Chapter 142: Phantom Laughter Circus

Three days later, at the Dark Feather Tavern.

Sakavi sat at the same corner table, before him the dark red liquor untouched since he arrived. The one-eyed old man did not look at him; patrons came and went, just as they had three days prior.

A squad of dwarf miners quarreled at the bar, two halflings rolled dice, and a human mage in a gray robe flipped pages in the corner.

But no drow.

Midnight passed. Another hour passed. The tavern emptied; the one-eyed old man began wiping glasses, the dwarf miners stumbled out, the human mage closed his grimoire and left.

Sakavi did not move.

His vertical pupils contracted slightly beneath the hood’s shadow, scanning the entrance. He waited. The Proverb Guild had said “three days,” not a specific time.

Perhaps they were accustomed to appearing at dawn. Perhaps they hesitated. Or perhaps they never arrived late—lateness meant the deal was canceled.

He was about to rise when the door opened.

Not a drow.

In came a short figure. He wore a tight-fitting diamond-patterned black-and-white suit and a pointed clown hat, its tip adorned with a bell that jingled with every step.

His face was painted white, black teardrops drawn beneath his eyes, a grotesque grin smeared in red paint across his lips—his face smiled even when expressionless.

A clown.

Sakavi’s vertical pupils did not change, but his right hand slid silently to his waist—no sword there; the sword was registered at the entrance. He had only claws.

The clown walked straight to Sakavi’s table, pulled out the chair opposite, and sat down with the ease of a man in his own home. He removed his crumpled hat and placed it on the table; the bell rolled once across the wood and rang out a clear “ding.”

“Waited all night? Tired?” the clown spoke. His voice was low, rough as sandpaper—not a forced comic tone, but genuine, devoid of performance.

Sakavi said nothing.

The clown pulled a slip of paper from his coat, placed it on the table, and slid it toward Sakavi. A ticket. Coarse paper, uneven edges, as if torn by hand. Scrawled across its face in crooked script: “Phantom Laughter Circus · Midnight Show · Ticket Required.”

No location. No time. No seat number. At the center of the ticket, a smiling face—identical to the painted grin on the clown’s face.

“The drow won’t come,” the clown said. His eyes—the ones not covered in paint—were a pale, nearly transparent gray, like frosted winter glass. “But they agreed to the deal.”

Sakavi stared at the ticket. Did not reach for it.

“Who are you?”

“Me?” The clown tilted his head; the bell on his hat jingled again. “I’m the ticket seller. Phantom Laughter Circus is touring the 72nd Plane. Tonight, a special show. Not everyone gets a ticket. You have to be interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“Yes.” The clown’s painted lips stretched upward. “For example: a legendary-tier black dragon necromancer, wearing a vassal seal of the Luo Sen Empire, strolling boldly into an imperial outpost to ask the drow about the Soul Prison.”

Sakavi’s vertical pupils narrowed to slits.

“You find that interesting?”

“I find it fascinating,” the clown said. “Fascinating enough that my boss wants to meet you.”

He stood, pushed the ticket closer to Sakavi, slipped his bell-hat back on, and turned toward the exit. After a few steps, he paused and glanced back at Sakavi.

“Come or not, it’s your choice. But the drow’s intelligence? It’s in our hands now. Don’t come, and you won’t get it.”

The door shut behind him.

Only Sakavi and the one-eyed old man remained. The old man had not looked at them once.

Sakavi sat in silence for a long time. Then he picked up the ticket, rose, and stepped out.

At the eastern edge of the camp, in the most secluded corner, stood a row of abandoned old warehouses.

By day, they were piled high with obsolete imperial military equipment. By night, even patrol soldiers avoided the place. But tonight, in the deepest open space of the warehouse district, a massive tent had appeared out of nowhere.

The tent was black—so black it vanished into the night, its outline nearly invisible. No flag. No sign. Only one entrance, illuminated by two dim green lanterns casting light over a low doorway.

Sakavi stood before the tent, staring at the ticket in his hand. The smiling face on it seemed alive under the green glow—its lips slightly wider than before.

He lifted the flap and stepped inside.

Inside, the tent was more than twice the size it appeared from outside. Spatial magic—highly advanced.

At the center stood a circular stage, surrounded by tiered seating, each row filled with people—no, not people. Various “beings.”

Sakavi’s vertical pupils swept the audience. He saw a squad of silent dwarves, their beards dusted with fresh ore powder, hammers clipped to their belts, eyes as battle-hardened as seasoned warriors.

Several elven rangers sat in the corner, bows never leaving their hands, quivers resting on their knees. A figure wrapped in a black robe occupied an entire row alone, radiating faint necrotic energy.

A few imperial officers in standardized armor, their badges removed, yet still carrying themselves with military bearing.

No drow.

Sakavi was led to a row of seats directly in front of the stage. The seats were empty—clearly reserved for him.

As he sat, a figure occupied the seat beside him—not a person. The clown. Hat off, most of the paint washed away, revealing a pale, ageless face.

“Welcome,” the clown said. “The show is about to begin.”

The stage lights ignited.

First came a troupe of acrobats—juggling balls, walking on stilts, spitting fire—no different from any ordinary circus. But Sakavi noticed: the jugglers wore assassin’s knuckle dusters.

The stilt-walkers landed without sound. The fire-spitter did not exhale alcohol flame—he vomited true, concentrated dragonbreath, directly from deep within his throat.

Next came the beast tamer. He led a creature covered in black scales—resembling both lizard and dragon—circling the stage.

The creature’s vertical pupils were vacant, its movements mechanical, like a puppet on strings. Sakavi recognized that gaze: soul-controlled puppets.

The beast tamer was a necromancer. Or more precisely, a sorcerer skilled in soul manipulation.

Third came a group of clowns. She—Sakavi noted several were female—wore brightly colored, baggy robes, tumbling on stage, scattering confetti, striking each other with inflatable hammers.

The audience emitted scattered laughter. But Sakavi did not laugh. He noticed: beneath their robes, glimpses of armor edges.

When they scattered confetti, fine steel needles, thinner than hair, clung between their fingers. When the inflatable hammers struck, the stage floor emitted a heavy, unnatural thud.

Those hammers were solid.

The audience’s laughter faded. They began to realize: this was no ordinary circus. They were not here to watch. They were here to be watched.

Lights dimmed. When they brightened again, only one figure remained on stage.

He wore a deep purple tailcoat, a tall top hat, and leaned on a silver-headed cane. His face bore no paint—only a white mask, not worn, but painted directly onto his skin. The expression matched every clown’s: an eternal smile.

“Welcome to the Phantom Laughter Circus,” he said. His voice was quiet, yet clear in every ear, as if whispered beside the skull. “I am the director.”

He paused.

“I know many of you are not here for the show. You seek information. You test the waters. You hunt for someone. Or for death. All are welcome. The Phantom Laughter Circus does not choose its guests.”

He tapped his cane lightly against the stage floor.

“Tonight, we conduct but one transaction.”

A curtain rose behind the stage. Behind it, a long table appeared, bearing a sealed scroll of parchment and a dark silver ring.

“The Soul Prison,” the director said. “Its location, outer defenses, garrison distribution, and known intelligence on the warden—all here.”

A hushed murmur rippled through the audience.

“But,” the director continued, “this transaction is not with individuals. Only with ‘collaborators.’”

His gaze—even through the painted mask—felt heavy as stone. It swept the audience, then settled on Sakavi.

“The Proverb Guild has agreed to this arrangement. The drow provide intelligence; we provide manpower. The rest—” his cane pointed at Sakavi—“you must provide the way in, the way out. And a promise.”

Sakavi remained silent for several breaths.

“What promise?”

“When it’s done, the prisoners of the Soul Prison take what they need. Yours goes to you. Ours goes to us. What the drow wants—you pay for it.”

Sakavi’s vertical pupils contracted slightly.

“What do I pay the drow?”

“A base,” the director said. “On the 72nd Plane. One fully controlled by them, far from the mind flayers’ tentacles. Your words still hold, don’t they?”

Sakavi did not answer.

He knew he had been drawn into a scheme. The drow. The Phantom Laughter Circus. Perhaps others. They had long watched the Soul Prison, waiting for someone to open its door. And he—a legendary-tier black dragon necromancer—was that someone.

Not coincidence. Arrangement.

“Agreed,” Sakavi said.

The director nodded. His cane tapped the stage floor once; the scroll and ring floated from the table and settled gently before Sakavi.

“Down payment,” the director said. “Take the intelligence. The rest—we’ll discuss once you have a way in.”

Sakavi took the scroll and ring, rose.

“I’m leaving.”

“Won’t you see the rest of the show?” The director’s voice held a hint of amusement. “The best is yet to come.”

Sakavi ignored him. He turned and walked toward the tent’s exit.

Then he stopped.

Not because he chose to. But because he suddenly realized: since entering, he had never once noticed the faces of the audience.

Not because he ignored them—but because their faces were too ordinary. Too forgettable. But now, as he prepared to leave, his dragon’s vertical pupils—capable of piercing mist—finally caught something out of place.

Too quiet.

From the moment he stood to now, not a whisper, not a shift, not a glance from the audience. Not from disinterest. From necessity.

Sakavi turned.

Stage lights bathed the front row. The dwarves, elves, black-robed mages, imperial officers—their faces unchanged.

But Sakavi’s pupils caught something else: the curve of knuckles. The hands gripping weapons bore a thin, nearly invisible transparent coating—not the miner’s protection against ore scratches, but the assassin’s fingerprint-masking layer.

His gaze moved to the second row. An “elven ranger” wiped his bowstring. Not an elven bow—too short, too thick. Standard dwarf crossbow.

A “black-robed mage” turned pages with unnatural speed—fingertips lingered too briefly, as if flipping something already memorized, never needing to read.

Third row. An “imperial officer” crossed his legs, boot soles upward. The tread was not imperial-issue serrated leather—it was soft, silent, designed for stealth.

Sakavi’s heart sank.

He turned back to the leftmost “dwarf” in the front row. The dwarf looked up at him, wearing a simple, friendly smile—but the curve of that smile matched exactly the painted grin of the clowns on stage.

Not like. The same one.

Sakavi took a deep breath. The air inside the tent was cool, but what felt colder now was something else: from the moment he stepped into this tent, he had not been sitting among an audience. He was sitting among actors.

Those “audience members” had been circus people from the start.

Not disguise. Something far more terrifying: they were always this. Dwarf miners, elven rangers, robed wizards, imperial officers—these identities were merely their roles for today.

Tomorrow, they could be merchants, soldiers, tavern keepers, beggars on the roadside. The Phantom Smile Circus people were everywhere. Not because they could disguise themselves, but because they never showed their true faces.

The leader stood on stage, staff planted firmly, the painted mask’s eternal smile glaring under the lights.

“What’s wrong, Black Dragon?” the leader’s voice carried a hint of amusement. “Do you think the audience here is too quiet?”

Sakavi said nothing.

“The Phantom Smile Circus never lacks an audience,” the leader said. “Because our audience is ourselves.”

He raised his staff and tapped the stage floor once. All the lights in the tent flickered—not extinguished, but shifted—from sickly green to warm gold, like a stage effect.

When the lights brightened again, the “dwarf,” “elf,” “robed wizard,” and “imperial officer” in the audience stood up. They said nothing, made no motion—only stood still, watching Sakavi.

Dozens of faces. Dozens of eyes. Dozens of actors shifting between different planes, different cities, different identities. Their expressions varied—some cold, some curious, some blank.

But their eyes—all of them—were the same color. Not gray, not blue, not any color Sakavi had ever seen. An indescribable hue, suspended between existence and void, like a mirror. For in those eyes was reflected not another, but Sakavi himself.

Sakavi’s scales rose slightly—not from fear, but from a deeper, instinctive alertness, rising from the depths of his dragon blood. That alertness told him: each of these “actors” was at least a Master.

And the leader standing at the center of the stage, his face painted with a mask—Sakavi could not sense his strength. Not because it was absent, but because it was too deep. So deep even his vertical pupils could not reach the bottom.

“In three days, here. Bring the answer,” the leader said.

Sakavi did not answer. He pulled back the tent flap and stepped out.

Night wind struck his face. The tent vanished behind him. The open ground held only ashen-white wasteland and distant campfires.

As if everything before had been an illusion. But inside his space ring now lay a scroll of parchment, a dark-silver ring, and a ticket bearing a smiling face.

Sakavi stood in the night wind, his vertical pupils reflecting the distant imperial campfires. He remembered the leader’s final words: “The Phantom Smile Circus never lacks an audience. Because our audience is ourselves.”

That sentence had two meanings. First: the audience seats were filled with insiders. Second—

His audience had never been in the seats. Every move he made, from the moment he stepped into this camp, had been watched. Even earlier—from the moment he decided to seek Zuo’er.

Perhaps even earlier. Perhaps from the moment he returned from the Withered Mire. Perhaps from the moment Feinuo walked into his cave.

Sakavi clenched the ticket in his hand.

“Phantom Smile Circus,” he whispered the name again, then turned and walked into the darkness.