The death in the auction hall did not fade with the dawn.
Farbarus City had always been noisy in the morning with vendors shouting prices, carriage wheels grinding over stone, and apprentices rushing with unfinished errands. But that day, something lingered beneath the routine.
Conversations lowered when certain words were spoken. Many eyes shifted and the doors closed a little faster.
One man was dead and one boy was hospitalized.
For most citizens, it was unfortunate but ordinary.
People died every day in a city that thrived on trade, ambition, and quiet rivalries. Yet, this was not a street brawl or a drunken dispute.
It had happened inside an auction hall guarded by nobles and layered enchantments. It had happened under crystal chandeliers and noble crests. Moreover, it had happened in front of Claire and Teres.
The guests who had attended the auction spoke of it in fragments. It was a curse from the clown.
A man who laughed while someone's life drained away like spilled ink. No one described the same detail twice.
Some said the air froze, some claimed they heard bells, and others insisted they felt nothing at all. It was just a pressure like invisible fingers brushing across their throats.
Some swore the chandeliers dimmed for a heartbeat before the first victim collapsed. Others insisted the lights had never flickered and that the darkness they remembered came from within their own eyes.
A noblewoman claimed she saw faint threads stretching from the clown's fingers, thin as spider silk and shimmering red beneath the crystal glow. Yet when questioned again later, she denied ever saying such a thing.
The staffs wanted to examine the corpse but he found there was no one. Even their parts of the body was nowhere. It was just like the bald man was erased from the world.
That detail spread quietly among the city's more educated circles.
A spell that left no residue was not merely advanced. It was deliberate, suggesting preparation, calculation, and perhaps rehearsal.
More unsettling still, several guests admitted they could not remember the clown's face clearly.
They remembered the grin. They remembered the painted smile.
But when asked to describe his eyes and his height, even the tone of his voice, their answers conflicted sharply.
It was as if their memory had been smudged and that frightened them far more than the death itself.
Rumor multiplied faster than truth but what truly unsettled Farbarus was not the death. It was the reaction of the nobles.
Claire and Teres had submitted an emergency petition to the city council together.
For generations, their families had disagreed on trade routes, magical tariffs, and even the color of ceremonial banners. They competed in everything.
They undercut each other's influence in subtle and sophisticated ways. Yet this time, they stood on the same side.
The council chamber, usually filled with elegant disagreements, had fallen into an unfamiliar silence when both crests were presented simultaneously.
The implication was clear without being spoken aloud. They could not handle it alone.
Claire and Teres were not apprentices. They were established wizards with reputations polished by years of political maneuvering and magical discipline.
If even they had been forced into helpless observation while a curse claimed a life, then the enemy was not trivial.
The name had already spread which was Joker. He had sown a curse in front of them. He had pointed and chosen.
When death came, neither Claire nor Teres had been able to sever its thread.
The council deliberated for less than an hour before decision came to the front.
By noon, orders were issued.
Joker would be hunted across the kingdom.
Several cities had search warrants, magical trackers, and discreet inquiries through noble networks.
Even royal intelligence would be alerted though the announcement would remain controlled.
Panic was bad for commerce after all.
Still, unity between Claire and Teres was a message more powerful than any official proclamation.
There was an enemy and it was unknown.
While Farbarus trembled beneath whispered speculation, Baston lay sprawled across the softest mattress he had ever encountered in his life.
The best inn in the city did not simply offer comfort.
It redefined it into something else.
The sheets were woven from imported silk, light enough to cool the skin yet heavy enough to embrace it. The pillow swallowed his head as though reluctant to let him leave.
Sunlight filtered through embroidered curtains, casting a golden haze across polished furniture.
From the wide window, he could see the layered rooftops of Farbarus stretching toward the distant river. Smoke rose lazily from chimneys and life continued for many people.
Baston yawned, thinking if the city was gripped by fear, it had not reached this room. There was a knock to the door. It was measured and respectful.
"Sir Baston, your breakfast is here…" the butler announced from beyond the door.
"Come in. Put it at the table beside me…" Baston replied, voice thick with sleep.
The door opened without a sound.
The butler entered first. His posture was straight and his gloves were immaculate.
Two maids followed, carrying trays with synchronized precision. Their uniforms were pristine and their movements rehearsed but natural. They arranged the dishes as though preparing an offering.
By the time they stepped back, the table resembled a banquet.
Soup steamed gently from a porcelain bowl. Porridge glistened with honey and nuts. Platters of sliced fruit displayed colors too vibrant to seem real. Fresh bread, layered pastries, golden pancakes, cured meats, and delicate cheese were free to grab.
There was more than Baston could name but unable to finish.
For a moment, he wondered if the kitchen had misunderstood and prepared breakfast for an entire noble family but the butler bowed slightly.
"If you require anything else, young master, please just ring the bell..."
The door closed. Baston stared at the table.
He had never seen so much food presented for a single meal.
In his previous life, and in this one, waste had never been a luxury he could afford.
Meals were measured, portions were calculated, and hunger was something to negotiate with while indulge was forbidden.
He did not know that among nobles, abundance was the point. Variety was an expression of status, leftovers were expected, and choice mattered more than consumption.
Meanwhile, he simply saw food and he ate it patiently, thoroughly, and determined not to dishonor the effort.
The soup was finished first, then the porridge before the bread. He alternated sweet and savory, convincing himself it was to balance flavors though in truth he just did not want anything untouched.
By the time the fruit platter was empty, sunlight had shifted. He leaned back with difficulty, stomach stretched to its limit.
An hour later, when the butler returned with the maids to collect what they assumed would be half-finished plates, they froze.
Everything was gone and not even a crumb remained. The butler blinked once before he came back into sense.
"Thank you for the food. It's delicious…" Baston said sincerely, pressing a small pouch of coins into the man's hand, "Divide it among yourselves."
The maids' eyes widened. The butler's composure nearly cracked.
"Thank you very much, young master!" he beamed with smile, "If you have any request…"
"I won't take lunch today," Baston interrupted gently, "I have somewhere to go."
"Yes, young master. Then dinner will be prepared accordingly."
When they left, Baston exhaled heavily and pressed a hand to his abdomen. He had survived a curse but this breakfast might defeat him.
An hour later, after his body reluctantly forgave him, Baston left the inn and headed toward Rembrant's store.
The streets looked ordinary but he noticed small changes. Guards lingered at intersections where none had stood before. Two cloaked figures observed the merchant district from a balcony.
People glanced at strangers longer than usual.
Fear did not need to scream. It only needed to watch.
Rembrant's store, however, operated as if determined to resist panic.
Customers browsed the shelves, attendants negotiated prices, and coins clinked in measured rhythm.
There was no visible damage and no doors were closed. Business went on as usual like another day.
If not for yesterday's memory, one might believe nothing had happened. Rembrant and Panto were not on the main floor.
Baston considered leaving until Panto burst from a side corridor.
"Baston! Where are you going?"
The merchant boy hurried forward, face bright with relief.
"I just came to check your condition," Baston replied calmly, "Since you're fine, I can leave without worry."
Before he could step away, Panto embraced him. Baston stiffened. It was sudden, intense, and grateful. Fortunately, the store was busy enough that no one paid attention.
"My father wants to meet you," Panto said, pulling back, "Do you have time?"
"Well… Alright…"
The path to the office bypassed the storage rooms and looking inside, documents stacked like fortifications.
When they entered, Rembrant rose from behind his desk immediately and hugged him. Baston's expression froze for a fraction of a second.
Apparently, this family communicated gratitude through physical assault.
"Ha… ha… ha… Young master Baston," Rembrant laughed warmly, stepping back, "I dared not disturb your rest at the inn."
"It's fine," Baston replied, "Are you alright?"
Rembrant's smile dimmed slightly, "I am alive. That is already a fortune."
His hands trembled faintly before he clasped them behind his back, "When the first man died, I felt it in my bones. That coldness and lonely. And when the clown pointed at me, I thought it was over."
Baston observed him carefully. Fear that lingered was more powerful than fear that screamed.
"It's good you're safe," Baston said gently, "Though the ice bead…"
"It doesn't matter…" Rembrant waved a hand firmly, "Gold can be earned again while life cannot. As for the down payment I gave you, just keep it. You have risked yourself. If I asked for it back, my colleagues would laugh at my ingratitude."
Baston smiled. Internally, his calculations aligned. Rembrant's remembering of his sacrifice had been essential.
The ice bead's theft had to feel secondary.
If Rembrant believed Baston had genuinely placed himself in danger, then the lost bead would never become a point of resentment. In this case, performance mattered.
"What happened after I fell unconscious?" Baston asked casually.
Rembrant leaned forward, "You collapsed without visible wound. We rushed you to a healer but he found nothing wrong. There was no curse residue and no magical backlash. It was as if your body simply just shut down."
Baston nodded thoughtfully.
Of course, there had been no wound. He had controlled the scene precisely. The illusion of being struck by an untraceable curse strengthened Joker's image.
If even magic could not detect it, then fear would do the rest.
Rembrant continued, "Many guests quickly fled. Herbiens and Versance escorted many nobles safely outside. Some merchants left the city entirely. They fear Joker may return."
Panto stepped in, "The two VIP nobles dispatched investigators. They're sending personnel here. The city will grow crowded soon."
That detail settled heavily between them. Toward investigators, it wouldn't end well with him.
They would begin with witnesses and Baston would surely become one. He lowered his gaze slightly as though troubled. Inside, he measured possibilities.
If he was questioned, what would he say?
That he remembered nothing?
That a curse touched him but spared him?
That he saw something but could not describe it?
The safest lie was often one wrapped in partial truth.
After a longer discussion about academy schedules and return dates, Baston urged Panto to go back sooner rather than later.
The merchant boy hesitated, glancing toward his father. He was worried. Not only about business but about something deeper.
The word surfaced unbidden in his thoughts which was the cult.
It had been Baston who mentioned it first a few weeks ago.
A shadowy group was targeting him. It was a threat without face. Panto hardly could dismiss it since fear had exaggerated much. Now, a clown had appeared with curse strike, resulting an ice bead to disappear.
Coincidences have a limit. Slowly, Panto began to build his own narrative.
What if the auction had not been accidental?
What if Baston placed the ice bead deliberately, knowing it would attract attention?
What if Joker was not randomly there but baited?
What if Baston was hunting something far larger?
He glanced at the fat boy standing calmly before them.
Baston always appeared harmless but he survived what others could not.
Panto swallowed his questions. He believed Baston had an agenda. He just did not know what it was and perhaps, that was the most unsettling part.
Farbarus City tightened its defenses and the investigators would arrive within days.
Merchants whispered and nobles strategized.
The council had drafted contingency measures toward the incident.
Somewhere beyond the city walls, the name Joker was already being etched into reports. And in the quiet office of Rembrant's store, misunderstanding bloomed silently.
Baston only wanted to survive yet survival, when executed too well, resembled excellent design.
The cult might not be watching but now, people were.
And suspicion, once awakened, rarely slept again.