Mask

Under a sharp ticking, the dancers' bodies twitched.

The crowd moved like a slowed video, their legs gliding across the marble floor. Their pace increased, jerky yet graceful, as if puppets regaining momentum. In the background, distorted instruments played sluggishly at first before finding their rhythm once more.

"Ohh!" The harlequin held a gloved hand to his mouth as if appalled. His hollow eyes turned to Elie, and he wiped beneath them, feigning a tear that wasn't there. "Please do forgive me. How could I ever treat new guests in such a way? I haven't even introduced myself—silly me!"

With the masquerade returning to its wonderful luster, the jester joined in, an exaggerated swirl sending his robes fluttering. His steps were light, playful, but each movement felt like a performance meant for no one but himself.

Then, abruptly, he stopped.

Standing at the front of the crowd, he bent forward in an elaborate bow. One hand spread out to his side, the other pressed against his chest. "Humble apologies. My name is Corydon, but you may call me whatever you wish!"

The dancers around him subtly drifted back, trembling. Yet, despite their fear, they did not stop. Their feet kept moving, their forced smiles frozen in place.

Cypher inhaled sharply. So this is a so-called Demon God…

His mind pulled up the fairy tale, each word resurfacing as if printed across his vision.

"Among the laughter of the mad jester, the second Demon God was born."

His fingers, until now wrapped tightly around the dagger in his sleeve, relaxed—a conscious decision. He let go. By no means was he planning a physical confrontation with something bearing that title.

Corydon's gaze flickered to him, lingering just a moment too long. Then, with a sudden clap of his hands, he grinned.

"Forgive me for asking again, my dear guest, but how did you find your way here?"

The question slid into the air like a needle threading silk. It was casual, but Cypher knew better than to take it at face value. Something about it gnawed at him, though he couldn't say why.

Before taking Cypher's body as his own, he had relied on his mind to navigate most situations—blackmail, research, murder. He had never needed brute strength to win. He wasn't some frail, easily stepped-on coward—far from it. But violence, to him, had always been a tool, not a crutch.

All humans have this unavoidable quality. Whatever they have at their disposal will, without fail, be turned into a weapon. A stone sharpened into a knife, a word twisted into a blade. It is not the atomic bomb that kills thousands or the technique that wipes away armies—it is the mind behind it.

And that was the mistake he had made.

His technique made him powerful, and he had relied on that fact too much. But there are always bigger fish in the sea. Always a stronger hand on a bigger gun.

Corydon was proof of that.

Yet something was off.

The way the dancers moved, the way the music played on without them, the way Corydon asked how they arrived—like it mattered. Like it was important.

Cypher didn't have time to dwell on it for however long he wanted.

With this thought, he watched everything he had witnessed since stepping into this "Well" unfold in his mind, crisp and clear, as if projected onto a screen. Perfect photographic memory had its perks—allowing him to rewind, analyze, and dissect every moment down to the finest detail.

Unfortunately for him, he did not have the luxury of pausing reality and taking his time. Corydon was still an immediate threat.

While Cypher was thinking, Elie was completely and utterly terrified.

The feeling of powerlessness, as his body hung on strings that pierced his flesh, was undeniable.

As if to add to that, Corydon seemed interested in how they got here. While he didn't know what Cypher had done to the dragon core to cause them to be transported here, it was clear that it had been the catalyst.

Should I tell him?

Elie shivered at the thought. If they lost the core, then how would they get back? But if he didn't give an answer, this thing might just kill him.

He tried to turn his stiff limbs to Cypher, only to find himself firmly held in place. Even his neck was rigid under the control of the strings.

Right now, in his mind, there were two options. One was to blame it on Cypher—to tell Corydon that Cypher had brought them here. The other was to tell him it was the dragon core that brought them here.

Either way, both options essentially nullified his chances of escaping. He was sure that nobody other than Cypher had caused such a reaction with the core, so he wasn't confident that he could do the same without the boy.

And so, he hesitated.

"What's wrong? You seem to be tongue-tied, little human." Corydon snapped his neck sideways and stared directly at Elie in a way that seemed to bury directly into his soul.

"I...I don't know!" The weaver finally cracked under pressure. He had always had his healing technique to help mend his mind, and now? It was utterly useless.

"I DON'T KNOW, DAMN IT! PLEASE, YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME!"

"You. Are. Lying." Corydon crept closer. Slow, unnatural steps echoed through the ballroom as the ground beneath the jester rippled like water.

In an instant, Corydon flickered as if space itself was nothing to him. The next moment, he was in front of Elie, tracing his jaw lightly with a finger.

"Why do you humans always lie?" For a moment, there was an actual hint of deep sorrow in his voice. His head turned to the dancers. "There was once a man. He came to our land from a distant nation and promised us peace with his people. Tell me, human, do you know what happened next?"

Corydon's hand latched onto Elie's jawline with a trembling, vice-like grip. He forced Elie's neck up to stare directly into his eyes.

The weaver's hair stood on end as he stared into the two white specks within. "Please..." His voice dropped to a desperate, pleading whisper. "I...I don't know what you're talking about."

The jester's mask morphed and twisted into a deep, unholy frown.

A guttural, abhorrent symphony of screams resounded from beyond the walls of the ballroom. Men, women, and children cried out in pain. Layered in was the heavy tread of metal boots, like an army marching in conquest.

The smell of burning wood and smoldering meat pervaded and completely overpowered all other scents in the room, as the laughter of noble men and women seeped through reality.

Staring deep into Corydon's eyes, black sludge seeped from Elie's own like tears.

His shadow split apart and transformed into a legion of figures, each frowning much like Corydon, their long, knife-like ears the only similarity between them. Like vengeful wraiths, they loomed beneath Elie, stretching his shadow across the floor in hatred.

Cypher, standing nearby, felt his mind slow with the voices of long-dead souls, completely shattering his attempt to review his memory. All he could do was fall to his knees and cover his ears.

"HE. LIED."

Corydon pulled up his hand in front of Elie's trembling face, a white porcelain mask in hand.