I woke up just as the last light of the evening sun slipped through the gap in the thick velvet curtains of my rooftop chamber. The room was quiet, filled only by the ticking of a mechanical clock above the fireplace. I had slept through the entire day, perhaps a rare luxury I forced upon myself after last night's theft at the de Montfort estate. My body felt heavy, and there was a faint hollowness in my aperture, the residual effect of using the Chronos Salvation. I had forgotten that the artifact consumes the user's aperture. Bastard thing.
I sat at the edge of the bed, staring at my own hands. Hands of a young man nearly nineteen years old, yet I felt the exhaustion of two lifetimes. My mind spun, analyzing the events of the previous night. The theft was successful. I had secured the book I wanted. But I had also left behind a trace — a magic performance too perfect, a lie that now lived on its own and might very well be called a "prophet's miracle" or something of the sort, because for some reason, the people of this world were deeply religious. And I knew, with rational certainty, that William Salwors and Irene Cheva were now dissecting every detail of that performance, trying to find something off to identify who was behind it.
For a moment, I felt the urge to keep working, to plan the next step, to anticipate their movements. But there was another voice within me — the weariness that had lingered since morning. I could feel it clearly. I had never been this tired before.
In my previous world, as Cheon Donghwan, I never rested. Every moment was vigilance, because I had been the most wanted fugitive, even special forces had been deployed multiple times. I destroyed myself in the process. And so, in this second life, I could learn to do things differently.
Tonight, I would not be 'W' the master thief, nor Welt Rothes the investor. Tonight, to comfort myself as well, I would become Motley the Jester. I had no other motive than to ease the fatigue. For so long, I had missed the sensation of making people laugh.
I put on my costume. A patchwork suit of colorful fabric, boots with curled tips, and thick white face paint with a forced red smile. When I looked into the mirror, I was clearly staring at a stranger. Someone whose job was to bring laughter and joy to everyone. For tonight, I would try to play that role sincerely.
I left the rooftop manor, walking to the Entertainment District on foot, avoiding the use of a horse-drawn carriage. The night air in Clockthon was cool. I passed by nobles rushing to the opera, merchants closing their shops, and street children playing in narrow alleys. For the first time, I didn't analyze them. I simply saw the warmth of this world.
I arrived at the plaza where I usually performed. The place was already crowded. A few street musicians played melancholic tunes, and an old storyteller was surrounded by a small group of eager listeners.
I didn't try to compete, not yet. Instead, I walked to a quieter corner, near an old fountain. I placed my hat on the ground and began my performance.
I didn't perform grand tricks like before. I started with the small things. I pulled out a deck of cards and began simple sleight-of-hand tricks. Cards vanished and reappeared. Coins moved from one hand to the other unseen. These were basic tricks, but I executed them with the grace of a seasoned performer — a true Jester.
Slowly, a small crowd began to form. Mostly workers just off their shifts and a few families strolling for the evening. They weren't expecting miracles. What they wanted was a moment of relief.
A little girl, perhaps six years old, watched me with wide eyes. I smiled at her — the Motley smile — and pulled a red handkerchief from my pocket. I waved it, and from it appeared a small white dove made of paper. I handed it to her.
Her eyes sparkled.
I continued my performance. I moved on to pantomime, then told a funny story about a fisherman trying to catch a fish smarter than himself. I used my body and expressions to create laughter. I didn't use any Essence. I didn't rely on power, only on the art of performance honed through several days of practice.
As I was deep into my routine, I noticed her. Irene was standing at the edge of the crowd, alone, watching me. As the daughter of a Count, she clearly wasn't wearing an evening gown. She wore a simple traveling cloak. Her face showed no expression, but her green eyes were focused on my small tricks.
I felt a bit of tension, but I didn't let it disrupt my performance. Instead, I used it, glanced at her briefly, then returned to my routine with more energy, as if I had something to prove.
For my final trick, I decided to do something a little more personal.
"Now," I said to the crowd, "I need the help of someone with a kind heart."
My eyes fell on an elderly woman sitting at the edge of the fountain. She looked tired, her clothes worn, her hands wrinkled.
"Ma'am," I said as I approached her. "May I borrow your fondest memory, just for a moment?"
She looked at me, confused. "My memory?"
"Yes," I said. "Think of the happiest moment in your life. Focus on that feeling."
I placed my palm over her wrinkled hand. I didn't use Void Essence. Swiftly, I tapped into the 'Motley Fool' perception — the ability to sense emotions. I felt a wave of warmth from her. From what I could glean from this Channel, what I saw now was a memory of joy — most likely her wedding day, her husband's long-lost laughter, the sensation of sunlight on her face.
I absorbed all of it, then turned to the watching crowd. With it, I expressed everything through my face, a smile that was neither Motley nor Welt. I truly saw the people around me through eyes blurred with emotion.
I didn't know what the audience saw. But I could feel the change in the air. The atmosphere grew warmer, softer. Some smiled unconsciously. Others looked contemplative. All of it was sincere.
I had shared a pure emotion without a single word.
After a while, I released the feeling and returned to being Motley. I bowed deeply.
This applause felt different. Quieter, and clearly more genuine. My hat filled with coins, but also with a few flowers and a piece of bread.
Once the crowd dispersed, only Irene remained. She approached me.
"That was different," she said softly.
"Different how?" I asked as I gathered the coins from my hat.
"Your other tricks, at the de Montfort party — according to my observations and those of the guests — they were performances of power. But this felt like genuine street magic. Or clown tricks, if that doesn't offend you."
I didn't answer.
"You sensed that old woman's emotions, didn't you?" she asked. "That's not part of any Channel I know or have seen."
"A Jester has many tricks up his sleeve," I said, deflecting.
She stared at me for a long moment. "You're full of secrets, Mister Motley. And I intend to uncover every one of them."
Before I could reply, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the night crowd.
I was left alone by the fountain. My hat was full of money, but my mind was full of doubt. Irene had gotten too close. She had seen more than she should have. My ability to sense emotions was part of the 'Motley Fool' I never wanted to show. It was too personal.
I felt tired. Not physically — it was the exhaustion of wearing masks, even masks on top of masks. I longed for simplicity. I longed for a world where I could just be myself, whoever that truly was.
My thoughts returned to the journal I had taken from the de Montfort estate. The story of the Primeval Forger and the Dwarf. They created remarkable things, not for power or control, but perhaps out of the joy of creation itself. I could admit they were on par with Hephaestus of Greek myth — perhaps even beyond him.
Am I an artist? Or merely a terrorist with different methods?
I looked into my reflection in the fountain. Motley's white-painted face stared back, its red smile mocking. Behind it, I could see the shadow of Welt, the business strategist. And behind him still, deep down, was Cheon Donghwan — the angry boy who only wanted to burn the world.
Which one of them was real? Was any of them real at all?
Perhaps, as Jaques said, "all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players." I was only playing my part. A part I had written for myself.
I picked up my filled hat and began the walk home. Tonight, I had gained no strategic information. I had advanced none of my plans. But perhaps I had found something else. A flicker of humanity long lost within me. And I was not sure whether that was a strength or a weakness.
As I walked down the empty streets, I remembered Irene's question from the other day when I had asked her something about traitors and the Channels of the Moon God. "What is your purpose in studying Heretic Channels?"
I had no answer then. But now, perhaps I am starting to find one.
Maybe my goal is not to control this world. Maybe my goal is to understand it. To understand all its contradictions, all its beauty, all its horrors. To understand Silas Nolhome, Viviane, Irene, William, and even myself.
And maybe, understanding itself is the highest form of power. The truest form of freedom.
I arrived at my rooftop chamber. I removed the Motley costume and folded it neatly. I looked at the books I had taken from the de Montfort estate, lying on my desk. I had not opened them.
I wasn't ready.
Tonight, I would not study ancient secrets. I would just sit on the balcony, stare at the full moon, and try to feel something real. Something that belonged to me alone. Even if it was only the fatigue of a clown after a long performance.