Chapter 3:

2

Jester!



The cold bit sharper than usual tonight, brushing the skin like tiny needles of ice. A seventeen-year-old boy stood quietly at the edge of a skyscraper in District D—one of ShinToshi’s more industrial zones. The city below buzzed with a mechanical heartbeat—neon signs flickered, stray drones hummed past, and muted sirens added their own rhythm to the midnight air. His dark jeans clung to his frame, and the wind tugged gently at his branded Adidas tee, the fabric fluttering like a flag of detachment. A breeze tousled his short, messy hair, but he didn't flinch. His hands were deep in his pockets, and he stood as if rooted—an observer carved in stone.


The boy leaned forward slightly, eyes locked onto the chaos unfolding several stories below. Two groups clashed in the middle of an abandoned square bathed in the sickly glow of streetlamps. One group had a street-military aesthetic: tactical gear, dark cloaks, and sleek, arcane-forged weapons that glinted with energy pulses—magic-infused guns, blades humming with elemental charges. The other group was more stranger. Their masks caught the light like shards of broken mirrors, painted with manic grins and theatrical flair. Their outfits were just as chaotic—jagged silhouettes, mismatched fabrics, asymmetrical designs. Circus-born anarchists at war.


The fight wasn’t a subtle one. It was loud, messy, cinematic. Explosions lit up the square like fireworks. A masked fighter leaped through the air, spinning mid-flip, hurling bolts of fire at two gunmen. Another ducked a blast, spun low, and sent a wave of sound that shattered a nearby car’s windows. For a while, the masked ones held the upper hand—fluid, agile, creative. But then something changed. A presence entered the battlefield. He didn’t even need to announce himself. Even the boy on the rooftop felt it—a weight in the air, like pressure before a storm. A tall man, draped in a long coat of obsidian thread, stepped out from the shadows of the first group.


In an instant, the battle flipped. Magic crackled and collapsed under his will. One masked fighter lunged—too slow. The man sidestepped effortlessly and landed a single punch to the gut that sent his attacker flying across the plaza. Another tried to flank him, only to be met with a blinding flash of kinetic energy, disintegrating their weapon and sending them sprawling. Bodies began to fall. Not dead, maybe—but broken, silenced, done. The masked group faltered. Their improvisation couldn’t match the man’s precision. Within seconds, only a few of them remained. Bloodied, bruised, cornered like beasts in a cage. The strongest among them stood protectively in front of the others, arms wide like wings before the storm.


And the storm walked slowly, boots echoing in the silence he created. He didn’t raise his hand again. He didn’t need to. Death was already in the air.


The boy on the skyscraper exhaled......


Then, he turned around, facing the city skyline that glittered like spilled jewels across the horizon. The wind danced again—soft, curious, like it too was waiting for something...........


“Will I feel it this time?” he asked no one, voice low, almost curious. His face remained still.


And then, without hesitation, he leaned backward, arms relaxed, like someone surrendering to a warm bed. The skyscraper’s edge slipped past his shoulders. Gravity accepted him without resistance.


He fell.


Air whipped around him like knives. But he didn’t scream. He didn’t even blink. A calmness hugged his limbs as the ground grew closer. Then, just before impact, something shifted. His right hand, previously empty, now held a mask.


He twisted mid-air with the grace of a dancer and slid the mask over his face.


Confetti burst from nowhere.


Smoke spiraled like a ribbon around him.


His clothes transformed in an instant. The Adidas tee vanished into threads. A tailored burgundy coat bloomed across his back, the edges cut high and sharp like wings. A dark, harlequin-patterned vest hugged his chest, crisscrossed with golden seams. Fingerless gloves snapped over his hands. Black boots shimmered onto his feet, polished, silent, dangerous. A theatrical warrior reborn.


“Hahahaha! Freedom!” he roared mid-fall, the laugh alien in its joy. It didn’t belong to the boy who stood in silence moments ago. It was the voice of someone else.


With a thunderous thud and a whirl of smoke, he landed in the heart of the battlefield.

spicarie
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Nernakai
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