Chapter 142: Phantom Laugh Circus

Three days later, Dark Feather Tavern.

Sakavi sat in the same corner table, the dark red wine he had never touched sitting before him. The one-eyed old man didn't look at him; guests came and went in the tavern, no different from three days ago.

A team of Dwarf miners were boisterous at the bar, two halflings were throwing dice, and a human mage in gray robes was flipping through a book in the corner.

Only, there was no Drow.

Time passed midnight. Another hour passed. The people in the tavern gradually dispersed, the one-eyed old man began to wipe cups, the Dwarf miners left unsteadily, the human mage closed the tome and got up to leave.

Sakavi didn't move.

His vertical pupils narrowed in the shadow of his hood, scanning the entrance. He was waiting. The people from the Truth-Speaking Society had said "three days later" but hadn't specified a time.

Perhaps they were used to appearing in the early morning, perhaps they were still hesitating, perhaps they never arrived late—late meant the deal was off.

He was about to stand up when the door opened.

It wasn't a Drow.

A short person walked in. He wore a black-and-white diamond-patterned tight suit, a pointed jester's hat on his head with a bell hanging from the tip, jingling as he walked.

His face was painted with white greasepaint, black teardrops drawn around his eye sockets, and a exaggerated smile drawn on his mouth with red pigment; even when expressionless, that face was "smiling."

A jester.

Sakavi's vertical pupils didn't change, but his right hand moved silently to his waist; there was no sword there, the sword was at the entrance registration. He only had a pair of claws.

The jester walked straight to Sakavi's table, pulled out the chair opposite him, and sat down. His movements were as natural as if he were in his own home. He took off that crumpled jester's hat and placed it on the table; the bell rolled on the wooden board, emitting a crisp "ding."

"Waiting all night, tired?" the jester spoke. His voice wasn't loud, carrying a hoarse, sandpaper-like texture. It wasn't the kind of deliberately funny tone, but a real voice without any performance components.

Sakavi didn't speak.

The jester took a piece of paper from his chest and placed it on the table, pushing it toward Sakavi. It was a ticket. The paper was rough, the edges jagged, as if torn by hand. Printed on the ticket in crooked font was a line: "Phantom Laugh Circus · Midnight Show · Admit One."

There was no location, no time, no seat number. In the center of the ticket was drawn a smiling face, exactly the same as the face painted with greasepaint opposite him.

"The Drow won't come," the jester said. His eyes—that pair of eyes not covered by greasepaint—were a very pale, almost transparent gray, like glass frosted in winter. "But they agreed to this deal."

Sakavi looked at the ticket, not reaching out.

"Who are you?"

"Me?" The jester tilted his head, and the bell on his hat dinged again. "I'm the ticket seller. The Phantom Laugh Circus is touring the 72nd plane, and there's a special performance tonight. Not everyone can get a ticket; you have to be interesting enough."

"Interesting?"

"Right." The corners of the jester's mouth—the one drawn with greasepaint—curled up. "For example, a Legendary-Rank Black Dragon Necromancer, carrying the vassal badge of the Luo Sen Empire, walking swaggeringly into the Empire's stronghold to ask the Drow about the Soul Prison."

Sakavi's vertical pupils shrank into a thin line.

"You think that's interesting?"

"I think that's very meaningful," the jester said. "Meaningful enough that my boss wants to see you."

He stood up, pushed the ticket further toward Sakavi, then put on that jester's hat with the bell, and turned to walk toward the door. After walking a few steps, he stopped and looked back at Sakavi.

"Whether you come or not is up to you. However, the intelligence from the Drow is now in our hands. If you don't come, you won't get it."

The door closed behind him.

Only Sakavi and the one-eyed old man wiping cups remained in the tavern. The old man hadn't looked at them once from beginning to end.

Sakavi was silent for a long time. Then he picked up the ticket, stood up, pushed the door open, and walked out.

East side of the camp, the most remote corner, there was a piece of abandoned old warehouse.

During the day, this place was piled with old, discarded equipment from the Imperial army, and at night, even the patrolling soldiers were too lazy to come over. But tonight, in an open space in the deepest part of the warehouse area, a huge tent appeared out of thin air.

The tent was black, so black that its outline was almost invisible in the night. It had no flags, no signs, only an entrance—a low door hole illuminated by two miserable green lanterns.

Sakavi stood before the tent, looking down at the ticket in his hand. The smiling face on the ticket seemed to come alive in the green light, the corners of the mouth seemingly curling up a bit more than just now.

He lifted the curtain and walked in.

The interior of the tent was more than twice as large as it looked from the outside. Space magic, and a very sophisticated kind at that.

In the center was a circular stage, surrounded by layers of stands, and the stands were filled with people—no, not people, but all kinds of "creatures."

Sakavi's vertical pupils swept across the stands. He saw a team of silent Dwarves, their beards stained with fresh ore powder, smithing hammers hanging at their waists, but their eyes were like those of battle-hardened warriors.

A few Elven Rangers sat in the corner, bows never leaving their hands, quivers resting on their knees. A figure shrouded in a black robe occupied a row of seats alone, emitting a faint Necromantic aura.

There were also a few officers in Imperial standard armor, their badges removed, but their every move still carried a military posture.

There were no Drow.

Sakavi was led to a row of seats directly in front of the stage. The seats were empty, as if specifically reserved for him.

When he sat down, someone was already sitting in the seat next to him—no, not a person. It was that jester, without the hat, and most of the greasepaint on his face washed off, revealing a pale face of indeterminate age.

"Welcome," the jester said. "The performance is about to begin."

The lights on the stage lit up.

The first to appear were a group of jugglers—tossing balls, walking on stilts, breathing fire—no different from an ordinary circus. But Sakavi noticed that those tossing balls wore assassin's finger-knuckles.

Those walking on stilts made no sound when they landed, and the fire-breathers weren't breathing alcohol flames, but real, concentrated dragon breath, sprayed directly from the depths of their throats.

The second to appear was the animal tamer. He led a creature covered in black scales, looking like a lizard and a dragon, circling the stage.

The creature's vertical pupils were hollow and lifeless, its steps mechanical, like a puppet pulled by strings. Sakavi recognized that look; it was a puppet manipulated by a soul.

The animal tamer was a Necromancer. Or more accurately, a warlock skilled in soul manipulation.

The third to appear were a group of jesters. They—Sakavi could tell several were female—wore loose, colorful robes, doing somersaults on the stage, tossing colorful paper scraps, and hitting each other with inflatable hammers.

Scattered laughter came from the audience. But Sakavi didn't laugh. He noticed that when those jesters did somersaults, the edges of armor were vaguely visible under their robes.

When tossing colorful paper scraps, steel needles as thin as hair were tucked between their fingers; when the inflatable hammers struck, the stage floorboards emitted a heavy, dull thud that shouldn't have been there.

Those hammers were solid.

The laughter in the audience gradually stopped. People began to realize that this wasn't an ordinary circus performance. They weren't here to watch a show; they were here to be "watched."

The lights dimmed. When they lit up again, only one person remained on the stage.

That person wore a deep purple tailcoat, a top hat, and leaned on a silver-headed cane. His face wasn't painted with greasepaint, but a white mask was drawn on it—not worn, but drawn. The expression of the mask was the same as all the jesters: an eternal smile.

"Welcome to the Phantom Laugh Circus," the person spoke. The voice wasn't loud, but it reached everyone's ears clearly, like someone whispering in their ear. "I am the Ringmaster."

He paused.

"I know many of you aren't here to watch the show. You're here to inquire about news, to test the waters, to find people, to find death—it doesn't matter. The Phantom Laugh Circus isn't picky about guests."

He tapped the stage floor lightly with his cane.

"Tonight, we only make one deal."

A curtain rose at the back of the stage. The curtain pulled open, revealing a long table behind it. On the table lay a scroll of parchment sealed with wax and a dark silver ring.

"The Soul Prison," the Ringmaster said. "Geographical location, outer defenses, distribution of garrison forces, known intelligence on the Warden—it's all here."

A wave of suppressed whispers spread through the audience.

"However," the Ringmaster changed the subject, "this deal isn't made with individuals. It's only made with 'collaborators'."

His gaze, even through that drawn mask, Sakavi felt the weight of it, sweeping across the audience and finally landing on Sakavi.

"The Truth-Speaking Society has already agreed to this plan. The Drow provide intelligence, and we provide manpower. As for the rest—" The Ringmaster's cane pointed at Sakavi. "You need to provide the method to enter and the path to get out. And, a promise."

Sakavi was silent for a few breaths.

"What promise?"

"After the deed is done, the prisoners in the Soul Prison—each takes what they need. What you want belongs to you, what we want belongs to us. What the Drow want, you pay for."

Sakavi's vertical pupils narrowed slightly.

"What do I pay the Drow?"

"A stronghold," the Ringmaster said. "In the 72nd plane, a stronghold completely controlled by them, far from the tentacles of the Mind Flayers. The words you said, they still count, right?"

Sakavi didn't answer.

He knew he had already been calculated into a trap. The Drow, the Phantom Laugh Circus, perhaps other forces—they had long been eyeing the Soul Prison, waiting for someone who could open that door. And he, a Legendary-Rank Black Dragon Necromancer, happened to be that "someone."

Not a coincidence. It was an arrangement.

"Deal," Sakavi said.

The Ringmaster nodded. The cane tapped lightly on the stage floor, and the parchment scroll and the ring floated up from the long table, landing steadily in front of Sakavi.

"Deposit," the Ringmaster said. "Take the intelligence first. The rest, wait until you have a way to get in, then we'll talk."

Sakavi took the parchment and the ring and stood up.

"I'm leaving."

"Not staying to finish the show?" The Ringmaster's voice carried a hint of amusement. "There's more excitement to come."

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

Then he stopped.

It wasn't because he wanted to stop. It was because he suddenly realized one thing: from the moment he entered until now, he hadn't paid attention to the faces of those in the audience.

It wasn't that he hadn't paid attention; it was that those faces were too ordinary. Ordinary to the point of not being worth a look. But at this moment, when he was preparing to leave, that pair of vertical pupils belonging to a dragon, capable of piercing through mist, finally captured some kind of incongruity.

It was too quiet.

From the moment he stood up until he walked here, the audience hadn't made any sound. No one whispered, no one got up to leave, no one looked at him twice. It wasn't because they weren't interested; it was because they didn't need to.

Sakavi turned around.

The lights spilled down from the stage, illuminating the first row of the audience. Those Dwarves, Elves, black-robed mages, Imperial officers—their faces showed no change in the light.

But Sakavi's vertical pupils captured another kind of thing: the curvature of the finger joints. Those hands holding weapons had the same transparent, almost invisible protective layer on their fingernails. It wasn't the kind used by Dwarf craftsmen to prevent ore from scratching, but the kind used by assassins to cover fingerprints.

His gaze moved to the second row. An "Elven Ranger" was bowing his head to wipe the bowstring—that wasn't an Elven bow; the bow arms were too short, the string too thick; it was a standard Dwarf crossbow.

A "black-robed mage" flipped through a book with movements too practiced, the time his fingertips stayed on the paper surface too short, like flipping through some kind of book that didn't need reading, one he already knew by heart.

Third row. An "Imperial officer" crossed his legs, soles of his boots facing up. The pattern on the soles wasn't the jagged pattern of Imperial standard military boots, but a soft-soled leather sole specifically used for silent walking.

Sakavi's heart sank.

He looked again at the "Dwarf" at the far left of the first row. The person was looking up at him, a simple, friendly smile on his face, but the curvature of that smile was exactly the same as the curvature drawn by the jester's greasepaint on the stage just now.

Not like. It was the same one.

Sakavi took a deep breath. The air in the tent was cool, but what he felt was colder was another thing: from the moment he walked into this tent, he hadn't been sitting with a group of audience members. He was sitting among a group of actors.

Those "audience members" were people from the circus from the very beginning.

Not disguise. It was something more terrifying than disguise; they were that way to begin with. Dwarf miners, Elven Rangers, black-robed mages, Imperial officers—these identities were just their "roles" for today.

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

The Ringmaster stood on the stage, cane leaning on the ground, the eternal smile of the drawn mask looking particularly piercing in the light.

"What's wrong, Black Dragon?" The Ringmaster's voice carried a hint of amusement. "Do you feel that the audience here is too quiet?"

Sakavi didn't speak.

"The Phantom Laugh Circus never lacks an audience," the Ringmaster said. "Because our audience is ourselves."

He raised his cane and tapped the stage floor lightly. The lights in the entire tent flashed simultaneously—not extinguished, but changed. From miserable green to warm yellow, like some kind of stage effect.

When the lights lit up again, the "Dwarves," "Elves," "black-robed mages," and "Imperial officers" in the audience all stood up. They didn't speak, didn't move, just stood there quietly, looking at Sakavi.

Dozens of faces. Dozens of pairs of eyes. Dozens of—actors—who switched between different planes, different cities, and different identities. Their expressions were all different—some cold, some curious, some expressionless.

But their eyes, all the eyes, were the same color. Not gray, not blue, not any color Sakavi had ever seen. It was an indescribable color, between existence and nothingness, like a mirror. Because what was reflected in those eyes wasn't someone else; it was Sakavi himself.

Sakavi's scales stood up slightly. Not fear. It was a deeper, instinctive alertness, an alertness from the depths of his dragon bloodline. This alertness told him that these "actors," every single one of them, was at least Master Rank.

And the Ringmaster standing in the center of the stage, drawing a face, he couldn't perceive his strength. It wasn't that there was none; it was too deep. Deep to the point that even his vertical pupils couldn't see the bottom.

"Three days from now, here, bring the answer," the Ringmaster said.

Sakavi didn't answer. He lifted the curtain and walked out.

The night wind hit him. The tent disappeared behind him. Only the gray-white wasteland remained in the open space, and the sporadic lights of the camp in the distance.

As if everything just now was just an illusion. But in his space ring, there was an extra scroll of parchment, a dark silver ring, and a ticket with a smiling face drawn on it.

Sakavi stood in the night wind, his vertical pupils reflecting the campfires of the Empire in the distance. He remembered the last sentence the Ringmaster said—"The Phantom Laugh Circus never lacks an audience. Because our audience is ourselves."

This sentence had two meanings. The first: those sitting in the audience were all their own people. The second—

His audience had never been in the audience seats. Every move he made, from the moment he stepped into this camp, someone had been watching. From even earlier, from the moment he decided to come and find the Drow, someone had been watching.

Perhaps even earlier. Perhaps from the moment he returned from the Bitter Sea Jade Marsh, perhaps from the moment Feinuo walked into his cave, someone had already been watching.

Sakavi gripped the ticket in his hand tightly.

"Phantom Laugh Circus," he whispered the name again, then turned and walked into the darkness. ===== CHAPTER 143 =====