In a cavern where sunlight barely managed to pierce the gloom, hooded figures stood in rigid formation.
No murmurs rose, no whispers stirred, only the faint rustle of air echoed against the stone walls.
Though their gazes seemed fixed upon the void before them, they were not staring at empty air.
Their eyes were locked on a figure cloaked in black, a hood drawn low. He stood with his back to them, silent, yet commanding all their attention.
Hahahaha!
Out of nowhere, the man burst into laughter, wild, broken laughter that echoed through the cavern like the cackling of a madman.
Hahahaha… hahahahahaha!
He never once turned to face them, his body trembling with the force of his mirth.
The hooded figures did not flinch. To them, this was nothing out of the ordinary.
After what felt like an eternity of manic laughter, the man suddenly threw his hands into the air and screamed—a raw, guttural wail, the kind of cry one makes when a blade is driven deep into the flesh.
Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!
Yet still, not a single figure stirred.
His scream broke into sobs. He clutched at his chest, weeping like a child, his body wracked with despair.
Even then, the figures remained motionless, as though carved from stone.
Then, with no warning, he turned his grief into violence. His fists slammed against the cavern wall. Thum. Thum. Thum.
The blows grew harder, more frenzied, until blood smeared across the stone and strips of flesh peeled from his knuckles. Still, he did not stop.
When his hands were nothing but mangled flesh and shattered bone, he finally stopped.
Yet in the same instant, before the blood could even drip to the ground, the wounds began to mend.
Torn skin stitched itself together, muscles wove back into place, and in moments his hands were whole again, untouched, as if the destruction had never happened.
At last, his trembling form bent low. From the ground, he picked up a mask lying face-down, its design hidden from the gathering.
He lingered for a moment, fingers brushing its surface, before sliding it over his face.
Only then did he turn to face the assembly.
It was not the visage of a prophet, nor a king, nor a monster of shadow, but the painted smile of a clown.
A mask of mockery, with wide hollow eyes and a grin that stretched too far.
Strands of hair, matted and knotted from years without care, spilled around it like a tangle of weeds.
From behind that grotesque mask, a smile still glimmered—his own—curling through the cracks of painted joy.
The masked man lowered himself onto the bare ground, sitting cross-legged in a disturbingly casual manner.
From behind the painted grin of the clown's mask, his gaze swept across the chamber, weighing every hooded figure in silence.
"So," he asked at last, his voice cutting through the still air, "what's the situation?"
One of the figures stepped forward, head bowed. Dropping to one knee, he pressed his fist against the cold stone floor in reverence.
"Reporting to the Clown," he intoned. "We have infiltrated all the places you commanded. The networks are spreading as planned, and we have already begun gathering both information… and pawns."
He gave a slow, deliberate nod, lips parting as if the question had been waiting in his throat. "And the pawn we sent into Akron?" he asked.
The kneeling man did not raise his head. His voice was flat, practiced. "He's following the plan. Everything is in place. Once the signal goes, the operation will begin."
The Clown said nothing at first. He looked up at the cavern ceiling, as if measuring the distance between their world and something older.
A single, bloody tear tracked down beneath the rim of the mask. He made no move to wipe it away.
Finally he spoke, each word a blade. "Do not draw attention. If he is compromised—discard him immediately." He spat the last word like a verdict, his tone colder than the stone around them.
The kneeling man replied in the same flat cadence. "Yes."
"And the plan to remove potential obstacles?" the Clown asked.
"We're watching them. Taking care of what's necessary," the kneeler answered, voice even as stone.
The Clown inclined his head once, slow and satisfied. "Good. Our duty is to smooth the path. Make certain there are no mistakes—no loose ends—until our objective is complete."
A hush settled again, the cavern breathing around them.
The masks and hoods remained unmoving, as if the world beyond the chamber had already been folded into their design.
"Yes, my lord. There won't be any mistakes," the kneeling man assured.
The Clown gave a small nod. "Yes. And… hm?" He stopped mid-sentence, a low hum rumbling in his throat as his masked head turned ever so slightly, gaze settling on a particular spot among the gathered figures.
"My, my…" His voice was almost playful, laced with amusement. "It seems we have an uninvited rat in our midst."
The words fell like stones in water. Yet none of the hooded figures stirred, not the kneeling man, nor the ranks around him. Their silence was absolute.
Except for one.
Among them, a single man froze.
Sweat drenched his back, icy against his skin. His eyes lifted unwillingly, locking with the hollow, painted gaze of the clown's mask.
His breath caught in his throat.
The Clown's smirk deepened, unseen but felt, as the cavern seemed to close in around the intruder.
The Clown rose to his feet, the scrape of his movements echoing faintly through the chamber.
Step by step, he began to walk toward the trembling figure.
Seeing the Clown stride toward him, he knew escape was impossible. His fist clenched until his knuckles ached.
When he'd slipped into this cavern, he'd assumed the others were merely quiet—he hadn't realized they were statues, bound to obey and never to feel.
Now that the Clown's gaze had settled on him, there was no hope as he couldn't even guess how powerful this Clown guy was.
Only grandmasters could hide their martial prowess, so it was certain that this Clown was someone who was at the door of grandmaster if not a grandmaster.
So he made his choice.
"If I'm going to die," he rasped, voice raw with defiance, "I'll drag you down with me."
The clown continued to walk towards him but before he could reach the rat—
Boom!
A blinding flash ripped through the cavern, the intruder choosing death over whatever fate awaited him.
The explosion tore through the ranks, and at least ten hooded figures were swallowed in the blast, their bodies crumbling to ash and flame.
When the smoke cleared, the cavern floor was scorched, stone cracked and broken.
Yet the Clown still walked.
The clown stood within the blast's range, his skin charred, his arms reduced to nothing but ash.
Yet what truly defied belief was the gaping void where his stomach should have been.
Despite that, his mask remained untouched, as if mocking the destruction around him.
But the clown didn't stop walking. His flesh began to regenerate in a grotesque, unnatural manner.
If one looked closely, they could see bones knitting together, nerves slithering back into place, and torn muscles reweaving themselves beneath his scorched skin.
In the blink of an eye his body had regenerated as if he wasn't even injured in the first place.
The painted grin seemed wider now, as if mocking both the dead and the living.
When the Clown reached the scorched ground where the intruder had perished, he stretched out his hand.
The painted grin seemed almost alive as he muttered with an amused smirk, "What a naive little rat you are…"
His fingers curled into a fist. "Did you really think you could escape me… simply by dying?"
The air shuddered.
From the broken stone beneath, something was dragged upward—struggling, writhing.
A faintly human silhouette emerged, its body translucent, wavering like smoke.
SCREEEEEEECH!
The cavern shook with the shriek, an ear-splitting wail as the soul itself was ripped from its resting place.
Its form twisted unnaturally, as though its very existence were being shredded in the Clown's grasp.
The hooded figures remained still. None moved, none spoke. Only the Clown's laughter mingled with the soul's torment, echoing endlessly against the stone walls.