A journey of war 2

 
The air crackled.
Not with fire or magic—but with laughter.
It echoed through the lifeless woods of a newborn territory. A crooked land stitched together by chaos and whimsy—red curtains strung from broken trees, a clock tower ticking in reverse, and a puppet stage built on corpses.
At the center of it all was Jack of No Trade—perched atop a twisted throne of bones, swinging his legs and humming a tune only he seemed to know.
Then silence.
The trees bowed.
He arrived.
Hell’s Hidden Warrior.
Tall. Still. A walking furnace of quiet destruction.
Jack looked up with his signature grin, void eyes gleaming behind the mask.
“Oh! A visitor! And here I thought only the dead would drop by for tea,” he giggled.
The Warrior said nothing.
But he walked forward, dragging his decaying hand through the grass until it sizzled into ash.
Jack tilted his head.
“No invitation? No flowers? You really are all business, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Blazing.”
The Warrior raised his spear.
Jack stood, his laughter thinning.
The air shifted.
They clashed.
Fast. Sudden. Devastating.
Jack danced between the Warrior’s strikes, his scythe trailing afterimages that never bled. The Warrior countered with precise, brutal thrusts—each one meant to end the dance. The ground cracked. Trees exploded. The stage burned.
But Jack—he laughed the whole time.
“You’re fun!” he cheered mid-flip. “But I feel like I’ve danced this number before…”
The Warrior’s flames flared, then dimmed.
He stopped.
Mid-strike.
Eyes narrowed behind the blue blaze.
“You’re holding back.”
Jack froze.
“...Eh?”
“You fight like a jester. But your rhythm is trained. Purposeful. Familiar.”
Jack didn’t answer.
He lowered his scythe.
The grin on his mask didn’t change—but something behind it shifted. Tense.
“Familiar, huh? You sure you’re not mistaking me for one of your war ghosts?”
The Warrior’s spear touched the ground.
“No. You remind me of someone... broken.”
Jack tilted his head.
And in that moment, a breeze carried a whisper:
“...strings.”
The Warrior’s decaying hand clenched.
“Who taught you to fight like that?”
Silence.
Then—
“Wouldn’t you like to know…” Jack muttered, voice quieter. “But hey, if you ever see a girl with threads for fingers and knives for lullabies… tell her Jack says hi.”
He vanished.
Gone in laughter and smoke.
And the Warrior—stood alone, surrounded by a half-burnt stage and echoes of a truth he didn’t yet understand.