The days that followed my reading of that harrowing report on "The Tyrant Beast Incident" passed like a dense fog of confusion and bitter contemplation. The Verton estate, with all its silent grandeur and cold stone beauty, became my golden prison once again. My spacious quarters—once a paradise after the hell of the cave—now felt suffocating, as if the very walls whispered secrets no sane mind could comprehend.
I spent most of my time locked away, feigning recovery from a "mysterious illness" that had supposedly confined me to bed—the official story fabricated to explain my prolonged absence, one I wasn't even sure anyone in this mansion truly believed. The "Eye of Truth" showed me flickers of doubt and curiosity in the fleeting glances of the servants, but no one dared ask. The fear of the Verton name was stronger than any curiosity.
I ate my meals in silence. The gourmet food that Monsieur Julian insisted on preparing for me—though I never requested it this time—had lost much of its allure. Every bite reminded me of the tough jerky and bitter roots that kept me alive in that cursed forest. Every sip of luxurious wine reminded me of the mineral water from that suspicious spring.
I began a light and secret training routine in my private garden—a secluded area no one dared enter without permission. I practiced basic sword movements, recalling what I could from the original Nier's memory, using a heavy training blade I found in the wing's armory. My body was still recovering, and the silver scar on my chest often throbbed—especially when I pushed myself too hard. But the pain was a reminder. A reminder that I had survived, and that I must grow stronger.
I was also trying to better understand the "Eye of Truth." It was no longer just flashes of insight. I could now activate it with more intention, though it still caused mild headaches and mental fatigue. I began seeing energy auras around people and objects more clearly. Alistair's aura, when I accidentally saw him in one of the hallways, was a cold gray—like winter ice—interlaced with sharp threads of calculation and strategy. The servants' auras were dim, gray, and soaked in fear.
Magic… remained a mystery. "Magic Rank: Restricted" was like a solid wall I couldn't break through. Every attempt I made to summon any kind of magical energy—even the so-called affinity with shadow magic—ended in failure. I felt like something inside me was sealed, a massive power waiting to be unleashed, but I lacked the key.
The greatest mystery still surrounded my recovery and return. The tree with the Verton crest… what or who was responsible? I found no answers. Whenever I subtly questioned the servants, they would feign ignorance or quickly change the subject—as if there was an unspoken order to remain silent.
Weeks passed. We entered mid-July. The summer heat grew stronger, though it was nowhere near the merciless cold of the Black Forest. I had regained much of my physical strength, and my sword movements became more fluid, more confident. But my mind still bore the scars of what I had endured. The nightmares hadn't stopped, and the haunting images of those terrifying forest zones followed me in both sleep and wakefulness.
One night, while sitting on the balcony of my chambers, staring at the pale silver moon peeking between dark clouds, something came back to me.
The Academy.
"Roughly three months until the Academy begins…" I murmured to myself. "Late September or early October—that's the usual start of the academic year."
Three months. Not a long time. But not short either. Enough time to prepare… or to get into more trouble.
Then—as always—memories of that cursed novel returned. "At this point in the story," I thought bitterly, "the deranged author was building up the romance between original Nier and Ayla. Entire chapters of pointless conversations, shy glances, and 'coincidental' encounters so forced it made me nauseous." All of that while the world was still licking its wounds from the Tyrant Beast attack. How did I even manage to read such a story? Damn you, my useless friend Lin, for dragging me into this pink-hued hell!
I sighed deeply, feeling that familiar anger begin to simmer again. But suddenly, something shifted in my expression. The corner of my mouth lifted, and a strange, almost wicked smile began to form.
"Well then," I thought, the smile widening. "Around this time... hehe... another character should make their entrance. Someone far more interesting than those two pretend lovers."
The Joker.
The Noble Slayer.
The mysterious character who appeared suddenly in the novel, spreading fear through the hearts of the corrupt nobles in the capital. He didn't steal. He didn't seek power. He killed. Killed coldly. Artfully. And always left behind his signature—a blood-stained Joker playing card.
"He'll be at the Academy," I remembered, a strange excitement tingling within me. "And no one will know who he really is. He'll move among them like a ghost, a wolf in sheep's clothing. But I… I've read the novel. I know who he is."
That character… the Joker… he was the only exception in that novel full of shallow characters and cringeworthy drama. He was mysterious, dangerous, driven by unclear motives—but certainly not romance.
I remember his mask's description vividly. It was so detailed, so precise, as if the author had poured all her (limited) creativity into designing that mask alone.
"The mask," I murmured, recalling the words, "was crafted with intricate and majestic design, wrapping around the face in sharp, interwoven shapes that gave it a mysterious and commanding aura. Its primary color was deep black, enhancing its presence, while faint glowing blue lines ran through it, adding a sense of elegance and terror."
Yes, that was it. A mask that wasn't just a disguise, but a terrifying work of art.
"The mask's features were sculpted precisely, covering the face symmetrically without hiding the eyes, allowing expressions to remain while preserving the air of mystery. The edges were sharp or etched with fine geometric patterns, like something from an ancient rite, holding hidden meaning."
I closed my eyes and pictured it. The deep black, like a starless night. The blue lines glowing like veins of dark magic. The eyes—those windows to the soul—gazing from behind the grand design, unreadable.
"That's how the novel described it," I thought, my wicked grin widening again. "Perhaps the only character I truly liked in the entire story. The only one who ever piqued my interest."
The Joker. His presence in the Academy would undoubtedly make things more… entertaining. Would I interact with him? Use my foreknowledge to my advantage? Or simply watch from afar, enjoying the chaos he'd bring?
The idea of someone else—someone powerful and enigmatic—operating from the shadows with his own agenda… brought me a strange comfort. I no longer felt like I was the only one mocking the absurdity of this world.
As for my family's reaction to my disappearance and return… it was exactly what I expected.
Alistair, as I gathered from the servants' whispers and anxious looks, was still angry about the "unjustified extravagance" I committed before vanishing.
Apparently, the bill for that legendary feast—and the costs of restocking my wardrobe and suite—had reached him and provoked his wrath. I hadn't seen him face-to-face yet, and I was deliberately avoiding it. I didn't want to ruin my (relatively) good mood by enduring his cold scolding.
And the Duke of Shadows… as expected, he gave no response whatsoever. No questions. No summons. Nothing. As if his only son hadn't gone missing in a cursed forest for a month and returned with a mysterious scar. That silence… was heavier than any rage. Did he know what happened to me? Was he involved in saving me? Or did he simply not care? More questions added to the ever-growing list of mysteries surrounding that man.
I looked up at the sky again. The moon was still there, watching me in its silver silence.
"Three months," I thought. "Three months to prepare for the Academy. Three months before I meet Ayla, Celine, and… the Joker."
I felt the real game was about to begin. That the Black Forest, with all its horror, was only a prologue. A prelude to something far harsher, far more complex.
But this time… I wouldn't be a passive observer.
I had the "Eye of Truth."
I had foreknowledge of the events.
And I had… new resolve. Resolve to survive, and to change the rules of this cursed game.
I smiled again—that wicked grin that now came to my face more and more often.
"Let the Academy come.
Let the Joker come.
I'm ready."
But deep down… I knew that true readiness required more than words. It required power. And a deeper understanding of this strange system that still refused to reveal its secrets.
The journey was far from over.
And the dangers were still lurking in every shadow.
But at least now, I didn't feel so alone in my mockery of this world.
There was another Joker in the game.
And that made things far more interesting.