Jester

Nighttime.

"How much does it cost to sign up for this circus? I'd like to join as a clown, if possible," I asked the person at the admin desk. I was now in the Entertainment District near the circus.

"Of course. Coincidentally, our clown didn't show up today and some of the kids are sad. The fee is ten grior per month. Are you interested? With this fee, you'll be supporting the community and you'll earn a fair share in return," they answered. The one who answered was a teenager, maybe eighteen, androgynous. I couldn't tell if they were male or female. Their long blond hair and blue eyes made me think they were a woman, but they had no chest and their way of speaking was…

Damn it. That's expensive. I never thought it'd cost this much, but this is my only chance to get that.

"Alright. Pay upfront?" I asked.

"Of course, but before that, I want to test your skills. I need to make sure you're not dangerous."

"Alright…" I replied.

...…

Three hours ago, at Milverton's headquarters which they now called the Second Greed Kings.

"So, what brings you here? The previous goods haven't been disturbed, relax. But it hasn't even been five days yet, James. It'd be bett—"

I cut them off. "I need something for the Jester Channel. For Order Archetype 7, 'Motley Fool'. Do you have it?"

"Motley Fool? Wait. Stay here," Milverton said, then quickly left and I was left sitting alone in the chair across from theirs.

A few minutes later, while I was humming to myself, the door swung open and Milverton rushed in.

"I found it," they said, sitting down opposite me.

"What's with the rush? You didn't steal this, did you?" I asked.

"Of course not. I was just worried you'd wait too long."

They handed me two neatly wrapped pills.

"Here, pills from the Motley Fool. I'm sure these will help you," they said.

I took the pills and looked at them. I'd already taken off my porcelain mask because we knew each other well and if they betrayed me, they'd lose their way.

"Got any clean drinking water?" I asked.

"Of course, just a moment." Milverton got up again and returned soon after.

"Milverton, instead of going through this trouble every time I come, why don't you just hire a maid or something?" I said as I took the water.

"That's difficult, James. They'd never want to work in a place like this," they replied.

I opened the pill wrapper and paused.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because they're actually kids from an orphanage. It'd be a hassle, since the nuns would visit every few days to check on their treatment."

I finished unwrapping the pill and swallowed it.

Glurp.

"Then why not just hire a butler? They're more professional," I suggested.

"I might try that later," they said. "But for now, let that pill digest. It'll take an hour to fully absorb."

"Alright. While we wait, why don't we talk 'business'? Did you get it yesterday? The book at House Droct?"

"Ah, yes. I struggled a bit at first, but luckily I had some useful tools. I managed to get it." Milverton leaned back, but their posture was tense.

I felt a cold, sharp sensation in my gut, a sign the Archetype pill was dissolving. It felt like swallowing ground glass. I ignored it and focused on Milverton. "And?"

"And it's just a ledger, James. A big accounting book. Thick leather cover, high-quality paper, very neat handwriting. Full of numbers, dates, transaction descriptions. Income from property rents, staff wages, commodity purchases. Boring."

They paused, as if hoping I'd accept that answer. I didn't. "You wouldn't be this restless if that was all, Milverton."

Milverton sighed, giving in. "You're right. Ninety-five percent of it is boring. But the other five percent keeps me up at night. It makes no sense."

The sensation in my gut spread, the cold followed by an odd clarity. I started noticing tiny details. The thin sweat on Milverton's forehead. The way they avoided direct eye contact. The small tremor in their fingers as they tapped the table. This was the start of the 'Motley Fool' perception. The ability to read an audience.

"What doesn't make sense?" I pressed. I had to resist the urge to smile. The impulse felt foreign, misplaced. This was part of the Dao digestion process: observe and control.

"Listen," Milverton said, their tone growing serious. "Between entries like 'Purchase: 200 barrels of wine' and 'Warehouse roof repairs', there are entries like 'Acquisition: Memory Puppet'. Or 'Payment: Tithe for the Fuhrer Choir'. Or my favorite, 'Transportation Fees: Living Puppet Cargo'. All written in the same flat tone, logged like regular operating expenses."

They shook their head. "No explanations, no footnotes. Just the item, cost, and date. It's insane, James. This isn't a normal trade house ledger."

"Something else, then?" I repeated. The pill's power was growing stronger. I could sense layers of Milverton's emotions. Beneath their anxiety was deep curiosity, and beneath that was fear.

"There's more," Milverton continued in a near whisper. "Some transactions are impossible. There's a regular payment recorded to an entity called 'Golden Dawn Trading Company'. I looked it up. That company went bankrupt and every member was executed by the Crown fifty years ago during the Unification War. How could House Droct still pay them every month?"

"Is there a pattern? Anything connecting these bizarre transactions?" I asked. My gut felt warm now. The power was integrating.

Milverton hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. All the impossible transactions, the dead entities, the unreal artifacts, the nameless services, they're all classified under one internal project code. Some codes only appear next to these entries."

"And the code is?"

Milverton looked at me, eyes sharp. "Project Motley."

The world seemed to stop for a moment. Project Motley. The same name as the pill I was digesting, the path I was about to take.

I stood up. The warmth in my body had settled.

"Hide that book, Milverton," I said, my voice calm. "Wrap it in oilcloth, lock it in your tin safe, and forget you ever had it. Don't speak of this to anyone. I'll come back for it."

"For what, James?" they asked, worried. "What are you going to do with this information? It's dangerous."

The first real smile I'd felt since swallowing the pill spread across my face. "You're wrong, Milverton. A 'Motley Fool' needs to know their role."

I put my porcelain mask back on. Role. Acting. The Dao method demands it. To understand 'Project Motley', I have to become Motley. I have to infiltrate their world, speak their language, become something they can either understand or underestimate. Either works.

I left Milverton behind and stepped out into the dirty streets.

...

Back to the present.

"Alright…" I said. René, the circus administrator, looked at me with a cold, unreadable stare.

"Follow me," they said curtly. "Training stage in the back."

I followed them to a circular practice arena that smelled of sawdust. A few kids, maybe circus workers or orphans, peeked from behind thick curtains. They were my audience.

"Five minutes," René said, arms crossed. "Show me what you've got."

This was it. My debut performance. Dao digestion requires warm-up. I couldn't just become the perfect Jester immediately. That would make the power wild. I had to build the role from nothing, from failure.

I picked up three balls from a prop chest. I chose the most faded ones on purpose. I tossed them in the air. One, two, and the third immediately fell to the ground with a sad thud. I felt a wave of disappointment from behind the curtain. I felt René's stare.

I bent down, pretending to fumble awkwardly, dropping the other two balls as I reached for the first. Small giggles came from behind the curtain. Mocking laughter. It was a start.

"This your audition?" René asked, their tone flat.

"This is the opening," I said, trying to force an awkward grin.

I tried again, this time managing a few spins before 'accidentally' hitting myself in the face with one of the balls. The kids laughed louder. René sighed quietly, the clear sound of someone whose time was being wasted.

I could feel their emotions. René's boredom. The kids' simple delight. The 'Motley Fool' power was incredible. I switched to pantomime, doing the classic trapped-in-a-box routine.

"Boring," René commented. "Next."

This was the turning point. I needed to show something. I stopped the pantomime. I stared straight at René. Then, slowly and deliberately, I mimicked their posture. The way they crossed their arms, the tilt of their head, the slight crease between their brows.

René froze. For one full second, they were caught off guard.

I switched tactics. I returned to juggling. This time, my movements were smoother. The balls spun around my arms, bounced off my shoulders, and landed perfectly in my hands.

I finished the routine by tossing all three balls high, spinning, and catching them behind my back without looking.

"Hmm," René said. Just one word, but their tone had shifted. From boredom to genuine evaluation. "You learn quickly. But juggling alone isn't enough."

"Of course not," I said. I set the balls down. "A real show needs audience participation."

My eyes went to René. "May I borrow something? Anything small. A key, a coin…"

René looked at me suspiciously, but they reached into their pocket and tossed me a small copper coin. I caught it deftly.

"A simple copper coin," I said, showing it to the kids behind the curtain. "Belonging to our very generous administrator."

I closed the coin in my right hand. "Now, watch carefully." I made a motion as if transferring it to my left hand — the most basic sleight-of-hand trick. I opened my right hand. Empty.

"It's in your left hand," René said, unimpressed.

"Are you sure?" I asked. I opened my left hand. Also empty.

René's eyebrow twitched. The kids started whispering excitedly.

"Then where is it?" asked one of them.

I smiled. "Back where it came from."

René instinctively reached into their pocket. The flicker of surprise on their face when their fingers found the cold, solid copper coin was priceless. I'd never really taken it — I'd only used misdirection and suggestion to make them believe I had.

"Not bad," René said. "You have a knack for manipulation."

"That's the heart of entertainment, isn't it?" I replied. "Making people believe in something that doesn't exist, even just for a moment."

I gave a deep bow. "So, am I in?"

René studied me for a long moment, their gaze piercing. I could feel their mind working. They no longer saw a clumsy clown.

"Report tomorrow morning. Eight sharp. You'll start with street performances to draw crowds. If you're good, you'll move to the main stage. Don't disappoint me."

"I won't," I said.

As I walked out, they asked, "Your name?"

I stopped at the door, not looking back. "Just call me Motley."

I stepped into the cold night air. Mission accomplished. I'd been accepted. The digestion process felt stable. The power now felt like a tailored suit, not a borrowed costume.

I didn't go home, I just wandered, soaking in the bustle of the Entertainment District. Every laugh, every argument, every transaction felt wonderfully alive to me.

I stopped in front of a busy tavern. Through the window, I saw people from every walk of life. Merchants, workers, guards, maybe thieves too.