Chapter 2 — The New Face Beneath the Mask
The Red Tent never slept.
Even when silence seemed complete, you could hear the wood breathing, the masks whispering, and the balcony ropes creaking as if the theater itself had a pulse.
Dawn barely filtered through the red stained-glass windows, tinting the dust with a blood glow. It was the hour when Actors returning from missions traded weapons for silence, and when the new arrivals—trembling—were brought in between the curtains.
Nullis Schiftel walked slowly down the Hall of Suspended Masks. His hand slid along the railing, fingertips tracing the wood's cracks.
Each crack told a lie, each creak a death.
The museum fight had ended only hours ago.
The Scarlet Jester had laughed, satisfied.
The other Actors had drunk.
Nullis, as usual, preferred the quiet aftermath.
When he reached the reception vestibule—the place where the newly "awakened" were brought—he saw a boy sitting on a bench.
The kid was seventeen, maybe eighteen. Pale eyes, gaze lost between fear and fascination. His hands shook, still clutching a cracked artifact—a fragment of silver chain.
His mask, resting on his knees, was not yet alive.
Just a blank white shell, waiting for the integration ritual.
Nullis approached without a word at first.
The boy looked up, hesitated, then jumped to his feet and bowed awkwardly.
"…You're… one of the Actors?"
The tone betrayed fear.
Nullis gave a faint, tired smile.
"Yeah. Something like that."
He sat beside the boy. The ropes overhead shivered, as if the theater were listening.
"What's your name?"
"…Nothing," the young man answered after a silence.
"I mean… I think the demon told me to stay silent until the pact is sealed."
Nullis nodded slowly.
"So you really made a pact. Congratulations, kid. If you're still breathing, you won your bet."
A murmur passed through the room—the lamps flickered briefly, as if distant laughter stirred in the ceiling.
The Tent loved initiates. It recognized those who had brushed the Void and returned with something in their eyes.
⸻
The boy swallowed, staring at the floor.
"Where… where am I, exactly? They just said I'd see the truth, that I was… chosen."
Nullis let out an amused breath.
"Truth? That's the word they always use."
He leaned his elbow on his knee, adopting the calm, clear tone he rarely used.
"Here, you're in the Red Circus. An ancient occult organization, older than most kingdoms.
We answer to no king, no god, no noble.
We answer to the script. And to the Stage Director."
The boy frowned.
"The… script?"
"Yeah. Every mission, every decision—it's a role we're given.
Some play it word for word.
Others, like me, improvise."
A small smirk tugged at his lips.
"But as long as the show holds, we stay alive."
⸻
He pointed to the ceiling, where shapes floated like curtain shadows.
"The Red Circus isn't just killers or lunatics. It's a troupe.
We make lies dance until they become truth."
The boy listened, rapt.
Nullis continued, more serious:
"On the other side, you have the Nobles. Families centuries old, all tied to a system called Sharing.
They inherit power, pass it to descendants or slaves—they call them the Submitted.
Those Submitted don't have real demons inside, just a fragment of their master's power.
Polished puppets."
He paused, then went on:
"And to keep it all under control, there's an organization above: the Veil Consortium.
The true rulers of this world. They own everything, and above all, they hide everything.
Ordinary people don't know pacts exist.
And they want it to stay that way."
The boy stared at his cracked artifact, eyes wide.
"And… the Order? They told me they protect the nobles…"
Nullis nodded, his tone growing colder.
"The Order? Their dogs. 'Shared' humans. No real powers, just borrowed.
Empty minds, total loyalty. Facade guardians."
He stood slowly, pulling a worn black card from his pocket, marked with the joker symbol.
It spun between his fingers, light as flame.
"We, in the Circus, are different. We pact for real.
Every member here earned their mask with sweat, blood, and madness.
Want to know what a pact is?"
The boy nodded, nervous.
"It's simple. Someone, somewhere, finds an artifact.
An object left by a demon in our world—often forgotten, often lost.
When you touch it, you enter their realm.
There, you choose: pass the trial and come back with power… or get swallowed.
No second chances."
Nullis leaned in slightly, his gaze glinting through dark strands.
"You're here, so you succeeded.
And believe me, that means something very ancient found you worthy."
⸻
The boy, silent, nodded.
"So… what do I do now?"
Nullis pocketed the card and straightened.
"Wait for your mask. And above all, remember one thing.
From now on, you don't live for yourself.
You live for your role.
And the day you forget your role… the Tent will remind you."
He stepped forward, placed a hand on the newcomer's shoulder.
"Oh, and one last thing. If you hear laughter in your head, don't panic.
It might be your demon.
Or the Circus."
The boy swallowed, nervous.
"And if I lose my mind?"
Nullis smiled.
"Then congratulations. The show's beginning."
⸻
As he walked away, the curtains began to tremble.
The suspended masks whispered, recognizing a new presence.
Nullis, for his part, felt Zarkhael's familiar voice murmur, murmur at his ear:
You do well to speak to him. The new ones are our seeds. The theater must grow… and you, Nullis, play your guide role perfectly.
But remember… one day, you'll be the one replaced.
Nullis didn't answer.
He placed his mask over his face, stepped into the red corridor, and in the reflection of a cracked mirror, murmured:
"As long as I hold the role, the curtain doesn't fall."