Ravan felt that stare like a cold weight on his skin.
The clown's gaze wasn't sharp or soft, it was the kind of look that made you feel like your soul was being measured grain by grain.
Ravan tried to read him, tried to sense even a hint of his intention, but the man behind the mask stayed a blank page.
After a moment of silence, Ravan spoke again, voice firm and dripping with arrogance.
"Clown… are you going to take part in the war?"
He said it like he was asking whether someone wanted tea. As if it made no difference.
As if the fate of the coming battle didn't hinge on this very man.
They already had two early-stage grandmasters and one mid-stage.
In Ravan's eyes, they no longer needed the clown.
The clown didn't answer. He stood there, loose and lazy, but inside he was laughing.
Not the wild laughter he showed earlier, this was the silent kind, the type that never reached the mouth.
