That gala dinner, in the end, was my grandfather's peculiar way of saying goodbye. And, I must admit, it was fun. Seeing that court of snobs in tuxedos and expensive dresses slipping on their own arrogance, fallen on the ground and covered in the black grease of my own creation... was an image that made me chuckle quietly even inside the car. It was more than fun, of course. It was a testing ground. While the Clown danced and distracted, the Marauder in me worked in the shadows, and for the first time, I felt the Path of the Error respond to my touch.
And that seed planted in the ballroom didn't stop growing. At the airport, with the vastness of people and luggage as my new playground, nothing stopped me from practicing. A servant of my grandfather accompanied me, a man with a serious expression and discreet steps. Whenever my agile hands found a forgotten wallet, a dazzling watch, or a valuable object left unattended, I would simply turn and deposit the trophy into his hands.
He accepted in silence, but I saw the doubt and fear in his eyes. Was there a chance he would tell my grandfather everything? Of course there was. So, I stopped in front of him, my eyes fixing on his without blinking.
"Your future is a thin line over an abyss," I whispered, my voice laden with a supernatural seriousness. "One misstep, one misplaced word... and it ends in death. Would you truly risk doubting the word of a Seer?"
I didn't need to say more. The blood drained from his face. What choice did he have when a prophecy of death was cast upon his fate? His silence became my greatest guarantee.
Well, moving on. I'm on my way to the United States, to live and study with this Morticia Addams. The fact that I've already advanced to Sequence 7: Magician doesn't make the journey any less interesting.
Its abilities include: Damage Transference, Flame Leap, Air Bullet, Paper Figurine Substitute, Flame Control, Bone Softening, Paper Weapons, Underwater Breathing, and Illusion Creation.
In general, the abilities of a Circus Magician are meant to be presented to the public.
The muffled roar of the private jet's engines was a constant melody, a soundtrack to my thoughts. Outside the window, cottony clouds stretched as far as the eye could see, a white and silent sea under an infinite blue sky.
As I watched the vastness, my fingers worked with unconscious precision. A gold ring spun and danced between my fingers with supernatural agility.
My gaze drifted into the cabin and landed on the servant seated across from me, the same one who had become my involuntary vault.
He didn't dare look at me. His chin was almost touching his chest, his eyes fixed on the beige carpet as if seeking an answer or refuge in the repetitive pattern. His hands, resting on his knees, trembled almost imperceptibly, a small but revealing earthquake of fear.
"Is something bothering you?" I asked, my voice breaking the heavy silence. The question was genuinely curious. I stopped spinning the ring, holding it firmly between my thumb and forefinger, like a jeweler examining a gem.
He flinched visibly, as if my voice were an electric shock. His mouth opened, a spasmodic movement, but no sound came out. His lips moved, forming ghost words that were lost before gaining a voice. Was he so intimidated by a seven-year-old child? Or was it by what that child represented?
"Young master..." his voice finally emerged, a thread of hoarse, hesitant sound. "Why steal if you have... everything?"
Oh... How interesting.
"What is your name?" I asked, ignoring his question for the moment. I needed to place him in the correct context, to personalize the frame.
"Ah, Dominic, sir," he replied, almost breathless, confused by the change of direction.
"Dominic," I repeated, the name sounding strange and new in my mouth. I adjusted myself in the leather seat, finding a more comfortable position, like a teacher preparing for a lesson. I resumed spinning the gold ring, the hypnotic movement serving as a focal point for my thoughts and, undoubtedly, increasing his discomfort.
"Tell me, Dominic," I began, my voice low but carrying an authority that silenced even the engine noise. "Is the world fair?"
Silence was the only response Dominic could offer. It wasn't deep or thoughtful; it was heavy, laden with a fear that swallowed any attempt at reasoning.
A light sigh escaped my lips. Frustration was a metallic taste in my mouth.
I feel I'm not being taken seriously.
He saw a child asking disturbing questions, not a being who saw the rotten threads stitching the fabric of the world.
"As long as the world exists," I began, my voice low but cutting through the air like the edge of one of my Paper daggers. "There will be humans who consider power unjust and secret plots to overthrow it."
The words came from Ethan White's bitter memory, but they fit the moment perfectly.
"I am genuinely ashamed," I confessed, and the emotion in my voice was genuine, a rarity, "to live in such a hypocritical, unjust, and ignorant world."
And then, I let my Spirituality flow. Not as a brute force, but as a fine, precise brush, painting over the reality of the cabin. Illusions emerged from nothing, projected in the air between Dominic and me, so vivid and detailed it was almost possible to feel the heat and smell.
He saw ordinary people fighting in dirty wars, their faces marked by grime and terror, while, in refrigerated, secure rooms, their presidents and generals moved pieces on a board, treating lives as numbers. The scene changed, and children with faces swollen from hunger appeared, staring into the void with lifeless eyes, while, at banquet tables, the richest ate to the point of gluttony, wasting food that could save hundreds. A final vision: a poor family counting coins to pay extortionate taxes, while a tycoon evaded millions without a twinge of remorse.
"Unfortunately," I continued, my voice now a whisper laden with fatigue. "In a world of humans, it cannot sustain itself without injustice. It is the rotten foundation that keeps the structure standing."
The illusions transformed again, delving deeper into the darkness. I showed the banal cruelty: the indifference to others' suffering, the conveniently accepted lie, the betrayal for a handful of coins.
"And the greatest illusion of all, Dominic," I said, fixing my heterochromatic eyes on him. "Is to think that changing the characters would solve the problem. If the poor became rich, they would become corrupt and turn into those who take advantage of injustice. The chair is the same. Only the occupant changes. The system... the system always wins."
Dominic swallowed dryly, his throat seeming made of paper. The illusions had vanished, but the images of war and hunger were burned behind his eyelids. He still trembled, but now it wasn't just fear of a prophetic child. It was the terror of seeing the world with the same cruel clarity.
"But... but then there is no hope, young master?" His voice came out as a plea, rough and fragile. "If everything is corrupt, if injustice is the rule... why try? Why... steal? Doesn't that make you part of the same system you despise?"
A thin smile, devoid of any trace of joy, touched my lips. It was the expression of one who has heard a naive question for the thousandth time.
"Hope, Dominic? Hope is a comfort for those who can wait. A crutch for those who believe in happy endings." I made the gold ring reappear, spinning it on the tip of my finger. "I don't steal out of hope. And I don't steal to become part of the system."
I paused, watching the light reflect off the metal.
"I steal to expose it. Every wallet, every watch, every valuable object I take from those who swim in wealth is a reminder. A reminder that their security is an illusion, that their power can be violated by a seven-year-old boy in an airport. It is an act of truth, not greed."
I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial, intense whisper.
"Do you think the rich and powerful don't plunder? They plunder daily, Dominic. They plunder the worker's sweat, the future of the poor, the dignity of the needy. They just do it with laws, contracts, and polite smiles. They steal so efficiently, so cleanly, that the world calls it 'business' or 'politics'. My plunder is just more honest. It's raw, it's direct. It's a mirror showing the ugliness they try to hide behind marble walls and empty speeches."
Dominic felt a chill. The logic was twisted, sick, but it had a horrible internal coherence. It was like looking into an abyss and hearing it whisper back.
"And... and what do you gain from this, young master?" Dominic dared to ask, confused. "Besides proving a point?"
His question was predictable, coming from a mind still seeking a utilitarian reason, a clear transaction. He couldn't see that the act itself was the reward.
"The Fool sees fate and smiles. The Door opens shortcuts in reality. And the Error... the Error is the crack in perfection, the flaw in the system, the piece that doesn't fit. By plundering, I'm not just taking. I'm proving that nothing is safe, that all order is temporary, that every sandcastle can be swept away by an unexpected tide. Each act is a step towards mastering the art of chaos, towards becoming the very exception to the rule."
He looked at Dominic, and for the first time, the servant saw not a child, nor a prophet, but something ancient and weary in those bicolored eyes.
"The world is a joke in poor taste, Dominic. And I decided that, instead of crying or ignoring it, I will be the Fool who tells it to an audience that doesn't want to hear. And if, in the process, I need to take some of the audience's jewels to fund the show... so be it."
Dominic heard it all and then lowered his head, falling silent from that point on.
...
Wednesday P.O.V
This day was proving promising. A gray, overcast morning, the air heavy with the promise of a storm. The smell of wet earth and ozone was the only perfume worth breathing. I contemplated the darkened sky from the library, appreciating the way the clouds gathered, promising a spectacle of natural fury. The quiet was almost perfect.
Until a harsh, metallic sound cut through the silence. A familiar, high-pitched creak. It was Ugly, writhing in the electric chair where I had left him tied. My mood, which had been floating serenely in the gloomy atmosphere, solidified into a block of sharp ice.
"What is it?" My voice came out flat and cutting, a blade making no attempt to disguise the annoyance at having my contemplation interrupted.
"Let me go." He pleaded, which only served to worsen my already deteriorated state of mind.
"No," I retorted, without taking my eyes off the window. The first drop of rain trickled down the glass like a solitary tear. "As soon as the rain arrives, I will turn on the electric chair." The promise was a dark lullaby, a natural extension of that charged morning.
Finally, I turned to him. My eyes, black as bottomless pits, met his. He tried to hold the gaze, a spark of pathetic defiance, but it didn't last. His eyes shifted away, falling to the floor in defeat. An almost imperceptible smile touched my lips.
"Today is a great day for a lightning storm," I whispered, more to myself than to him. It was an obvious truth, an acknowledgment of the world's simple beauty.
Rumble!
The sound wasn't just noise. It was a declaration. A deep, angry thunder that echoed through the skies and the mansion's walls, a celestial drum marking the start of the spectacle. The lightning flash illuminated the room for a fraction of a second, casting dancing, grotesque shadows.
It was the sign I had been waiting for.
Without hesitation, without ceremony, my hand wrapped around the heavy lever. The wood was rough under my skin, familiar. And then, with quiet solemnity, I pulled it.
A high-pitched hum filled the air, the smell of ozone becoming intense and metallic. Ugly's body arched, rigidly, a convulsing silhouette against the backdrop of the storm beginning outside.
The moment was about to reach its perfect climax—the smell of charred flesh beginning to mingle with the storm's scent, Ugly's convulsing silhouette against the lightning flashes—when Mother's voice cut through the atmosphere like a polished silver knife.
"Wednesday, I hope you finish playing with your brother soon, we have guests."
My head turned slowly towards her. She was at the door, impeccable as always, a serene and knowing smile on her face. A deadpan stare was all the response I gave her before letting out a resigned sigh. The electric chair lever was deactivated with a disappointing click, the agonizing hum dying instantly.
"Why did you stop? It was fun!" Ugly exclaimed, his voice a bit higher than normal, with thin wisps of smoke rising from his hair and clothes.
"Mother says we have visitors," I informed him, my voice flat. "Perhaps it's the student she mentioned earlier." The possibility was slightly less tedious than watching Ugly fry, but only slightly. I turned to leave the room, my interrupted fun leaving a void of boredom in its place.
And then, it happened.
A pressure fell upon me. It felt as if the mansion's air had suddenly become heavy as lead. I felt my legs tremble involuntarily. A sharp chill, keen as shards from a glass coffin, ran up my spine, raising the fine hairs on my nape.
In the periphery of my vision, a figure materialized. It was enigmatic, distorted. A silhouette taller than me, wrapped in a kind of cloak that seemed to absorb the light around it, covering it completely. And around it, countless tentacles and worms writhed in a grotesque and silent ballet, serpentining in the air like roots of a profane tree.
That was...
Interesting.
The initial fear was instantly consumed by a much more powerful flame: curiosity. I felt something within me stir, a deep, insatiable desire to discover that thing, to analyze every inch of that vision, to understand its nature. Who, or what, was capable of projecting such a magnificently disturbing aura?
The figure vanished as quickly as it appeared, dissolving into a gray mist that seemed to whisper secrets. At the same instant, familiar voices rose from the foyer.
"Hello, Noah! I've heard so much about you from your grandfather. Welcome to our home!"
It was Mother. Her tone was cordial and refined, easily recognizable to me. But now, that common greeting carried a completely new weight.
Noah.
The name echoed in my mind, intertwined with an enigmatic image—appearing for some reason.
Without hesitation, I changed my course. Instead of going down directly, I headed to the armory. My hands, firm and sure, wrapped around the familiar contours of the crossbow.
I will personally verify this student.
I positioned myself at the highest point of the staircase, a shadow merging with the dark ceiling beams. The crossbow was raised with silent fluidity. The tip of the metal bolt, polished to a shine even in the gloom, found its target.
Down below, he was there. With his back to me. The boy—Noah. Silent as a tomb, he watched my mother converse with someone on the other side through her crystal ball, his profile motionless against the flickering light.
My finger found the trigger. The varnished wood was smooth under my skin. The tension in the mechanism was a promising whisper, a single breath separating stillness from chaos.
And then—