Thee village of joy

Long before the mask, the scythe, and the legend…There was a boy named Jack.
He lived in a quiet village tucked between two mountains where clouds always clung low to the trees. It was a small place, nothing grand—just wooden homes, lanterns made of paper, and laughter that echoed across the valley.
Jack was the village fool—but not in a cruel way. He was the kind of fool who danced through muddy roads just to make someone smile. The kind who carved dolls from scrap wood and left them on windowsills, never claiming credit. He juggled apples, made faces at goats, and once tried to juggle goats—which went exactly as you'd expect.
The villagers loved him.
Especially Lysa, the baker’s daughter.
She used to call him “Jack of All Joys.”He used to call her “Sweetbread,” because of the way she laughed when she baked.
He didn’t have much—no weapon, no trade, no wealth.But he had love.
And in that village, that was more than enough.
But the kingdom had plans.
A war was brewing, and their scouts passed through the valley often.They didn’t need the village.They didn’t need Jack.
They needed the mountains.
And so, one cold morning, the sun rose to the sound of hooves.
The soldiers didn’t shout.They didn’t warn.
They came with fire.They came with steel.
Homes burned faster than screams could rise.People ran—some toward the woods, others into the flames searching for loved ones.
Jack?He ran toward the bakery.
He found Lysa beneath the rubble, her body crushed beneath a smoking beam, still warm.
She was reaching for her dolls.The ones he carved.
He stayed with her until the flames took the air from his lungs.
But Jack didn’t die.
Not fully.
His body burned, yes.But his spirit twisted.
Some say his soul cracked when he felt her last breath.Others believe he made a deal with something ancient and cruel that day.But none of them know what truly happened in the ash.
All they know is what came next.
A month later, a patrol vanished near the ruins.
When they were found, they were hanging upside down like puppets, their mouths stitched shut with twine.
In the ashes of the bakery, someone found a single card stuck into the stone.
It showed a masked jester, smiling wide, balancing on a pile of skulls.
On the back, one line:
“A laugh for a laugh. A flame for a flame.”
And beneath it, smeared in soot:
Jack.
From that day on, he was no longer the village fool.
He was something else.A shadow with a grin.A joke too cruel for mortals.The laughter that follows guilt.
And the world would never forget him.