Rain lashed against the windows, each droplet slicing the night like a whispering blade. The storm outside had no rhythm. Just chaos booming around and echoing through the empire's steel veins.
Somewhere deep within that dark city, light flickered through the slats of a single window. Inside, a shadow leaned over a desk, trembling candlelight danced across its pale, painted face.
A jester's grin was frozen, cracked, faintly smeared with fading colors. The figure's reflection in the wet glass looked almost human.... almost.
His hand moved swiftly, pen scratching against aged paper. The sound was sharp, desperate. Each letter carved more like a wound than a word. He muttered as he wrote, uneven voice,
The leader of Acurus Tiama....
The destination to find his identity....
The place where the Soul Cylinder is....
His words bled into one another, smudging as ink met trembling fingertips. Outside, thunder groaned louder. The light flickered again, illuminating the etchings spirals, symbols carved into his wooden desk.
He stopped writing. After thinking for a moment, trembling second, the silence thickened until only the storm dared to breathe. Then he lifted his head.
A grin spread slowly across the painted broken mouth of the mask.
"Ramsis Legion.…" he whispered, almost lovingly. "....That is where it begins."
Lightning seared flashed in white. Filling the room with ghostly illumination. His reflection multiplied across the puddles on the windowpane, as though a hundred jesters laughed back at him from other worlds.
It wasn't just a laugh. It was an inhuman madness. Wild, high-pitched, maniac. It twisted with the thunder until it became one with it.
The storm outside grew in answer, as if the sky itself recoiled.
He slammed the diary shut, fingers trembling with glee. The wax seal melted instantly from the candle's heat.
"Finally," he whispered to no one, eyes wide beneath the mask. "The Soul Cylinder…. last path to my glory."
Another bolt of lightning struck somewhere close, shaking the walls. The laughter returned, stretching through the rain-drowned city like a curse.
....
Rain had stopped a few hours ago, leaving the streets of the Capital slick with reflection and humming with the aftertaste of thunder. The air still smelled of wet iron and electric pollen.
Neon of blue light pulsed along the rooftops, blending with the soft amber glow of hanging lanterns. Amid the bustle of vendors and hovering carriages, Liam Shaw, a tall man in a dark navy suit, walked with his head lowered. His eyes were tired, swollen from the weight of grief.
Behind him walked another man, Albert Newton.
The name stitched on the inside of his coat. Now, to the world, he was a private detective. To those who he remembered differently, he was a terrorist.
A man whose name had once been cursed in whispers and headlines. But now, wearing a gray trench coat and wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his face, he was reborn. His eyes, sharp and quietly burned.
They had just left the funeral. Liam's uncle, Sir Alden Shaw, had been found dead nights ago. A clean wound, almost surgical. No signs of theft. The murderer left no clue behind. What was left was the faint scent of burnt ozone near the body.
Liam spoke first as they turned down Amberline Avenue, where the city's old and new faces coexisted in uneasy harmony.
"Uncle Alden used to take me through this street," he said. "Said it was where Ramsis's heart beats. The past and the future walking side by side, delusional."
Albert looked around. He could see what the man meant. Half the avenue was lined with old wooden restaurants, painted in earthy tones, their hanging signs swaying in the wind. The smell of roasted nuts and spiced soup filled the air.
Beside them rose sleek black plazas, humming faintly with cyber circuits running along the surface like living veins. Between those two worlds grew the city's signature flora. Lunacrest trees, their transparent leaves glowing faint blue at night, and Cindervine shrubs, short and circular, producing warm light through chemical pollen.
"Nice city," Albert murmured. "Clean for a place this crowded. Balanced, too. You don't get to see that often."
Liam nodded. "It's built on the principle of coexistence. Our engineers think machines should serve nature, not replace it."
They crossed the narrow bridge over a glowing stream. Underneath, digital koi fish made of light swam in lazy patterns. It was beautiful but artificial beauty. Controlled and perfected.
Albert lit a cigar, holding it between his fingers but never smoking it. His voice was calm, steady, the voice of a man who'd seen too much and learned to keep it locked away. "You said your uncle worked for the Central Court, right?"
"Yes. He handled trade affairs. Imports, tech licensing. But lately, he was…. worried. Said the city was changing. That something big was moving behind the walls."
Albert tilted his head. "Then he ends up dead, I guess."
Liam's eyes darkened. "You think it is connected?"
"I think nothing happens without a reason," Albert replied. "And sometimes the reason hides in plain sight. You said the scene smelled like burnt ozone?"
Liam nodded.
"Could be plasma residue," Albert said, mostly to himself. "Or synthetic nerve discharge. Either way, we're not looking at a common killer."
They stopped in front of a restaurant named The "Hushed's Chart", its warm wooden walls glowing faintly from inside.
A soft melody of strings and chatter leaked out as the door opened. The two stepped in, the scent of freshly baked bread and honeyed citrus filled the air.
They took a booth near the window. Outside, the city pulsed with life. The children playing under luminescent trees, couples walking arm in arm, vendors selling tech-crystals and silk fruit.
Liam spoke again, quietly. "You've seen many things, I can bet by looking at yours exhausted face, Mr. Newton."
Albert smiled faintly beneath his hat. "Enough to know every city hides its nightmares under polished glass. Ramsis is not any different."
Liam looked out the window, rain beginning to fall again. "Let's wake the nightmare."
Albert raised his gaze, one corner of his mouth curling upward. "That's what you hired me for."
....
The rain had passed, leaving Nayga, the capital of the Ramsis Empire, glimmering like a polished jewel beneath a restless sky. Streams of silver light reflected off wet steel pavements, while glass towers stretched high, their edges veined with circuits that pulsed faintly like veins of living neon.
Albert Newton lowered his trench coat wrapped tight. Walked along the curbside where people in luminous cloaks bustled, laughing, trading, living without fear. Armored sentinels stood at every intersection, faces hidden behind masks of smooth chrome. Drones hummed overhead, painting the air with holographic signs advertising tonight's greatest attraction,
"THE GRAND CIRQUE OF ILLUSIONS ONE NIGHT ONLY."
Albert stopped under the sign. A faint memory stirred, something strange and buried. He adjusted his hat and walked.
Inside, the world shifted by dim lights, red curtains, gold ropes coiling around the massive tent's pillars. The air was thick with perfume and the scent of oil. People filled the seats, waiting for the show to begin. And then, the stage bloomed with light.
A jester or perhaps something more than one, stepped into the center. His painted face was half joy, half despair. The jester's mask shimmered like porcelain, its grin cracked just slightly at the corner. He juggled knives of light, danced on a bowls of holographic flame and bowed with mechanical tone.
The crowd laughed, clapped, cheered but Albert didn't.
He sat still, eyes fixed on the Jester. His fingers twitched slightly, his jaw tightened. Just a moment, when the lightning outside flickered through the tent. The performer's mask split with a faint ripple and beneath it, something familiar stared back.
It was a pastel paint on his face, with symbolises weal while other woe.
The same emptiness.
The same burden.
The laughter grew louder. The jester bowed deeply, his faint voice echoed through the microphone, "A smile hides everything, doesn't it?"
Albert's heartbeat slowed.
He left before the show ended.
Outside, Nayga shimmered in the drizzle. The streets gleamed like glass ribbons, alive with reflected neon. Children played beneath the transparent domes, merchants bartered flowers that glowed when touched. Everything was peaceful, structured.
Albert stood beneath a glowing street tree, the blue light of its bark pulsled faintly. His gloved hands trembled for a second before steadying.
He looked at the city towers, machines, the harmony. The illusions of colourful light notched in his mind.
And though his lips didn't move, something deep within him stirred with ache and clarity.
This place reminded him of everything he'd destroyed once and everything he'd sworn never to touch again.
The wind caught his coat. The neon caught his eyes.
Albert Newton turned and walked away but in the reflection of the puddle at his feet, face staring back wasn't his.
It was Tom Greyrat's.