Jasper opened his eyes.
But it didn't feel like it.
Everything around him was pitch black—deeper than the night skies over the city, darker than the void between ruined towers. Even the Underground District, with all its crumbling ruins and endless tunnels, had shapes.
This place didn't.
It didn't even have a floor.
Only he existed.
And even then… he looked wrong.
There were no shadows. Not under his feet. Not beneath his arms. Not under his collar. His body hovered like it was cut out of reality and pasted on top of nothing. Like the world hadn't agreed to let him belong here.
He walked.
Not because he saw a path.
Just because standing still felt worse.
But no matter where he turned, there was only more of the same. Empty space. Cold that didn't touch the skin. No light, no gravity, no sound—
Until the eyes appeared.
Millions.
Stretching outward in every direction, far beyond where there should've been space. Pale, lidless, and unblinking. They weren't watching him.
They were approaching.
Fast.
Then the voices came.
Some were whispers. Some were screams. They layered over each other like a choir of regrets—impossible to separate, impossible to shut out.
"End it."
"Please, no more."
"Let us go."
"Why didn't you help?"
"Why did you kill him—why did you—why—why—"
Then it changed.
The tone.
The words turned colder.
Sharper.
"It's your fault."
"You survived. They didn't."
"You ran."
"You hesitated."
"You watched."
And then—
Silence.
Only one voice remained.
It didn't scream.
It didn't whisper.
It didn't accuse.
It simply… existed.
"You're not the one who brings hatred forth onto this world," it said.
No echo.
No weight.
Just fact.
"You are not worthy of my time."
Jasper jolted awake.
His breath hitched, sweat clinging to his skin like a second layer of clothes. His shirt stuck to his chest. The sheets were half-twisted around his legs. One of the bandages along his ribs had come loose—blood had soaked through again.
He didn't move for a while.
Didn't even blink.
Just sat there, spine stiff, eyes locked on the far wall.
The pain came next—dull at first, then sharp. The kind of pain that made you remember where you were. What you'd survived. The kind of pain that let you know you were still alive.
He pulled his knees up to his chest slowly, arms wrapped around them, chin resting lightly on his forearm. His breath was shallow.
That dream.
That voice.
He'd heard it before.
He didn't know where, or when, or how—but it wasn't unfamiliar. It had that tone—the absence of tone—that only came with something ancient. Something cruel. Not in malice. Not in rage.
Just… in disregard.
And the eyes—
So many.
All suffering.
They weren't angry at him. Not really. Even the voices—the ones screaming, begging, accusing—they hadn't been focused on him.
It was like he was standing in the crossfire.
Like he was inside a space that wasn't meant for him.
And yet—
It felt like he had been there before.
As if some part of him had seen that darkness long before his hands ever held a weapon.
Jasper glanced over at the clock beside his bed.
5 o'clock.
Sunday.
He blinked.
Pulled in another breath.
He was thinking too much again.
Meanwhile, inside the manor—
Evodil was asleep on top of the fridge.
He didn't need to sleep.
Didn't need to eat. Didn't need to breathe. Didn't need to do anything, really.
Which was why he wasn't even conscious—more like paused. A god stuck in screensaver mode.
Then his eyes snapped open.
He didn't move. Just stared at the far wall, upside down, blood barely flowing and gravity doing all the thinking for him.
The clock ticked.
5:11.
"Shit."
He rolled too fast, misjudged the angle, and fell.
Head-first.
There was a sharp clunk, then a brief flash of light—space curling wrong around his body, like a page turning backward.
Then—
Air.
Open. Still.
Sky above. White marble below. Weightless for a half-second.
Then gravity caught up.
He twisted midair and landed on both feet inside the White Palace, coat flaring, boots hitting polished stone with a heavy crack.
Smooth landing.
Almost.
Across the room, two chairs were already occupied.
Iris sat tall, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in front of her like a diplomat in court. Dolorus was beside her, posture formal, expression unreadable.
Both of them were staring at him.
Evodil nodded slowly.
"Right on time."
Neither said anything.
He exhaled through his nose and straightened his coat.
"...Give or take."
Evodil took his time crossing the courtyard.
He didn't rush. Didn't apologize. Just walked with that practiced calm, like the palace had been built to accommodate his lateness.
He reached the head of the table—the black throne with the six-pointed star etched into the headrest—and sat.
Not slouched.
Not stiff.
Just angled perfectly. One leg crossed loosely, one arm resting against the armrest. Eyes half-lidded behind the blindfold, posture designed to radiate ownership.
Like the courtyard belonged to him.
Like they belonged to him.
Iris was the first to speak.
"You're late," she said evenly.
Evodil didn't miss a beat.
"Divine teleportation queues," he replied. "Nightmare today. You wouldn't believe how long the wait gets."
Dolorus blinked. "There's a queue?"
Evodil turned his head slightly toward him, tone calm. "Only for gods like me."
Dolorus hesitated. "...Meaning?"
"If we didn't have restrictions," Evodil said casually, "we could move through all points in time and space simultaneously. Cause paradoxes. Rewrite fate. Collide with our own echoes. It'd be chaos."
He paused.
"Not that I'd mind, but rules exist for a reason."
Iris raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Dolorus looked faintly disturbed. "That's… fair."
Evodil nodded, just enough to make it seem humble.
Inside?
He was sweating.
But each second that passed made it easier.
Every breath he took in that chair, every lie that landed clean—it all helped shape the role. Made it feel less like improv, and more like prophecy.
He was getting better at this.
And they still had no idea who he really was.
Iris shifted slightly, her attention drifting from Evodil to Dolorus.
She raised a hand—measured, formal.
Evodil gave a slow nod, just enough to imply permission.
She turned back to him, posture straight, voice even.
"I wished to ask about Oaths."
The air stilled.
"My father," she continued, "is loyal to the Cathedral of Light. He's always intended for me to inherit his Oath. It's… tradition."
She hesitated.
"But I've never felt its call. The rites, the verses, the crown—they're heavy. Expected. I've always dreamed of taking the path of a Solaris Imperial Strider."
Evodil didn't move.
She looked down briefly. "The Oath forged by James Dawn."
A pause.
"Known in the old texts as Quaros."
Dolorus shifted uncomfortably.
"That Oath is dangerous," he said. "Not in its strength, but in its visibility."
Iris looked at him.
"Striders are tracked. Watched. Targeted by cults hoping to wipe out direct successors of Quaros."
He tapped his fingers once against the table.
"If your safety is in question, I would advise a lesser-known Oath. Something simpler. Something survivable."
Iris frowned. "Like what?"
"Soulmate," Dolorus answered without hesitation. "Forged by Ethan—the God of Spirits. It's stable. Deeply personal. Nearly untraceable once bound."
He paused.
"Or Rushy Luck, if you're feeling reckless. Rota's Oath."
Iris raised a brow. "The gambler's bond?"
"A bit theatrical," Dolorus admitted. "But cults rarely bother tracking chaos."
He didn't glance toward Evodil.
But the implication lingered.
Iris turned toward him again.
Not boldly. Not rigidly. But carefully—eyes softer now, searching his face like she was looking for more than just permission.
Like she needed him to say it.
To confirm the one thing no one else would.
That the dream she carried wasn't hopeless.
Evodil tilted his head slightly, fingers steepled in front of him.
Internally?
He was blank.
Ethan? Rota? He barely remembered the name Ethan, and he was pretty sure Rota was either a gambler or a breakfast cereal. Maybe both.
But he didn't have time to wonder.
He was "all-knowing."
He had seconds to answer.
So he nodded once—slow, deliberate—and spoke with calm weight.
"You are looking toward a dangerous path, that much is certain."
Iris didn't flinch.
"But if you survive the massacre—if you endure the fire—then you will not only walk as a Strider."
He paused.
"You will become the strongest ruler your kingdom has ever seen."
Silence.
Not dramatic.
Reverent.
"I can promise you that."
Iris lit up.
The change wasn't loud. No smile broke her face. No gasp escaped her lips. But her eyes—
They burned.
Not with fire.
With life.
She nodded once, slow and sharp. "Thank you, my god. That is… more than I hoped for."
Then, after a breath—
"You are more benevolent than I was led to believe."
Evodil blinked.
"...I am?"
She smiled. "Of course."
Dolorus glanced between them, silently tracking every syllable.
Evodil didn't move.
He didn't understand how this worked.
But it was working.
Dolorus folded his hands.
Then looked up—calm, direct.
"If I may," he said.
Evodil gave him a nod, slow and deliberate, the kind that implied permission while secretly praying it wasn't a trap.
Dolorus didn't hesitate.
"How much of this palace do you actually use?"
Evodil blinked.
Dolorus continued. "Was it built by you? Or has it always existed in this dimension?"
He leaned forward slightly, his tone still respectful, but the questions came faster now. Sharper.
"What are your domains as a god?"
"Where do you reside in the physical world?"
"Why us?"
He gestured subtly between himself and Iris.
"And lastly… what's inside the palace beyond this room?"
The silence hung heavy.
Evodil stared at him.
Calm on the surface.
Internally?
What the f—
He exhaled through his nose, adjusted his posture, and tapped his fingers once on the edge of the throne.
Time to speak like someone who owned everything.
Evodil leaned back slightly, letting his fingers trail along the armrest.
He wasn't going to answer everything.
Only the ones that mattered—or the ones that sounded like they mattered. With any luck, Dolorus would forget the rest.
"The palace," he began, voice steady, "was built by me. Long ago."
He didn't give a date. Let them fill in the blank.
"It was constructed as a sanctuary. A meeting place between ideas. A threshold for those who walk between titles and truth."
He paused.
"Most of it remains unused. Empty by design. A place like this must breathe. If I filled every hall, it would collapse under the weight of interpretation."
Dolorus nodded slowly, parsing the words.
Iris looked entranced.
Evodil continued.
"My domains," he said, "are Light and Peace."
It felt wrong coming out of his mouth. But he let it sit there, noble and untouchable. The palace almost agreed with him—its glow steady, unwavering.
"As for your final question…"
He looked directly at Dolorus now.
"If I am the owner of this place," he said evenly, "and if this is indeed my domain—"
He gestured toward the courtyard beyond the pillars.
"Then tell me, Dolorus… do you feel you can stand from the table and walk where you please?"
Dolorus hesitated.
Iris looked toward him.
The air didn't change.
But something felt heavier.
Dolorus nodded, slowly.
But Evodil saw it.
That slight pause.
That flicker of hesitation behind the calm scholar's mask.
The kind of fear that didn't show in breath or body—but in the eyes. Just for a second.
Then he recovered.
"Of course," Dolorus said, adjusting his tone. "I meant nothing by it. Just a scholar's curiosity. No harm intended."
Evodil didn't respond. Not immediately.
He turned to Iris instead.
She hadn't spoken since Dolorus began questioning him. But her posture had changed. Subtle. Straighter. Shoulders tighter. Hands no longer relaxed, but resting deliberately atop one another.
He smirked.
It wasn't arrogance. It wasn't mockery.
It was knowing.
"I will allow it," Evodil said, gesturing outward toward the endless halls beyond the courtyard. "You may explore the palace."
Iris's eyes flicked toward the arches.
Dolorus stayed perfectly still.
"But there is a rule," Evodil continued.
"Return within half an hour."
His voice didn't rise.
"If you don't…"
The air grew thinner.
"…you will never find your way back."
No one spoke.
The palace remained quiet.
And Evodil smiled like he'd just granted them a gift.
They looked at him in perfect sync.
Then, as if rehearsed—
"Very well, Joker."
Two chairs scraped gently against the floor, barely echoing in the massive space.
Iris and Dolorus stood with calm grace, no fear in their steps—only purpose. Together, they moved toward the far archway, the one that led deeper into the palace.
Evodil watched them, silent.
As they passed under the arch, both of them muttered something. Not to him. To each other. Too quiet for even a god to hear without straining.
And then they were gone.
Out of the courtyard. Out of sight.
Evodil's entire posture collapsed.
He dropped forward like someone pulled the plug on divine posture, face smacking the polished table with a dull thunk.
"Stupid gravity," he muttered into the marble.
He stayed there.
Thinking.
Processing.
Every question they'd asked. Every answer he made up. Every mistake he narrowly dodged. He ran through the new information—cult names, god names, Oaths, terms, dates. All of it had to be remembered. Filed. Used later.
But not right now.
Right now?
He deserved a break.
His head stayed pressed against the polished black wood.
He stared at the grain, the reflection of his own silhouette warped by the surface. Not a face. Just a shape. A figure that didn't belong anywhere—and somehow belonged here more than anyone.
The "Joker."
That's what they called him now.
He couldn't be himself here. Couldn't be James. Couldn't be Noah. Couldn't be any god from the world outside. Those names carried rules. Expectations. Limits.
Here?
He had to be something else.
Something that didn't make sense.
Didn't follow logic.
Didn't answer to history.
A wild card.
A contradiction made flesh.
Something that matched the cursed realm of light this palace lived in.
After a few long minutes, he finally stood.
The throne behind him didn't move. Didn't creak. It felt more like a fixture of the realm than a chair. Rooted. Eternal.
Evodil rolled his shoulders once and adjusted his coat.
They were gone.
Iris and Dolorus had likely assumed he'd remain in the courtyard, looming, waiting like a proper god.
Which meant now was the perfect time to move.
And if he was going to explore, he wasn't about to follow their path.
He turned to the opposite archway—clean, quiet, untouched.
No footsteps. No echoes.
Good.
Let them think he stayed behind.
Without a word, he stepped through.
And vanished into the palace.
He stepped through the archway.
And stopped.
The air shifted—barely—but the silence deepened. The stone beneath his boots turned to old wooden planks, worn from years of footsteps that never made noise.
The first room was familiar.
Uncomfortably so.
It looked exactly like the entrance to his manor.
Chairs lined both walls, some angled ever so slightly—always off-center no matter how many times he fixed them. Paintings hung crooked on nails too weak to hold them. A few were the ones Noah gave him—skies, trees, strange glowing stones.
The wallpaper was the same, too.
Faded yellow, floral patterns curling along the walls like dried veins. He had always meant to replace it.
To the right, through the archway, he could see the edge of the dining room table. Still dusty. Still intact. Still there.
Near the door, the clock ticked softly—just out of rhythm, always lagging by a minute, no matter how often he rewound it.
And against the small side table near the coat rack sat the candle—eternally burning, never melting—and the broken radio beside it. Static-only. No signal. Never played anything, even when it should've.
Unpacked boxes were still stacked in the corner.
Just like home.
Exactly like home.
Too much like home.
He hadn't walked into the palace.
He'd walked into a memory.
Or something trying to recreate one.
And he wasn't sure which was worse.
He walked up to the table.
The candle still burned, exactly like it always did.
Evodil narrowed his eyes.
Then pushed it off.
It fell in silence, hit the floor, and—
Wasn't there anymore.
Back on the table. Same flame. Same spot. Like nothing happened.
He stared at it, unimpressed.
"Cheap knockoff," he muttered under his breath. "Couldn't even fake gravity right."
This wasn't home.
It was the palace, still.
Dressed in nostalgia. Painted with stolen comfort. Just another lie wrapped in white light and impossible symmetry.
He stepped into the dining room next.
It looked exactly the same.
Same oversized table. Eight seats, even though he never invited anyone to dinner. Even though he never sat in any of them. But they were always there.
Always eight.
To the right: the archway leading to the hallway.
To the left: the stairs, and the familiar curve of the kitchen entrance behind them.
For a moment, he thought about walking toward the kitchen.
The coffee machine was probably there.
Working. Clean. Waiting.
But he didn't.
He walked up the stairs.