"I purge things like you. The ones who take the Marked Ones' black crystals—begging for theirpathetic little wishes, thinking they can cheat fate. Or, I just hunt anything for a good price. A kill is a kill, no matter the execution." Lucien snarled with a menacing grin.
Morrick's breath hitched. His grotesque chest roseand fell in shuddering heaves, as if some part of him—the man still inside—was realizing the truth.
Lucien tilted his head, his voice taking on a mocking tone.
"Oh? You thought you'd get what you wanted, just like that? Thought there wasn't a cost? You poorbastard." He exhaled, feigning disappointment. "You sold your soul. You ain't human anymore. Gotta put you down, need my soul back and stuff. No hard feelings."
Morrick froze.
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.
"No… no, no, no… this… this isn't… I just wanted—"
His voice broke.
"You wanted to be the best, I get it, I do. You have no soul infused alchemy, so you don't have super magic stuff going on with you besides the fact that thecrystal is now taking over your entire soul and shit. So merging with the crystal made your wish come true, but at what cost? Desperate much?"
A final, wrenching roar tore from Morrick's throat asthe last remnants of his sanity snapped.
And then, in pure, uncontrollable rage—he charged.
Morrick's chains lashed out, screeching through the air with a metallic howl. Lucien didn't move. Not at first.
The first impact came like a meteor strike. The moment Morrick's chains collided with Lucien's ribs, the force detonated outward, shattering the wooden planks beneath them, sending a shockwave rippling through the Vault. The audience, those who hadn't yet fled, screamed as debris exploded into the stands.
"Ouch." Lucien chuckled.
Morrick didn't stop.
"RAGHHHHHH!"
Like a primal beast unchained, he lunged, twisted, spun, his chains whipping through the air in a lethal dance. He cleaved and hurled his attacks with monstrous speed, his grotesque form a blur of redand black rot, raw strength, and berserk madness, slashing Lucien all over thee place.
Lucien stood still.
Even as chains coiled around his throat, even as hewas lifted and hurled through a row of flaming torches, even as the ground beneath him splintered from impact after impact—he did not react. Nogrunts of pain. No gasps. No resistance.
And Morrick noticed.
"WHY AREN'T YOU SCREAMING?!" he bellowed, hisvoice cracking, desperate, enraged. His chains lashed forward again, again, again, cleaving through the wreckage of the circus like a hurricane.
Lucien let him.
Blow after devastating blow, his body was hurled, shattered, beaten. The force of each strike sent shockwaves through the air, carving deep, ragged trenches into the ruined stage. Morrick roared, his movements becoming erratic, frenzied, his attacks losing rhythm, his fury burning hotter.
"THIS WAS MY DREAM!" Morrick howled, his voice a mangled mess of anguish and madness.
"I was supposed to be the best! I was supposed to beremembered! I—"
He hesitated.
For just one second.
And in that second—Lucien moved.
He stood up…Slowly…Deliberately; Through the smoke and dust, through the ruin of the shattered circus, his red eyes gleamed, unreadable. Menacing. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, flexed his gloved fingers—completely unfazed.
Then, in a voice low, mocking, and laced with something cruel, he spoke.
"Huh. Guess you didn't hear me the first time."
Morrick's chains coiled like vipers, ready to strikeagain.
Lucien grinned.
"I don't die that easy."
Morrick snapped.
With inhuman speed, he vanished, his chainswhipping around the battlefield in a lethal spiral, aiming to carve Lucien apart from all angles. At the same time, he dashed in unpredictable bursts,shifting directions, becoming nothing more than a blur of shadow, speed, and bloodlust.
Lucien didn't flinch. And when the moment came—he caught the chains.
With one hand.
Then his fell slowly.
And the moment his face was revealed, his grin widened into something feral.
The chains ignited.
A violent surge of crimson flame erupted from Lucien's grasp, racing up the length of the metal links like a living thing. Morrick barely had time to react before the fire engulfed him—
And then—
Lucien yanked.
The chains, now superheated, twisted mid-air, then snapped forward like spears. They pierced straight through Morrick's chest, the impact splitting the air with a thunderous crack.
And Lucien laughed.
"More…more!" A low, maddened chuckle that rose into something unhinged.
With one final pull, he wrenched Morrick toward him—
And then he punched him.
The world exploded.
A shockwave of red energy detonated outward, flames bursting like a dying star, half the circus obliterated in a single, brutal impact.
And as the dust settled—
Lucien flicked his wrist.
A single playing card with a Joker on it spun between his fingers.
The fight had just begun.
Morrick lunged, a blur of monstrous speed, his chains splitting the air with violent howls. But Lucien was already moving.
With a single, effortless twist, he vaulted sideways, letting the chains cleave through empty space where his skull had been a breath earlier. Before Morrick could react, Lucien spun mid-air, his coat flaring like a black storm as his fist drove into the beast's ribs.
The impact shattered the air, rippling outward like a collapsed star. Morrick's body crumpled inward, the sheer force hurling him backward. But Lucien wasalready there. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, his movements seamless, relentless, godlike. He somersaulted forward, using the momentum to drive his heel into Morrick's shoulder, forcing themonstrosity to the ground.
But before Morrick could even process the pain, Lucien twisted again—his leg a whiplash of speed as it carved upward, smashing into Morrick's jaw, sending the beast into a full-body spinning ascent.
A heartbeat.
Lucien vanished once again like a lightning bolt.
Before gravity could even reclaim Morrick, Lucien reappeared mid-air above him, his fist already drawn back—
And then he descended.
Like a meteor from the heavens, his punch slammed down into Morrick's chest, driving him straight into the earth with a cataclysmic shockwave. The entirestage ruptured, wood and steel splintering outward in an explosion of debris. The Vault itself groaned, lanterns swinging violently, walls buckling under the force of impact.
Morrick convulsed, his form twitching, snapping,breaking—but his body refused to die. His jaws stretched wide, his throat releasing a horrific, guttural howl—but the words that followed were notof man.
"𝔅𝔢𝔥'𝔫𝔢𝔩 𝔣𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯… 𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔥'𝔞𝔩 𝔶𝔦𝔩 𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔯 𝔦𝔩 𝔣𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢!"
The words slithered through the air like rot given voice, echoing from another time, another place, another reality.
Lucien paused. His grin flickered—just a moment. Then he exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"Tch. You sound like a dying priest."
Morrick screamed.
His chains lashed outward like a swarm of serpents, spiraling in countless directions, their blackened tips seeking flesh, seeking blood, seeking vengeance.
Lucien—laughing—dodged, wove, twisted, spun.
The battlefield became a blur of metal and fire, of red and black. Morrick's monstrous arms sliced, cleaved, shattered the space where Lucien had been mere milliseconds before. Every miss came with a crushing, explosive shockwave, debris launching into the air as the circus continued to crumble around them.
Then—Lucien struck.
A single, devastating uppercut drove throughMorrick's guard, his claws missing by mere inches. The force sent the beast careening skyward, but Lucien was already ascending after him.
At impossible speed, Lucien spiraled through the air, catching Morrick mid-flight. His arms coiled around the monster's torso—
Then—a violent twist.
With a ferocious, aerial spin, Lucien drove Morrickdownward like a divine executioner, his bodyslamming into the ground with an earth-shattering crash.
Dust. Silence. Cracking flames.
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 feltfear.
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 whoannoyingly brought me back to this wretched land ofthe 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.'
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 surfacesshifting, 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 aterrifying 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 hauntingfeature.
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 gildedarmor, 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 theKing 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 imagesof 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 theothers, 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 maskof white porcelain covered his face, featurelessexcept for two slanted, slitted black eyes that seemed to shift and change whenever one blinked.
He held a curved, needle-thin rapier, its silver bladeetched 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 looked at them, saying, "Ya guys gonna kill him or what?"
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, smirked.
"You're already dead, monster."
He flicked his wrist—a simple, final command.
"Kill him."
The summoned warriors did not speak, but they moved.
The Joker spun first, its scythe carving the air, a flash of red and gold as its twin blades split the battlefield apart. The King followed, bringing his colossal sword down, a radiant arc of destruction shattering everything in its wake.
The Queen vanished, only to reappear above Morrick, her war fan slicing horizontally, unleashing a whirlwind of razor-sharp air that tore through steel and flesh alike.
And the Jack? He was everywhere and nowhere, a blur of silver and dark energy, his rapier piercing through space itself, his serrated chain wrapping around Morrick's limbs, tightening like a noose.
Morrick roared, thrashed, fought.
The blood-soaked remnants of the theater were thick with the stench of death, the flickering embers of ruined chandeliers casting grotesque shadowsagainst the grand yet ruined hall. In the center of it all lay what remained of Morrick, the so-called Performer of Atrocities, his body a mangled, unrecognizable heap. And surrounding him, looming like eldritch specters, were the four summonedhorrors—the Joker, the King, the Queen, and the Jack—each displaying their own silent, terrifying artistry in the slaughter.
The Joker was the most animated, twirling its double-bladed scythe with eerie fluidity, its mask shifting unpredictably between a manic grin and a sorrowful frown. It moved in erratic, nightmarish contortions, as if its very form was an extension of madness itself. One moment it would split reality with a flick of its scythe, warping the air around it, and the next, it would pause dramatically, tilting its massive head toward the Jack, as if expecting applause.
The Jack, ever the rogue, merely gave a slow,exaggerated shrug before flicking his rapier through the air, carving clean, effortless slashes into the corpse below. His masked face betrayed no emotion, but his posture screamed amusement—mockery, even. The serrated chain in his left hand coiled and struck like a serpent, seemingly phasing between dimensions before latching onto one of Morrick's already-severed limbs and flinging it across the hall.
The Queen was almost elegant in her brutality, her massive war fan slicing through the air with a sound like tearing silk. Each flick of her wrist sent cyclonicgales that shattered the remnants of Morrick's bones, reducing them to dust. Despite the carnage, she moved with serene poise, her white, pupil-less eyesbetraying neither wrath nor pleasure—only the cold inevitability of destruction.
And then there was the King, standing in solemnjudgment. The celestial light of its greatsword cast an ethereal glow over the ruinous battlefield. Unlike the others, it did not revel in the violence. It did not mock, nor did it play. It simply executed, striking with mechanical precision, as if bound to a duty that extended beyond understanding.
Lucien watched them, arms crossed, the ghost of a smirk on his face.
Then, the sound of shifting rubble snapped him back to the present. He turned just in time to see amassive 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 theimpact. 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. She was draped in layered black garments, intricate and laced with occult embroidery, her presence exuding a dark, magnetic elegance. A wide-brimmed hat, tattered at the edges, cast a subtle shadow over her sharp features, but nothing could hide the striking contrast of her emerald-green eyes and the pale crescentmark tattoo carved into her forehead. The wind of the battle below toyed with the green-tipped strands of her long, raven hair, making her look less like a hunter and more like a wraith waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Lucien let out a short chuckle. "You always thisdramatic, or were you really hoping I wouldn't notice you before you had a chance to stick a knife in myback?"
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."
Sella smirked. "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 Black Clerics as it takes to put you down."
Lucien shrugged, completely unbothered. "Yeah, well, I was kinda forced back into the world by someannoying-ass goddess of chaos or something. Have to kill 1,000 Purges 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. You did it on purpose?"
"Noticed you ever since I pulled the trigger."
Sella made no move to attack, only watching himwith the glint of a cat toying with a mouse. He knewher type. She'd kill him, sure. But she'd do it on her terms, when it was fun, when it mattered.
"I'll just sit back and enjoy the show, then," she said, stepping back into the shadows. "But next time, Iwon't miss my chance."
Lucien grinned, wolfish. "I'm counting on it."
As she vanished, her parting words lingered like anomen.
"You should be dead, Bloodhound. Killed by the Exarch of Ash."
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 turned back to his summons. The Joker was miming applause toward the Jack, who in turn gavean 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. TheJoker was the last to go, its mask lingering in a half-smirk, half-scowl before dissolving and also waving.
With the chaos finally settling, Lucien stepped towardMorrick's grotesque remains. He reached deep into the ruin of the corpse, his fingers closing around a black crystal, pulsing faintly with some lingering, malevolent energy.
He lifted it to eye level, the cold weight of it pressing against his palm.
Then, with a grim smirk, he crushed it in his grip,shards of black dust scattering into the air.
"1,000 Purge kills… You hear that, damn goddess?!"
His voice echoed through the ruined theater, metonly by the distant, howling wind.