The Clown and The Fool

I have no idea how long I’ve been here. Hours? Days? Weeks? Time doesn’t exist in the dark. There’s just pain. Pain and his goddamn laughter.

I tried to keep count at first, tried to focus on something, anything, but eventually, the agony drowns it all out. My mind’s slipping, unraveling like a thread yanked too hard. I don’t even know if I’m still me anymore. Lestor makes sure of that.

The bastard keeps me chained up, arms twisted behind my back, ankles locked so tight they feel like they’re on fire. Half the time, my eyes are blindfolded, but honestly? Doesn’t matter. Nothing worth seeing here. No food. No water. They know exactly what they’re doing—keeping me just starved enough so my fluxicle production slows to a crawl. My mana’s barely trickling, my body struggling to regenerate, and that means every cut lasts longer, every bruise lingers, every wound festers. It’s all part of the plan.

At first, he takes his time. Fingernails peeled off, one by one, the slow kind of cruelty that makes you beg for anything else. Then the blade comes out, carving into my chest, fire licking up raw nerves as he carves a big, ugly X into my skin like I’m some kind of property.

And then? Then the real fun starts for him.

My toes. He doesn’t just cut them off. That’d be too easy. He rips them out. One by one. I don’t know what he’s using—pliers? A knife? His bare hands? Does it even matter? All that matters is the sickening pop, the way my body jerks no matter how much I fight it. The way my stomach turns, the way my vision swims from the pain, like my body’s trying to shut down just to escape it. But it won’t. I’m still here.

And the worst part? I wanted this.

Not the torture. Not the suffering. But this world. This life. I spent my first life rotting away in my own apathy, dreaming of adventure, of something more, something bigger. I had chances—chances to change things, to be better. If I had just tried harder, if I had just given a damn, maybe I could’ve climbed the career ladder. Made friends. Found someone. Built a life worth living. But I didn’t. I wasted it. And now, in my second life, I’m wasting away again.

The irony isn’t lost on me. I wanted magic, adventure, a story worth telling. And now? I’d give anything—anything—just to make it stop. To escape. To be free. Even if it means becoming something else entirely.

***

It was late at night, and I was just sitting there in my room, swallowed up by darkness. The only light came from my computer screen, casting this eerie glow over the mess on my desk—empty cups of instant ramen, crumpled snack wrappers, the usual. Cooking? Nah, never bothered. Easier to grab junk food from the store and call it a meal.

Then my phone rang. The sudden buzz startled me, echoing through the silence. I glanced over. Who the hell would be calling me this late?

I swiped the screen and pressed it to my ear. "Hello?" My voice came out rough, scratchy—no surprise there, I barely used it.

"_______?" The voice on the other end was bright, full of energy, practically radiating enthusiasm when he said my name. "We’re out drinking with the company staff! Come on, man! It’s been months!"

That voice… Who was that again?

Oh. Right. A colleague from work. One of those outgoing, friendly types who made a point of including everyone in their plans. The kind of guy who thrived in a crowd, who made friends easily. The exact opposite of me.

"I'm not going," I said, then hung up.

A lot of people thought I was rude, cold, maybe even arrogant. And honestly? Maybe I was. But I didn’t care. I saw no point in fake smiles, forced small talk, or pretending to enjoy company I had zero interest in. People were unreliable. Liars. Self-serving.

I trusted one person: myself. That was it.

So I stayed in my room. I wasn’t a full-blown shut-in, but I sure as hell wasn’t going out of my way to interact with people. Even online games were a hassle—I hated having to talk to other players. If I could play solo, I would. Always.

I was a ghost. Invisible. Nonexistent in other people’s lives.

Despite that, there were still people who cared about me. Especially my mom. "You can’t live your life shutting everyone out," she used to say.

Well, turns out she was wrong, wasn’t she? Because I did. I shut everyone out until time caught up with me, and I had no one left.

But the truth? It wasn’t the world that abandoned me—I did that to myself. My own arrogance, my own stubbornness, my own refusal to let anyone in. And yet, deep down, I always wanted something real. Something genuine.

Maybe that’s why I let myself believe in those peaceful moments at the mansion. Because, for the first time, I felt like I was loved. Not a fake, polite kind of love, but something real. And I clung to that lie like a dying man gasping for air.

***

A creak.

Faint, but enough to rip me back from the void.

The wooden door groans open, the sound dragging me up from the suffocating dark. And with it—slow, deliberate footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried.

Lestor.

He’s back. Back to keep playing his sick, twisted little game.

"Hm?" His voice drips with amusement. "Still breathing, are we?"

I don’t respond.

I can’t.

Pain is everything now. It’s my air, my blood, my whole fucking world. My own name barely feels real anymore.

He circles me, his boots scraping against the cold stone, slow and methodical, like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s studying me, enjoying the sight of me falling apart.

"You know," he muses, stopping just inches away, too close, "you’re not normal, are you?"

His breath is warm against my skin, sickening.

"Any other human would’ve died by now. Infection, blood loss, shock… But you?" A chuckle, low and cruel. "You’re still here. Suffering."

I barely register his words. My body is drowning in agony.

The chains bite into my wrists, cold and unrelenting. My fingers throb where my nails used to be, a sharp, pulsing pain with every heartbeat. The X-shaped wound carved across my chest burns like fire, raw and open. And my feet—or what’s left of them—

I feel it.

Warm, sticky blood pooling beneath me. The horrible absence where my toes used to be. The jagged, nerve-searing pain from every cut, every piece of me that’s been stolen away.

Time means nothing anymore. Minutes, hours, days—it all blurs together.

Lestor sighs, feigning disappointment. "Well, I must admit, it’s been delightful taking you apart piece by piece…" He trails off, then his tone brightens, too cheerful, too cruel.

"…But everything comes to an end, doesn’t it?"

A metallic scrape. Iron against iron.

Sharpening.

My stomach turns to ice.

No.

No, no, no—

Every nerve in my body screams at me to move, to fight, to run. I try to summon a spell, even a flicker, a spark—

Nothing.

My blindfold is soaked with sweat, clinging to my face. My breath turns ragged, chest rising and falling too fast. My fingers twitch uselessly behind my back.

And then—

Agony.

A hot, searing pain explodes through me as steel cuts deep—

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!"

The sound that tears from my throat doesn’t even sound human.

Heat. Wetness. Too much. Too fast.

A sickening, gut-wrenching sensation—

Flesh ripping apart. Bone snapping. Something wet and wrong hitting the floor with a heavy splatter.

My left foot.

Gone.

Fucking gone.

The pain is unbearable. Like molten iron poured through my veins, like something is chewing me up from the inside out, shredding every nerve, every fiber of my being.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t think.

The world tilts, spinning wildly, drowning me in a sea of sweat, blood, and agony.

The blackness swallows me whole.

***

When I come to, the first thing I notice is the nothingness.

Not the dark, cold void of unconsciousness—no, this is different. This is some real "cosmic horror, drifting-in-the-abyss" type of nothingness. There’s no weight, no sound, no warmth, no sense of up or down. Just me, floating in the void like a speck of dust in an empty universe.

Then, suddenly, the nothingness decides it’s done being nothing.

A sky materializes above me—pitch black, littered with stars. A wooden table snaps into existence in front of me, along with two chairs. I’m already sitting in one.

And across from me?

Oh, fantastic.

A clown. Or something pretending to be one.

He’s wearing a classic jester’s outfit, all red and black, his stupid little hat tipped forward just enough that the golden bells don’t jingle. And his face? A white theater mask, carved into the widest, most unsettling grin I’ve ever seen. But the real kicker? There’s nothing behind it. No flesh, no eyes, just an endless, yawning void.

Great. Just what I needed. A cryptic nightmare dressed like a circus act.

The silence stretches, the void pressing in from all sides, before the thing finally leans forward, resting its elbows on the table. When it speaks, its voice is light, playful, but there’s something else lurking underneath—something slippery, unreadable.

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Castiel… or should I say, Ozymandias?”

I don’t even flinch. I just cross my arms and glare. “You gonna tell me where the hell I am, or are we gonna sit here making awkward eye contact all night?”

Jester chuckles, shoulders shaking like I just told the funniest joke in the world. “Ohhh, I like you already. So direct, so feisty.” He waves a gloved hand vaguely at the void. “Fine, fine. You’re in a little in-between space, a back alley of the universe, if you will. But let’s not dwell on meaningless details. Let’s talk about you.”

“Pass.”

Another laugh. He sounds delighted. “Oh, but you don’t get a choice, my dear Castiel.”

I glance around at the endless nothingness. Yeah. He’s got me there.

“…Fine.” I exhale. “A moment ago, I was dying. Am I dead?”

Jester tilts his head like an owl, voice turning mockingly thoughtful. “Mmm… Dead? Not quite. Alive? Ehh, also not quite.” He props his chin on his hand. “Let’s just say you’re in a bit of a… transitional phase.”

Fantastic. Just what I needed. A metaphysical crisis on top of everything else.

“Alright,” I say slowly, rubbing my temples. “Then let’s cut to the chase. What the hell are you?”

Jester gasps, placing a hand over his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him. “Ohhh, humans. Always so obsessed with labels. Good, evil, demon, angel—why must you people always put everything into neat little boxes?” His mask tilts slightly. “I am neither, dear Castiel. I simply am.”

Ah, great. He’s one of those. A "mysterious entity" that refuses to give straight answers. My favorite.

I sigh. “Fine. Then how do you know my name?”

He giggles. “Oh, Castiel. I know everything about you.”

My blood turns to ice.

“You’re a reincarnate,” he continues, tapping a gloved finger against the table. “A man from another world, shoved into this one with lingering memories. A man who thinks himself oh-so-clever, yet contradicts himself at every turn.”

My hands curl into fists against my thighs. “How? Was it you who reincarnated me into this world?”

Jester waves a hand. “Knowing is easy. Understanding? That’s the real challenge.” He leans in, his mask inches from my face. “Tell me, Castiel… do you understand yourself?”

I grit my teeth. “I swear to god, if you don’t start making sense—”

“Oh, I’m making perfect sense,” he cuts in cheerfully. “You’re just slow on the uptake.”

I’m about two seconds away from flipping this table.

Jester hums. “Alright, alright. I’ll throw you a bone. You asked if I reincarnated you?” He shakes his head. “No one reincarnated you, Castiel. At least… not intentionally.”

Something sharp twists in my gut. “What do you mean?”

His fingers drum against the table in a slow, rhythmic beat. “Souls aren’t disposable. They’re renewable. When someone dies, their soul is taken beyond the universe to the Afterlife, where their memories are slowly wiped before they’re reborn with a fresh start.”

He leans forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “But you—” He taps my chest lightly with a single gloved finger. “Your purification process was interrupted. The Valadon Gate snatched you away before you were scrubbed clean and shoved you into the body of a newborn.”

The Valadon Gate.

My mind reels. That massive stone door I saw before I was reborn…

So I was right. Something went wrong. I wasn’t supposed to keep my memories.

Jester watches me, waiting, and when I don’t speak, he laughs. “Ahhh, I love that expression. That moment when a person realizes they were never in control to begin with.”

I force my thoughts back on track. “You said I was dying. Then what’s keeping me alive?”

Jester giggles. “Ohhh, you’re gonna love this one.” He leans in conspiratorially. “The creature born from Grilda Sylvaine protected you. Again.”

A cold chill runs down my spine. “That’s impossible. I killed it. Burned the entire mansion to the ground.”

Jester claps his hands together. “Ohhh, you sweet summer child. You really don’t get it, do you?” His voice dips, turning almost gentle. “A mother’s love can overcome even death.”

I go rigid.

Jester watches me with something close to pity. “You raised her, Castiel. Not just some puppet. Not just some mindless corpse.”

He taps the table.

“She has a soul.”

My breath catches.

Jester hums. “Such a waste, isn’t it? You spent your past life ignoring a mother’s love.” His mask tilts slightly. “And now, you’re wasting another one.”

I grip the table, my mind spiraling.

Jester sighs, stretching. “Welp, since you’re here, let’s have some fun.” He snaps his fingers, and a chessboard appears. “Beat me, and I’ll give you advice.”

I stare. “And if I lose?”

He grins. “Then you go back empty-handed.”

I exhale. “Fine.”

I frown, staring at the chessboard. A game of strategy, of patience. I’ve played before, back in my past life. I wasn’t an expert—far from it—but I knew how the game worked. Still, something bothers me.

“You can see the future,” I say slowly. “And you can read my thoughts.” My gaze sharpens. “What guarantees me that you won’t cheat? That you won’t see my moves before I make them?”

Jester gasps, placing a gloved hand over his chest like I’ve offended him. “Ohhh, you wound me, Castiel! What kind of vile trickster do you take me for?”

I glare.

Jester snickers. “Alright, alright. Sure, I represent the chaos of humanity, but I’m not a cheater.” He places a hand over where his heart would be—if he had one. “I assure you, I won’t use any interference other than my own magnificent, boundless, extraordinary brain.”

He taps his temple. “Not that I have one to begin with.”

I exhale through my nose. “Fine.”

Jester grins. “White or black?”

“Black.”

Jester’s mask tilts slightly. “Ohhh. Choosing to play second? How interesting…” He shrugs. “Alright then, I’ll begin.”

And so the game starts.

Jester moves with a flourish, always grinning, always humming. He plays aggressively, pushing his pieces forward with confidence.

I, on the other hand, am a mess.

I don’t play with deep strategy. I don’t think ten moves ahead like a master would. Instead, I move randomly, making plays that don’t make sense, disrupting any pattern Jester might be trying to predict.

It makes him hesitate.

“What in the—” Jester stops mid-move, staring at the board. “That… shouldn’t have worked.”

I smirk under my breath.

That’s right. You can read the minds of geniuses, of masters of strategy—but what happens when your opponent is an idiot who barely knows what he’s doing?

The game drags on, tension building.

Jester starts fidgeting, his fingers tapping on the table as he studies the board. His confidence is still there, but now there’s annoyance.

He hates randomness when it’s not his own.

The board thins out, piece by piece falling. His bishops are gone. His knights are gone. I lost my rooks early on, but that doesn’t matter.

Because now, I see it.

A single path forward.

I move my queen across the board.

Jester stops.

I grin. “Check.”

His masked face tilts slightly, his gloved fingers twitching above his remaining pieces. For the first time, he takes longer than usual to move.

He plays his next move carefully, trying to escape.

But I already see how this ends.

Two moves later, I slide my bishop forward.

“Checkmate.”

Jester stares at the board. Then, slowly, lazily, he leans back in his chair.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—

Jester bursts into laughter.

“OHHH, YOU CLEVER LITTLE BASTARD! I CAN’T EVEN BE MAD!” He claps his hands together, shaking his head. “No strategy, no plan, no genius-level thinking—just pure nonsense.” He points a gloved finger at me. “And that’s what threw me off! That’s why you won! Ohh, bravo.”

I let out a slow breath, my hands still resting on the edge of the table. My heart is still hammering in my chest.

Jester exhales dramatically, wiping away imaginary sweat. “Whew! I haven’t had that much fun in ages.”

His mask tilts downward.

“Well then, Castiel. A deal’s a deal.”

His voice loses its playfulness.

“Listen closely.”

He leans forward, resting his chin on his palm.

“The moment you wake up, grab your things, cross the dark forest again and go east from Cradena to the kingdom of Vandal, there you should look for a slave dealer and buy an elf girl.”

I stare at him, my mind whirling.

Before I can respond—

He snaps his fingers.

The void shatters around me.

And I wake up.