Baston returned to the inn without speaking to anyone.
The streets were still lively and the lanterns swayed in the evening breeze. The laughter drifted from the taverns and a bard sang off-key somewhere near the plaza. The town looked warm, peaceful, and almost innocent.
Yet, beneath that warmth, he now saw something else. It was a rhythm, a system, and a silence that was 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. It was not metaphorically and not symbolically since it was just like what the words truly meant.
He had spent the day by piecing together several fragments and overheard the whispers. He also checked the unusual patrol patterns near the mayor's mansion, the strange list of missing petty criminals, and the jail that was suspiciously too clean for a town that claimed several frequent arrests.
The evidence did not scream since it breathed quietly. It seemed the whole town knew and no one spoke about the matter.
Because perhaps, someone's father needed the potion. Perhaps, someone's wife or someone's child also needed it.
When their survival was at stake, the morality bent like the wet parchment.
People gathered the worst of society which were the thugs, thieves, and repeat offenders. No one asked the questions when they vanished. In the end, the world did not miss them.
The town called it cleansing which was the justice without paperwork.
No one remembered the bad man and no one mourned him but he knew something that the others chose not to see.
The judgment in this era was not justice. The power determined guilt, the title erased crime, and the gold rewrote truth.
He remembered the man he had met in the underground before. The man was condemned not because of the evidence but because he lacked the protection.
If a noble committed the same crime, the story would be different. Life had never been fair and he understood that but this was different. This was kind of systematic.
What would happen when there were no criminals left?
Would they travel to nearby villages?
Would they import the prisoners from outside?
Would the definition of the criminal slowly expand?
Such desperate towns would make desperate decisions. The line between good and evil was fragile when the fear sharpened its blade.
Baston exhaled slowly. If he allowed this to continue, one day the sacrifices would no longer be the criminals. There would be more convenient victims.
He had intended to complete the quest clinically and efficiently, but now, something else pressed against his mind.
It was a little girl's smile. Her small hands were gripping a bundle of flowers with the stubborn optimism in her voice. He had seen her struggle each day though her family lived decently.
She sold the flowers not from necessity but from her 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. The shadows stretched longer and the sky bled orange into violet. At the crossroads, he saw her again. She was still standing there and she was 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."
The children simplified morality and the adults complicated it. He was indeed a 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 always hope. It was unreasoning and stubborn. It was just like her life.
"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. It was 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 the nightmares, transformation, and violence against the loved ones, he had a hunch that this was the side effects from the potion.
He had seen the mayor's wife earlier with pale skin, trembling fingers, and the pupils that were slightly dilated even under the 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 and 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 underground statue, the mana concentration, the missing criminals, the nightmares, the mayor's wife's unstable aura, and the potion that amplified life force by siphoning it from the others.
Eventually, the vessel could not stabilize the influx perfectly. Because of that, the side effects manifested. It affected the visions, aggression, and transformation impulses.
If this continued, the entire town would eventually rot from within. He soon made his decision.
*****
Back at the inn, Baston told Panto everything and the merchant boy listened in the stunned silence.
"You're saying that they are using people as the ingredients?"
"Yes..."
"And the statue…?"
"It's like a catalyst, stabilizer, anchor, or something along those things."
"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 are going to hate us…"
"Yes..."
"They are going to curse us…"
"Yes…"
"They are going to say that we destroyed their hope."
"Yes…"
Panto nodded slowly and he understood that manipulating such life force wouldn't end well. Something must be done and Baston would be the one who did it.
The night soon fell and the town did not sleep fully since the suspicion still lingered in the corners.
He knew that he had drawn attention earlier by asking forbidden questions. Several eyes had followed him since then.
To build his 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 who was listening from the outside would assume the indulgence.
Meanwhile, Baston moved carefully. His steps were silent and measured while he was using the puppets as scouts.
He treaded his path slowly while the puppets were monitoring the area from shadows. Each step he took felt heavier and heavier whenever he was getting close to his destination.
The statue was located in the underground, in a separate compartment from the jail.
A rat slipped through the drainage cracks and another soon followed. The underground chamber smelled metallic. It kept scurrying until it stood before the rat.
A statue was carved from the black stone, etched with veins of faint crimson light that was pulsing like a heartbeat. It was not big but the sensation it gave to him was hungry. A thin circular array glowed around it, signifying a warning perimeter.
Destroying it directly would alert the dark wizard immediately. Baston did not intend to hide the destruction but he intended to misdirect it.
The rat's body twisted. The flesh stretched and the bones elongated before a painted grin formed under white mask.
Joker slowly stepped forward.
He was playful and elegant. He was a lie given shape and the moment he crossed the circle, the array flared.
Somewhere above, the bells would already be ringing and the guards would be shouting. The mana in the perimeter was activating.
Joker raised his hand and the 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 everything and the statue cracked. It screamed without the sound before shattered completely. The mana backlash rippled through the chamber like a dying pulse.
Before the footsteps reached the stairs, Joker vanished.
The mansion quickly exploded into chaos and 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 saved people 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 went back through the back alleys and blind spots but the town was already awake. The place was full of militia who was running hastily with blazing lanterns.
The news traveled faster than the footsteps and 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 if everything is 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…"
The locks rattled and the door soon opened. The innkeeper stepped inside and only Panto stood there while Baston was nowhere. Before the 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 to disturb your rest. It's because the militia orders everyone to be checked upon. They must think an assassin is hiding among the guest that we accepted before."
"It's alright... You just do your job here."
The innkeeper left and Panto stared at Baston, speechless toward what happened. He had not seen him return, not even a shadow but he suddenly came out from inside.
Before the questions could form, Baston already said something.
"Go back to your room…"
Panto obeyed without any questioning. Only when the silence returned, Baston allowed himself to lean back. He had left one puppet here from the beginning as the insurance.
If he failed to return in time, the puppet would impersonate him.
Tonight, the chaos would spread and the name Joker would echo again. They would search, investigate, and speculate but Joker existed only where he allowed him to exist.
The clown was here only because of him.
*****
"Thankfully, I left one of my puppets there…"
Baston did not return to the inn immediately since the streets had already descended into chaos.
The militia rushed past with drawn blades. The lantern light flickered violently as several doors opened and the whispers were spilled into the night.
Every shadow felt thinner and every corner felt watched.
The explosion had done more than shattering the stone. It had shattered the certainty. Moving openly would be foolish now since the patrols were doubled near the intersections and few strangers were being questioned without courtesy.
The town, once warm and complacent, had tightened like a fist. That was precisely why he had prepared in advance.
If he failed to return in time, the puppet would assume his appearance from breathing, shifting, and even muttering in sleep if necessary.
It was an imperfect imitation to a trained eye, but it was more than sufficient for the panicked innkeepers and the hurried militia.
His alibi was not about perfection. It was about plausibility and such 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.
Many witnesses would argue about what they saw. Some would describe the laughter while the others would swear they saw fire that was shaped like a grinning face.
The rumors would distort the truth until it became something bigger than reality.
They could search the entire kingdom and they could interrogate the travelers. They could sketch the portraits based on terrified imagination.
However, Joker did not exist as a man.
He existed only when Baston willed him into a being and when the curtain fell, nothing remained.
He exhaled slowly in the quiet darkness.
Tonight would not end quickly. Not for the town and certainly, not for him.