Game of chaos 2

By now, kingdoms whispered his name like a curse.
They called him a spirit.A demon.A shadow in jest.
But Jack was no ghost. He was very real—just always one step ahead.
His next “game” began at a traveling caravan near the northern cliffs. Merchants. Guards. Performers. A moving city of voices.
He walked in wearing bells on his ankles and a wide-brimmed hat, humming a tune no one remembered but everyone feared.
A child pointed. “He’s funny!”
A second later, her balloon popped on its own.
No one laughed.
Jack strolled through the tents, leaving riddles carved into wood and smoke shapes in the air.
One guard tried to follow him.
That guard was later found walking in circles, laughing, weeping, unable to stop repeating:
“Knock, knock.Who’s there?Nobody.Nobody who?”
Again. And again. And again.
At the fire that night, the caravan gathered in silence.
Until Jack sat down beside them like an old friend.
He didn't attack. Not yet.
He told a story.
About a boy who trusted a kingdom.And a kingdom that burned his home.About betrayal dressed in gold, and justice dressed in rags.
Then he stood up and smiled.
“And now, I give you... a choice.”
He drew two cards from his coat—one red, one black.
“Pick one. If you live, you run. If you die... well, better luck next time.”
The leader of the caravan hesitated.
Then reached.
Black.
Jack clapped.
“Bravo!”
Then stabbed the man in the chest—not with a scythe, but with a joker card, sharp as glass.
The rest ran. Jack didn’t chase.
He sat by the fire, tossing cards into the flames, humming the lullaby again.
Behind him, the words “Better luck next time” burned into the ground in glowing letters.
No one knew where he’d go next.He never stayed. Never slept.Just smiled.
And hunted.