The Circus of Fear dissolved into nothingness. Arthur knelt in silence, Excalibur dim at his side, while Harlekin's lifeless grin stared skyward.
From a shadowed ridge above, Sirius von Shadow exhaled. His black cloak swayed in the breeze, eyes narrowed as if he'd seen this end before it came.
Sirius (low): "So… the curtain falls."
Ash scattered across the ledge; Yuri von Shadow sat beside him. Her lips glistened, parted in an eager smile.
Yuri: "I wanted to see him dance longer. Such chaos. And now…" She dragged a finger along her jaw, smearing ash like war paint. "…now he's gone. Snuffed out."
She giggled, though the sound was more like a predator's purr.
Yuri: "Sirius… doesn't it make your blood sing? One less reaper, one less mask. And Arthur Morningstar, sweet Arthur, already cracking. Ohhh, I love it."
Sirius did not look at her. His voice was as calm as it was heavy.
Sirius: "Harlekin was never meant to last. Broken toys rarely do."
Yuri tilted her head, eyes flashing.
Yuri: "Then let's see if the knight lasts. I can smell it on him—the corruption. Harlekin's still laughing inside him. He'll break, Sirius. He'll break, and when he does…" She shivered, biting her lip. "…it will be glorious."
Sirius turned away, his shadow stretching unnaturally across the ground.
Sirius: "Or it will be tragic. Sometimes, Yuri, there's no difference."
Across the World
Far from the battlefield, every Soul Reaper felt it—the severing of Harlekin's cursed thread.
Rai Tenshiro was perched on his golden cloud high above the Southern Lands, staff across his knees. His eyes snapped open, fury etched across his face.
Rai (snarling): "Tch… that idiot clown. Couldn't even die quietly."
The cloud trembled beneath him, resonating with his anger.
Elion Vaydrin stood alone in a crumbling bell tower in the outskirts of the Land of Fire. His flames flickered lower for just a moment as his eyes narrowed, lips pressing thin.
Elion (coldly): "…Harlekin."
He clenched his fists, his jaw tight. His thoughts turned not to grief, but to calculation.
Joren was in a cavern deep beneath charred stone, training his explosions against unyielding rock. The blast shook as he doubled over, clutching his chest, his teeth bared in rage.
Joren (roaring): "DAMN IT! Stupid Clown!"
His energy flared uncontrolled, blasting the cavern walls into rubble.
High in her frozen palace of ice and crystal, Selene Virell paused mid-step. Frost climbed the walls in jagged veins, her breath fogging before her. Her lips curved faintly, eyes unreadable.
Selene (softly, almost amused): "So the jester's flame has gone out. How boring."
Her reflection in the ice smiled wider than her own lips did.
In a darkened room littered with maps and scattered golden coins, King Midas froze. His golden teeth clenched, and a low growl rumbled in his throat.
Midas (seething): "Harlekin…"
He crushed a coin between his fingers until it powdered.
Midas: "Arthur Morningstar. That blade of his steals too much… now with the clown's madness in his veins... Maybe this isn't loss at all. Maybe this is an opportunity."
In her chamber, Valeria was alone, forging blades from melted scrap. The sound of clashing metal rang like an orchestra, sharp and controlled—until the thread inside her heart twisted.
She froze. The blade she had been shaping buckled, collapsing in her grip.
Valeria (whispering): "…Harlekin?"
Her hands trembled, though she quickly clenched them into fists. Anger replaced the tremor, as it always did.
Valeria: "Tch. You fool."
She stared at the broken weapon, its jagged edges reflecting her pale eyes. For a heartbeat, her lips trembled—but then her face hardened.
Valeria (low, steady): "Weakness has no place among us. You chose your curtain call."
She cast the ruined blade into the fire, turning her back. But in the shadows of her chamber, a single note of sorrow lingered—like the ghost of a violin string cut too soon.
Far away, in the burning streets of a Kagetsu town, two Soul Reapers carved through ranks of samurai.
Goliath, the colossal brute, swung his massive fists, his aura flaring like thunder as warriors scattered like straw dolls.
Null, veiled in his faceless shroud, stood still in the inferno, his presence heavier than the fire devouring the streets.
As a line of samurai charged, Goliath turned—then staggered. His chest tightened. He dropped one warrior's corpse, his expression twisting in rare confusion.
Goliath: "…He's gone."
The words carried weight, surprising even him.
The samurai didn't wait. Their blades struck, but Null raised a single hand. Golden light bled outward, swallowing fire and steel alike, erasing them from existence.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Null (flat, resonant): "The jester falls."
Goliath turned, jaw tight.
Goliath: "Then Arthur… Arthur killed him."
Null tilted his head, unreadable. His voice carried neither anger nor grief—only the certainty of a truth weighed and measured.
Null: "Not a loss. The cracks are showing, which means we are getting very close to the end."
Another wave of samurai rushed from the alleys. Goliath roared, his fury ignited, but his strikes now carried something deeper, a feeling that transmuted into violence.
Null only watched as buildings collapsed into ash, his faceless shroud reflecting the flames.
Null (quiet, to himself): "Every scar tells me more than words ever will. Harlekin has played his part… even in death."
And far away, in the neon-lit veins of Vanterra, Emilia Bruma walked alone. She had separated from Jack earlier, her steps quiet, her presence swallowed by the city's haze.
Then it hit her. The ripple. A shadowed thread cut clean.
She froze in an alleyway, her breath fogging though the night air was warm.
Emilia: "…"
Her hand trembled as it reached for the mist coiling around her fingers.
She knew that a thread was gone.
Emilia pressed her hand against the wall, forcing herself to steady her breath.
Emilia (cold, firming her voice): "One less monster in the shadows."
But her lips quivered. The mist around her thickened.
For a fleeting moment, she remembered his laugh—the jester's voice, mocking yet alive. And she shuddered, not from fear, but from the weight of knowing that death like his only meant one thing.
The war was coming closer.