Baston returned to the inn without speaking to anyone.
The streets were still lively. Lanterns swayed in the evening breeze, laughter drifted from taverns, and a bard sang off-key somewhere near the plaza. The town looked warm, peaceful, and almost innocent.
Yet beneath that warmth, Baston now saw something else.
A rhythm, a system, and a silence too deliberate to be natural.
He closed the door to his room softly and leaned against it.
The quest page from the old book had already faded but the words still lingered in his mind like a whisper that refused to dissipate.
The potion required rare ingredients which were the lives of people. Not metaphorically and not symbolically, just like what the word truly meant.
He had spent the day piecing together fragments, overheard whispers, guarded glances, the unusual patrol patterns near the mayor's estate, the strange list of missing petty criminals, and the jail that was suspiciously too clean for a town that claimed frequent arrests.
The evidence did not scream. It breathed quietly. It seemed the whole town knew and yet no one spoke.
Because perhaps, someone's father needed the potion.
Perhaps, someone's wife or someone's child also needed it.
When survival was at stake, morality bent like wet parchment.
People gathered the worst of society which were the thugs, thieves, and repeat offenders. No one asked questions when they vanished.
The world did not miss them.
The town called it cleansing which was justice without paperwork.
No one remembered the bad man and no one mourned him but Baston knew something others chose not to see.
Judgment in this era was not justice.
Power determined guilt, title erased crime, and gold rewrote truth.
He remembered the man he had met in the underground before. Condemned not because of evidence but because he lacked protection.
If a noble committed the same crime, the story would be different. Life had never been fair. He understood that but this was different.
This was systematic.
What would happen when there were no criminals left?
Would they travel to nearby villages?
Would they import prisoners?
Or would the definition of criminal slowly expand?
Desperate towns made desperate decisions. The line between good and evil was fragile when fear sharpened its blade.
Baston exhaled slowly.
If he allowed this to continue, one day the sacrifices would no longer be criminals. They would be convenient victims.
Perhaps, even children who dreamt too strangely. His eyes darkened.
He had intended to complete the quest clinically and efficiently but now, something else pressed against his mind.
A little girl's smile. Her small hands gripping a bundle of flowers. The stubborn optimism in her voice.
He had seen her struggle each day though her family lived decently.
She sold flowers not from necessity but from choice. She wanted to contribute and she wanted to shine.
That purity halted him more effectively than any blade.
He left the inn again without knowing where his feet would take him.
The town was quieter at dusk. Shadows stretched longer and the sky bled orange into violet. At the crossroads, he saw her again.
She was still standing there, still hopeful as always. She noticed him instantly and trotted over.
"Young master, why your face is so sour? My mother said if you are always in sour mood, you will get older faster."
He chuckled faintly, "Well, I'm just thinking about something burdening. Right now, I don't know whether I should do it or not. The thing is if I did it, some people might be sad in short time, but it was for their own good."
She tilted her head, "Really? Hmmm… I don't know for sure if it's right or wrong. But as long as you bring good for them in a long time, I think it will be fine in the end."
Children simplified morality and adults complicated it. He was indeed part of the adult.
"Yeah, I think so…" Baston smiled faintly, "By the way, how is your flower selling?"
"Still looks good!" she answered brightly.
She was always confident even though none had been sold.
"Looks like no one buys it, right?"
"Just wait until the end of the day. I believe my flowers will be sold by then."
There was hope. It was unreasoning and stubborn.
"How about I buy all of them?"
Her eyes widened, "Really? You are going to buy all of them? Young master is not lying, right?"
"Of course! I'm not lying so I will buy it all now!"
She began arranging the flowers carefully, making them look more beautiful than necessary.
He watched her hands. Small and unaware toward the world. And then, she said something that tightened his chest.
"I don't know about this but lately, I have always a nightmare. In that dream, I turn into a big monster and hurt my family. It really makes me horrified…"
The words struck him harder than any accusation.
Regarding nightmares, transformation, and violence against loved ones.
He had a hunch this was the side effects from the potion.
He had seen the mayor's wife earlier with pale skin, trembling fingers, and pupils slightly dilated even under sunlight.
Her mana fluctuated unnaturally like something was being forced. The potion did its miracle. But people must realize it did not heal.
It altered them into something unrecognizable.
"You don't need to be afraid," he said softly, patting her head, "Everything will end soon. You won't have such nightmare again."
"Yes, I believe so… Everything is going to be alright!"
Her faith was dangerous because it assumed someone would act.
After she left, Baston remained motionless.
The pattern was clear now.
The statue underground, the mana concentration, the missing criminals, the nightmares, the mayor's wife's unstable aura, and the potion amplified life force by siphoning it from others.
However, the vessel could not stabilize the influx perfectly. Because of that, the side effects manifested.
It affected visions, aggression, and transformation impulses.
If this continued, the entire town would eventually rot from within. He made his decision.
Back at the inn, he told Panto everything. The merchant boy listened in stunned silence.
"You're saying they are… using people as ingredients?"
"Yes."
"And the statue…?"
"It's like a catalyst, stabilizer, anchor, or something along those lines."
"And if we destroy it?"
"The potion will collapse, the process will stop, and the mayor will lose whatever he is trying to preserve."
Panto swallowed, "People might hate us."
"Yes."
"They might curse us."
"Yes."
"They might say we destroyed their hope."
"Yes."
Panto nodded slowly. He understood that manipulating life force wouldn't end well.
Something must be done and Baston would be the one who did it.
Night soon fell and the town did not sleep. Suspicion lingered in corners.
Baston knew he had drawn attention earlier by asking forbidden questions. Eyes had followed him since then.
To build alibi, Panto ordered excessive food and drink.
Inside the room, it was full of laughter, noise, and clattering plates. It was a staged celebration.
Anyone listening outside would assume indulgence, not conspiracy.
Meanwhile, Baston moved. His steps were silent and measured. He was using puppets as scouts.
From above, from shadows, and from cracks in walls. He had mapped the mayor's estate earlier.
The statue was underground, in a separate compartment from the jail.
A rat slipped through drainage cracks and another soon followed. The underground chamber smelled metallic. It kept scurrying until it stood before the rat.
A statue carved from black stone, etched with veins of faint crimson light pulsing like a heartbeat. It was not large but it was hungry.
A thin circular array glowed around it, signifying a warning perimeter.
Destroying it directly would alert the caster immediately. He did not intend to hide the destruction. He intended to misdirect it.
The rat's body twisted.
Flesh stretched and bones elongated before a painted grin formed under white makeup.
Joker stepped forward.
He was playful and elegant.
A lie given shape and the moment he crossed the circle, the array flared.
Somewhere above, bells would already be ringing and guards shouting. The mana in the perimeter was activating.
Joker raised his hand. Flare magic condensed into a roaring sphere of violent orange and crimson. It was pure destruction and unstable.
He then hurled it without hesitation.
"BOOOM!!!"
The protection mechanism erupted too late.
The flare magic devoured it and the statue cracked. It screamed without sound before shattered. Mana backlash rippled through the chamber like a dying pulse.
Before footsteps reached the stairs, Joker vanished.
The mansion quickly exploded into chaos.
Baston exhaled slowly from a shadowed rooftop.
The quest should be complete and yet, his chest felt heavy.
The destruction would collapse the ritual but those mid-process, some would not survive the backlash. The mayor's wife and others, they would return to their own fate.
The cost had already been paid the moment the first life was taken.
He returned toward the inn through back alleys and blind spots but the town was already awake.
The place was full of militia running, lanterns blazing, and doors opening.
The news traveled faster than footsteps. The same also happened at the inn.
*****
"Excuse me, can I enter the room?" the innkeeper knocked the door, "Something is happening at the town mayor's house so I want to check is everything alright."
"Everything is alright here. You don't need to worry about us," Panto replied from behind the door.
"Still, we want to make sure everything is really fine, sir. I must go in to assure everyone here. If not, I'm afraid the militia here will make a trouble for me."
"This… Then wait a minute…"
Locks rattled and the door soon opened. The innkeeper stepped inside. Only Panto stood there while Baston was nowhere.
Before suspicion formed, the bathroom door creaked open.
"Good evening, is there something we can help you?" Baston asked the innkeeper.
"Well, no…" the innkeeper heaved a sigh of relief before he bowed down, "I'm sorry I disturb your rest. It's because the militia orders everyone to be checked upon. They must think an assassin is hiding among the guest we accepted before."
"It's alright. You just do your job here."
The innkeeper left.
Panto stared at Baston, speechless toward what happened. He had not seen him return, not even a shadow.
Before questions could form, Baston already said something.
"Go back to your room," Baston said quietly.
Panto obeyed.
Only when silence returned did Baston allow himself to lean back. He had left one puppet here from the beginning as insurance.
If he failed to return in time, the puppet would impersonate him.
Tonight, chaos would spread. The name Joker would echo again. They would search, investigate, and speculate but Joker existed only where Baston allowed him to exist.
He was here only because of him.
*****
"Thankfully, I left one of my puppets there…"
Baston did not return to the inn immediately. The streets had already descended into controlled chaos.
Militia rushed past with drawn blades. Lantern light flickered violently as doors opened and whispers spilled into the night.
Every shadow felt thinner and every corner felt watched.
The explosion had done more than shatter stone. It had shattered certainty. Moving openly would be foolish now. Patrols doubled near intersections and strangers were being questioned without courtesy.
The town, once warm and complacent, had tightened like a fist.
That was precisely why Baston had prepared in advance.
Before leaving earlier, he had placed one of his puppets inside the inn room.
If he failed to return in time, the puppet would assume his appearance from breathing, shifting, and even muttering in sleep if necessary.
An imperfect imitation to a trained eye perhaps, but more than sufficient for panicked innkeepers and hurried militia.
Alibi was not about perfection. It was about plausibility and plausibility was enough.
When he finally slipped back through the darker alleys and reclaimed control of the puppet, the transition was seamless.
No one noticed the subtle exchange and no one questioned the timing.
To the outside world, Baston had never left his room. As for Joker, the name would spread by dawn.
Witnesses would argue about what they saw. Some would describe laughter while others would swear they saw fire shaped like a grinning face.
Rumors would distort the truth until it became something larger than reality.
They could search the entire kingdom. They could interrogate travelers. They could sketch portraits based on terrified imagination.
But Joker did not exist as a man.
He existed only when Baston willed him into being and when the curtain fell, nothing remained.
Baston exhaled slowly in the quiet darkness.
Tonight would not end quickly.
Not for the town and certainly, not for him.