The chamber hidden behind the massive enchanted doors impressed with its scale and luxury. A spacious hall with high vaults was supported by dozens of graceful columns stretching to the very ceiling, laid with ornamented stone inlaid with gold. The walls were adorned with magnificent woven tapestries, between which stood shelves with rare books, ancient weapons, and artifacts. In the center of the hall stood an elegant dark wooden table, framed with carvings in the shape of winding vines and stylized flowers. On both sides of the table stood expensive armchairs with soft upholstery. A bit further, closer to the right wall, towered two bookcases crammed with old folios. The illumination of the hall was created by suspended magical crystals, smoothly hanging under the ceiling and radiating a warm, soft light that made the stone floor gleam with a polished shine.
But it was not the decoration that mattered most. The space was filled with people. By the walls and closer to the center stood about a hundred men in plain but finely sewn civilian clothing—Lorenzo’s employees, those who managed his business, trade, logistics, and finances. They bustled, shouted to one another, some clutching weapons, others only glancing around nervously, as if hoping for a miracle. Beside them, like black shadows, stood forty well-armed brigands—some guarding the entrances, others in the center, ready for battle. Still closer to the central table lined up seventeen guards in identical black formal suits—matching down to the smallest detail. They stood as if on command, like a living barrier before their master. Their eyes did not move, their faces remained absolutely blank and cold, like dolls, and their palms confidently gripped the hilts of swords and daggers.
And in the very center, between the table and the nearest guards, fussed Duke Lorenzo. His usual self-confidence had vanished without a trace. The duke paced back and forth, nervously biting his finger, sometimes even tugging at the edges of his doublet. His eyes darted around the room, his breath was quick and shallow. From time to time, he stopped, glanced at the doors, and began pacing again. Sweat stood out on his brow, and his movements grew sharp. Every sound, every word from the others made him flinch, and though he tried to keep the remnants of his dignity, fear was written on his face. A frightened predator, trapped.
Suddenly, one of the guards broke the tense silence. The man in the black suit gave a slight bow and, with exaggerated politeness, addressed the duke:
"Please, sir, you need not worry so much. The doors are enchanted with the strongest protective barriers—even Mister Jester will not be able to break through without great effort. Besides, there are more than a hundred and fifty people in this hall, ready to defend you to the last. The brigands he had to fight on his way here should have weakened him somewhat. Even if, by some miracle, he manages to enter, he will spend too much strength just to open these doors. Victory will be yours, my lord—it is only a matter of time."
The words were meant to reassure, but only partly succeeded. Lorenzo, still gnawing his finger, tried to pull a mask of confidence onto his face. He licked his dry lips and gave a crooked smile.
"Yes… Yes, that’s right. I prepared for this day quite thoroughly… That damned Jester won’t reach me so easily… And when this is all over, I’ll personally make sure his head decorates my office. And also…"
But he never finished his threat.
The chamber suddenly trembled. A powerful rumble rolled through the walls, and from the entrance rose a huge cloud of dust. Stone thundered, fragments rained down. Everyone in the hall—brigands, guards, common lackeys—instinctively turned to the source of the sound. Metal screeched in the air, blades flashed from their scabbards, dozens of hands lit up with magical circles. Wind mages raised their arms—gusts blew away the dust… and revealed a scene unthinkable just seconds ago.
Two figures stood on the threshold. Alex and the Jester.
Calm. Unharmed. Threateningly silent. Behind them loomed the shattered stone frame of the doors—its debris still crumbling down, leaving nothing but a gaping hole.
The Jester stepped forward, smiling with that same, familiar and at the same time sinister expression. His eyes gleamed with a cold light.
"Duke, remind me, please," his voice was almost playful, "did you say something about what you’d do with my head? Would you repeat it, I didn’t quite catch it…"
Lorenzo’s gaze darted wildly across the hall, his face turned pale, panic shone in his eyes. He began to back away slowly, nearly tripping over the edge of the carpet.
"Kill them! K-… kill them! At once!" the duke shouted, trying to sound firm, but his voice broke into a cry, trembling and faltering.
The words were the signal. The nearest brigands lunged forward, and dozens of mages around the hall launched their projectiles. Fireballs, lightning bolts, and spears of ice whistled through the air. Hundreds of boots thundered across the marble floor.
Alex and the Jester exchanged a quick glance.
And smiled.
A blood-forged sword appeared in Alex’s hand, while in the Jester’s right palm flared a refined blade of light. Without a word, both surged forward—straight into the storm.
The first wave of brigands never even reached them. Alex slashed upward—his blood-sword cut the space in an arc, slicing two attackers clean in half. Their bodies stood for a moment before thudding to the marble, leaving crimson streaks. With another blow, Alex took a man’s head clean off, dodging a fireball at the same time.
The Jester, meanwhile, slid between strikes as though dancing. His radiant blade left dazzling trails in the air, every movement deadly. He drove his sword into a guard’s chest, pulled it free—and in the same instant spun, cleaving another from shoulder to hip. Blood fountained high, staining his cloak, but the Jester only laughed.
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Magical projectiles flew across the hall, but most missed their mark—or struck their own allies. One sorcerer managed to ready a spell, but in the next moment Alex was already at his side, driving his sword straight into the man’s face. The blade burst out the back of his skull, mixing blood and brain into pulp. The man dropped soundlessly.
Screams. Flashes. Blood on the walls, the floor, their hands.
The Jester leapt high, flipping in the air, and landing behind four enemies—one sweeping slash tore through their throats. One head did not even fall before it bounced across the floor toward Lorenzo, rolling like a ball.
With each step, Alex left more corpses behind. A mercenary tried to block him with a massive axe, but Alex simply stepped aside and severed his knee, then his throat. Blood poured over the floor.
When the number of bodies exceeded the number of living, the attackers began to retreat—but too late. From all sides, magical spikes of light and darkness rained down, piercing bellies, chests, skulls. One guard screamed about reinforcements, but in the next second his body was split in two by Alex’s sword.
The battle turned into a massacre. Out of a hundred and fifty present… only about ten remained.
The guard who moments earlier had tried to calm Lorenzo now stood pale and drenched in sweat, watching the slaughter of his comrades. His eyes darted from one corpse to another, his hands shook. At last, he dashed to the duke, who had cringed into a corner of the hall, and hissed sharply:
"I’ll take you to safety at once, my lord!"
His hand was almost on Lorenzo’s arm when suddenly—like a nightmare ripped from sleep—the Jester materialized before them. His cloak swayed in the air, heavy with blood that dripped now and then onto the floor. His face was spattered with gore, and on his lips played that familiar, almost playful smile.
"And where might you be going?" he asked slyly, tilting his head.
Lorenzo could not make a sound—he only wheezed, breathing heavily through his nose like a trapped boar. The guard, wasting no time, drew his sword and charged the Jester with a cry. But the Jester’s expression didn’t change. He caught the strike effortlessly with his own blade, then seized the guard by the throat with his free hand and slammed him into the wall. A dull thud, a crack, and the body slid to the floor.
"One," the Jester said almost cheerfully, turning back to the duke.
But before he could continue, a hoarse battle cry rang out from behind him. Another guard, wielding a halberd, was already rushing toward him. The Jester instantly stepped aside, lowering himself, and the blade whistled just above his head. In the next second, he was already behind his attacker. A swift motion—and his sword slashed down the man’s back from shoulder to hip. The guard collapsed to his knees with a drawn-out groan. The Jester didn’t even stop walking—his blade gleamed as it swept across the man’s neck, and the head fell to the floor, leaving a fountain of blood behind.
“Two,” he remarked, casting a glance at Alex, who was finishing off the last of the guards by the entrance.
Then he turned back to Lorenzo. The duke was already lying on the floor, trembling and trying to crawl away, as if that could save him. The Jester had barely taken a step when a lightning bolt hissed past his side. He dodged easily and looked to the source.
It was the same guard he had smashed against the wall earlier. The man was still standing, his face twisted with rage and pain, and he charged with a sword in hand.
The blade was already nearly at the Jester’s face—only a heartbeat away. But then, suddenly, several spikes of light shot up from beneath the guard’s feet, brutally impaling him: one through the groin, another through the chest, a third bursting out of his jaw. The guard froze mid-motion, choking, hung suspended for a moment, and then collapsed to the floor, dead.
“Three,” whispered the Jester, still smiling as his eyes returned to Lorenzo.
The duke lay sprawled across the marble floor, his luxurious clothes torn and filthy, his hands trembling, fingers clutching at the carpet in spasms. His terrified eyes locked on the Jester, as though refusing to believe any of this could be real.
Alex approached the Jester and stopped beside him. Without a word, his cold gaze settled on Lorenzo. Meanwhile, the Jester slowly turned to look over the ruined hall, where dozens of corpses lay scattered in chaotic positions.
“You know,” he finally spoke, his voice carrying a strange lightness, “there is one thing he deserves thanks for. It’s not every day someone brings you a few hundred scum on a silver platter and says, ‘Help yourself.’”
He smiled and looked back at the duke.
“So thank you, Lorenzo. You’ve done at least one good thing in your miserable life. You gathered them all here, just for me… well, for us.” He nodded toward Alex.
The duke finally tore his eyes from the Jester and turned them toward Alex. His face was distorted with fear, lips twitching.
“You… you’re Alex,” he stammered. “What… what are you doing with him?”
Alex crouched slowly, so their eyes met on the same level. His voice was calm, cold.
“I’m not ‘with him.’ I simply had business with you. On the way, I ran into the Jester—so we came together. All I need are the documents for the ‘Ray of Hope.’ Once I have them, I’ll be on my way.”
The duke’s gaze darted between them like that of a rat cornered in a trap. Then, taking a deep breath, he tried to muster a shred of confidence.
“I… I’ll give you the documents. I will. But only if… only if you kill him.” His trembling finger pointed at the Jester.
A burst of genuine laughter rang out. The Jester nearly doubled over, covering his face with one hand as though trying to contain himself. Alex gave him a brief look, then turned back to the duke.
“Fine. But first—the documents. As a guarantee of your words.”
Hope flickered in Lorenzo’s eyes. He rose slowly, walked to a large writing desk, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out a thick folder. His hands still trembled as he passed it to Alex.
Alex skimmed through the papers briefly before storing them in his inventory. Then he looked at the duke again.
“Thank you. And now…” He turned toward the Jester. “I’ll leave him in your capable hands.”
“No! You must kill him! You promised! YOU MUST!”
Lorenzo fell to his knees, clutching Alex’s leg in desperation, almost pleading. But disgust crossed Alex’s face. He yanked his leg free and said coldly:
“To be honest, I’d take great pleasure in killing you myself. But I trust the Jester will approach this with… more imagination.”
The Jester stepped closer to Alex and patted him on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry. His ending will be very… unconventional. I promise.”
Lorenzo stared at them with such horror, as if two demons from the depths of Hell stood before him.
At that moment, the Jester touched the magical artifact in his ear.
“Henrich, how are things?”
Henrich’s voice came through clearly:
“All the slaves are in your estate. They’re receiving medical treatment as you commanded.”
“Good. I’ll be there shortly,” the Jester replied.
“We’ll await your return, Master.”
The connection cut off. The Jester turned back to Alex.
“In two days, come see Henrich. He’ll bring you to me, and we’ll talk. You’ll also have a chance to visit the freed slaves. I’m sure they’ll be glad to see one of their rescuers.”
Alex nodded.
“I’ll definitely come.”
The Jester extended his hand.
“Thank you for your help, Alex.”
For a moment, Alex hesitated, then shook it.
“Glad to help.”
Alex cast one last glance at Lorenzo. Then a magic circle flared to life beneath his feet. A heartbeat later, he vanished from the room, leaving the duke face-to-face with his living nightmare.
