The world had fallen into a dreadful stillness after the crushing defeat of Zael'tor—the chaos god whose power once promised an end to Kagetsu. His death was not just the end of a god, but the final nail in the coffin for the world's hopes. Where once people had dreamed of resistance, now only silence remained. Cities fortified themselves not out of strategy, but desperation. Kingdoms stopped warring with each other, not out of peace, but fear. The world was counting its final days.
The Adventurers' Guild, shattered by its own failures, tried to pretend it could still function. Quests were issued, meetings held, but all of it felt like pantomime. Deep down, everyone knew the truth: they were merely passing time, waiting for the next wave of annihilation.
And then… nothing happened.
Days passed. Then weeks. Then months.
Kagetsu—Joker of the Shadow Moon—was nowhere to be found. His laughter, which once echoed like a curse across battlefields, had vanished. Sightings ceased. Deaths slowed. A frail kind of hope began to bloom. Perhaps, some whispered, he had left. Perhaps his chaos had finally satisfied him. Perhaps they had been spared.
But deep in the hearts of those who knew history, those whispers rang hollow.
Because evil like Kagetsu does not disappear. It waits.
Still, the world wanted to believe. Even as expeditions were formed—bands of warriors and mages sent to hunt the Jester down—not one returned. Not even a corpse, not even a scream through magical transmission. They vanished as if they had never existed. Yet, the world clung to its false hope like a dying man clings to air.
Until her.
Her name was Isari. An adventurer, relatively unknown, a bronze-ranked speck in a sea of mightier warriors. She was not powerful, nor noble. But she was driven. Driven by vengeance, by pain, and by a curiosity that would become her undoing.
Kagetsu saw her.
Not by chance—he saw everything. From the depths of the shadows where even gods dared not peer, his cold, porcelain smile returned. His eyes, like voids that consumed reason, watched her grow.
He did not attack her. He did not kill her.
He gave her power.
No pacts. No contracts. Just a gift—like a wolf handing a child a blade. And then he waited. In silence. In darkness. In patience.
He wanted to see what she would become.
Isari woke one morning stronger. Her magic, once feeble, now pulsed with dreadful might. Her speed doubled. Her senses sharpened. She felt alive in ways that terrified her. She thought it a blessing, a miracle. She used her power to climb the Guild ranks in record time—silver, gold, platinum. Tales of her deeds began to spread.
But power given by Kagetsu is never free.
As she grew in strength, so too did her instability. Her mind began to twist. Whispers clawed at the edges of her thoughts. She began seeing things—visions of fire, of shattered cities, of laughter echoing from the sky. She ignored them. She had to. She believed she was chosen.
And she was.
But not as a hero.
Kagetsu followed her every move like a playwright admiring a tragic character in his own play. He didn't interfere. Not yet. Why would he? The story was still unfolding.
Isari continued rising.
The Guild praised her. Citizens admired her. For the first time since Kagetsu's return, the people saw a new beacon of hope.
And Kagetsu laughed.
From the shadows. From the cracks in the world. From the edge of sanity.
He waited, not for her to save the world—but for her to break it.
Because that's the thing about gifts from the abyss. They always come with a curse. And Isari's time was running out.