Tom Greyrat, shut the laboratory door behind him as quietly as a place full of rattling glass jars and humming devices would allow. Which was not quiet at all.
"….Great," he muttered. "Haunted lab."
Alden Shaw's laboratory smelled like dust, old ink and poor ethical decisions.
Tables were layered with papers, sketches, half-dissected artifacts and labeled containers whose labels had long given up on accuracy. Tom picked one up.
"Probably safe."
He put it back down carefully. Tom rubbed his temple, "you were either a genius or trying very hard to get murdered."
Which, apparently, he had succeeded at with courtesy of a mysterious jester with a fondness for theatrics.
Tom stepped over a chalk circle that definitely wasn't decorative and began flipping through papers. His eyes sharpened despite the absurdity.
Those documents contained different species classifications, comparative spirit anatomy, artifact resonance charts.
"…. Eh, cataloged horrors like stamps," Tom murmured. "brutally respectful."
One document caught his attention.
"Yasha Family.... Nakrud Empire."
He paused for a moment reading the name of the two families.
"Emperors," he read quietly. "Of course."
Notes followed by bloodlines, rituals, something about bone crowns and inheritance through annihilation.
There was another stack.
Jayed Family, originated from Se Goulb. Diplomatic royal lineage of Shombhasa Empire.... He saw a stamped seal at the bottom,
"Diploma of the Shombhasa Empire?" Tom blinked. "Why does that sound fake and illegal at the same time? Shombhasa said to rage war with almost the whole Land. But if I remember, Se Goulb was mentioned in Carna Forest's lore too."
He flipped the page. It obviously wasn't fake.
A loose paper slid out and drifted to the floor. Tom bent to pick it up and stunned.
Dayel Kayef....
The name sat on the page like a scar.
His expressions changed quickly. Empress Ghira. The tragedy. Poor Princess Humaia....
The destruction that erased a region and rewrote history into something quieter and more convenient.
And then Acurus Tiama stepped forward to its plan of Descending of Overseers .
Tom scoffed. "Fake sect and false salvation but the problem was, real corpses."
His fingers curled slightly. Ghira had joined them after Dayel Kayef burned. Acurus Tiama always appeared after disasters, like mold pretending to be medicine.
Now, the interesting part was,
"They are after me." Tom muttered. "Of course they are."
He leaned back against the table, papers rustling. "Fifth Vessel of Artorias." he said dryly. "Sounds impressive until you realize it comes with zero benefits and constant assassination attempts."
Something behind him coughed. Tom spun around instantly, hand half-raised then stopped.
A coat rack. With a hat on it.
The hat slowly slid off and hit the floor.
Tom stared at it.
"….I am not acknowledging that." he said firmly.
Then a mechanical arm on the far wall jerked to life, slamming a bell repeatedly.
DING! DING! DING!
Tom groans and takes a notebook out. "Detective rule no.1; if the room rings a bell, then say 'Error 404, bravery not found. Emergency exit activated!' and run."
He shut it off with a slap and exhaled.
He gathered the documents, expression didn't change at all but not fully serious.
"Well," Tom said, glancing around the chaotic lab, "if a jester killed you for this mess.…"
He smirked faintly.
"….guess I am about to find out why."
Something in the shadows shifted.
Tom sighed. "I swear, if that's another horse laying eggs...."
....
Harriet Clover entered his office the way a man enters a crime scene after tripping over the chalk outline.
The door swung too hard, smacked the wall, rebounded and clipped his shoulder.
Papers fluttered. A pen rolled off the desk like it had given up on life. Harriet stared at the mess for a second, sighed, then calmly closed the door properly. This time using his foot to nudge the fallen pen back toward dignity.
"Morning," he muttered to nobody. "Or afternoon. Or whatever hour regrets happen."
He dropped into his chair and unfolded the newspaper. The headline hit harder than the anything ever could.
THREE NIGHTS AGO: THE SUN PRESENCE LANDED ON THE SURFACE — DURKAN SAVED BY A WANDERER NAMED "ELIOR JONES"
Harriet exhaled through his nose. Slowly. The Sun Presence wasn't a metaphor. It never was. When something earned that name, cities tended to vanish afterward.
Yet Durkan still stood. Saved by someone named Elior—another name to file under people who appear once and ruin the balance of things.
His eyes drifted to the smaller column beside it.
ALDEN SHAW FOUND DEAD — CASE ONGOING
No suspect or motives found yet. Just the word Jester scribbled in the margins by someone at the press who thought they were clever. Harriet didn't smile.
He hadn't seen anything strange before Liam's profile. No enemies worth sharpening a knife for. Alden Shaw had been…. dull, by dangerous standards.
The kind of man who survived because he never stood out. Which made his death more popular.
"The Jester is already here." Harriet said softly, tapping the paper. "This second it was walking. In the next he was laughing. Buying bread."
Someone wandering among them. Not hiding in shadows, not lurking on rooftops. That mysterious smile, and he was after the Shaw family.
Harriet leaned back, chair creaking in protest. He stared at the ceiling like it might confess something.
Revenge killings always carried fingerprints of the past. Old debts or humiliations. Old ideals barked until they cut through someone.
What kind of person were you before you put on the mask? he wondered.
A failed idealist? A discarded believer? Someone who once stood beside the Shaws and decided they weren't worth saving?
He folded the paper and set it aside, suddenly careful with it, as if it might explode.
"The worst thing" Harriet concluded aloud, standing. "is that he is who thinks he is already right."
He grabbed his coat, nearly missed the sleeve, corrected himself, then paused at the door.
The paper shouldn't have mattered.
It was small, torn unevenly, tucked behind a loose plank in Alden Shaw's home like a thought he had tried and failed to forget.
Yet the moment it unfolded between Harriet's fingers, the room seemed to contract around it.
There was location indicated in the paper,
Donlon Harbour....
Just the location, written twice, as if repetition could anchor fear into certainty.
Harriet felt the click in his head. The sound detectives learned to fear. When unrelated fragments suddenly aligned.
A memory surfaced uninvited, what Ben had told them back then.
It was a party. Days ago before Uncle Alden's death. Workers spread laughter careless, drinks spilling like the world had never known consequences.
Someone had laughed then. Yes, laughed too hard and an unfamiliar voice had stunned everyone. It was an announcement on mic.
Ben Shaw, you are guilty for certain reasons.
The room had frozen, unsure if it was a joke or a performance. Someone had snorted. Someone else had clapped. Then the voice continued to hear his accusations.
"You had killed two innocent generations. A whole orphanage. To stall your oil factory. Estimated location, North Werpol, an abandoned area."
It was an embarrassed for Ben. Someone called it tasteless humor. A bad joke. No one knew who had spoken. No one had seen a face in the security room.
Harriet's expressions deepened.
North Werpol. Oil. Orphanage. Ben Shaw.
The words on the wall came next, slamming into his thoughts like a wave breaking bone.
Carved in Alden Shaw's apartment wall. Blood was still dark in the grooves when cops reached. It was like a rhyme made for a jigsaw.
Drowning, drowning, burning star.
Ending up all energy wasting on up,
High above I want to shine,
Another died in the weather and tide.
At the time, it had seemed like madness. Poetic cruelty. Something was off about it.
Now it read like a map. Drowning. Harbour. Tide. Burning star. Weather. Waiting.
Harriet stood still in the middle of the room, breathing shallowly, letting the pieces settle where they demanded to be. Alden. The paper. The announcement. The poem.
Donlon Harbour....
Ben was traveling by sail. His guts spiked in realization.
"No." he whispered, already knowing better.
This wasn't any random. This wasn't revenge into the dark. Everything is staged!
The Jester didn't stab blindly—he prepared. He let his victims walk toward the knife.
A glance at the clock told him noon had already passed.
The air felt wrong. Pressurized. Like the moment before a storm broke the sky open.
Then his phone vibrated, once.
The screen lit up against his palm.
Incoming Call.
The name stared back at him, heavy as a verdict. The name was saved in his contact as,
"Lil Dummy"
However, this wasn't a time to throw sarcasms.
His thoughts raced faster than his body could follow. Harbour routes, tide schedules, guards Liam promised, the possibility that the call itself was bait.
A voice on the other end. If he picked up, he might hear the end. If he didn't— the phone vibrated again!?
Harriet closed his eyes calming himself, gripping it so hard his knuckles whitened.
Don't pick the call, instinct came off.
Think. Think. Think.
The vibration stopped. Silence flooded the room, deeper than before.
Harriet opened his eyes and now, he was certain of one thing.
Ben Shaw was already standing on the edge of something that did not intend to let him leave.
He needs to go, right now!