Chapter 1267: Maxford

Maxford's Death

The mysterious person told him Maxford was dead, having been strangled in his tent shortly after drinking with him.

Someone took advantage of Maxford's drunkenness, followed him into the park, and took the opportunity to make a move. The delirious Maxford didn't even call out or resist, just died quietly on his bed.

When Lake heard this news, his first reaction wasn't shock, but sadness, and extreme regret.

Last night's encounter made him think he had found a friend he was sorry to meet so late, even though the two were in opposing "camps," at least on the soul channel of a jester, the two could resonate perfectly.

But who could have imagined that in just one night, the resonance would disappear.

Lake didn't dare believe this matter; he was terrified that someone was using this wine to make a fuss and disturb his mood, so he insisted that the mysterious person reveal their identity before considering whether to believe it or not.

The mysterious person was silent for a long time, then silently took off their hood.

When that head of curly hair fell, the terrified Lake recognized the person in front of him.

Mrs. Flode!

The troupe leader of Morning Joy came to him at dawn, bringing him bad news and also exploding the calm lake of his heart.

"Still think I'm playing a prank?"

Flode's eyes were filled with tears.

"Maxford died in the night; I didn't need to come here, just report all this to the royal family, and the audience's spit and curses would naturally nail the play to the pillar of shame.

At this most critical moment, who would kill Maxford?

The answer is self-evident!"

Lake panicked; he shook his head and retreated.

"It wasn't me! I didn't kill him, it really wasn't me!"

There was clear hatred in Mrs. Flode's eyes, but she didn't rebuke Lake, instead enduring the grief, taking a deep breath, and saying:

"Perhaps it wasn't you, but can you deny that the murderer came from the play?"

"I......"

Facing this situation, Lake couldn't clear the play's relationship at all. He brought himself into it to think: if he died in the night, would his friends in the play, Troupe Leader Fite, feel that the murderer didn't come from Morning Joy?

No!

They would probably think of Morning Joy first.

Lake was very terrified and very desperate, because he knew that once this kind of thing was exposed, regardless of whether the murderer really came from the play, the play's signboard and reputation would be finished.

People would only believe what they were willing to believe and wouldn't care about the truth at all. Even if the royal family returned the play's innocence after investigation, who would be willing to believe it?

And besides, could this innocence still be obtained?

Lake himself didn't believe the murderer would be someone else; he just didn't expect who would be so bold as to go to the opposite side to kill.

However, as a member of the play, he still fought for the play's reputation and said:

"Fite once said not to let us harass Morning Joy with small means; the play must win fair and square......"

Flode sneered endlessly:

"He didn't let you use small means, but what if he used them himself?"

"!!!" Lake was shocked, "You mean the murderer is Fite? No! Absolutely impossible! I admit that there are indeed people in the play who don't want to see Morning Joy win, but Fite would never do such a thing."

Flode didn't say anything; she stared at Lake for a long time and said sorrowfully:

"I will find evidence; before that, I hope you won't speak out.

Whether for yourself or for the dead Maxford, please let each other be decent."

As she spoke, Flode turned and left, but Lake called her back instantly, his expression complex:

"Why tell me all this, why not report it directly to the royal family......"

Flode stopped, her shoulders heaving, her tone sobbing:

"Why......

Yeah, why!

Probably because I was also a member of the play!

If it weren't for having nowhere to display my talents, if it weren't for being suppressed, if it weren't for being unable to accept circus art falling into the horizon like a setting sun, who would be willing to leave 'home' and stand on the opposite side of 'home'?

The play...... has long since not been the play it used to be.

For the sake of victory, they would even kill a gifted jester......

Their eyes have long since lacked reverence and pursuit for art; what they have is corrupt power desire and sitting back and enjoying the corruption.

Fortunately, you are different."

As she spoke, Flode turned around with red eyes.

She stared at Lake, her eyes filled with both resentment and relief.

"To tell the truth, I didn't come to notify you of all this; I suspected you first, and wished you were that murderer!

That way, I could catch you and let the play lose a jester as well!

But I can't, because I can see that you didn't know, and you wouldn't do such a thing.

You are like Maxford, having the most sincere love for the circus and heartfelt respect for jester art; you are a good child, unlike them......

A person like you shouldn't be in the play, you should be in Morning Joy.

They are like rotten leaves in a pile of mud...... unworthy of such a vibrant you."

After speaking, Flode left, leaving Lake, full of shock, unable to calm down for a long time.

But soon, Flode returned.

That night, she found the murderer.

The jester, who had stayed in the room all day, suddenly heard a sound outside the window. He opened the window listlessly and saw Flode, wearing a hood, slapping a piece of paper on his desk under the moonlight.

Lake looked at the footprints rubbed on the paper in confusion, not yet understanding what this meant, when he heard the other party say:

"A hundred secrets will eventually have one slip.

Although the murderer wiped away all traces inside and outside the room, what he didn't know was that in order to practice the best pace rhythm, Maxford changed the carpet in the tent to a special style that could leave marks.

He used this to constantly improve his foot force point, but who could have imagined that he hadn't practiced the lightest pace yet, but this carpet recorded the murderer's footprints for him!

From the tent to the troupe, such a long road didn't have a single trace, only this carpet printed out the murderer's original shape!

Although I hate the play to the bone, I have no way to point out who it is without evidence.

So I can only come to find you.

Lake, for the sake of you and Maxford getting drunk together, help me, please, let me know if the murderer is really a person from the play.

Does this sole print belong to the play......"

Mrs. Flode's tears fell like rain.

Lake's did too.

Because he had already seen the ownership of this footprint; the murderer was a person from the play!

Troupe Leader Fite!

The murderer was really Fite!

He was too familiar with this footprint, not because of the play's unified standard boots, but because once, when the jester was teasing an actor, he accidentally spilled a ball of fire under Fite's feet. Fite couldn't dodge in time, and the sole of his shoe was burned into a depression.

But because the shape of that depression was somewhat like the play's troupe emblem, Fite said this was a good omen, representing the play becoming more and more down-to-earth, so he decided not to change that pair of boots.

This matter, besides Lake, Fite himself, and those few acrobats present, no one knew......

Seeing the evidence placed before his eyes, Lake couldn't bear the psychological pressure of this day anymore and burst into tears.

He didn't understand why Fite would do such a thing.

Did he not believe in the play, or did he not believe in the jester!?

Could it be that in his eyes, the play's jester was so much worse than Morning Joy's jester?

Otherwise, why did he have to make a move on Maxford?

But by doing so, where did he put circus art?

Was the play's century-long pursuit a true artistic peak, or just a victory?

Lake was confused; he had originally felt that Fite was the person who understood him best in this world, but now he only felt the other was a stranger, not even as good as Maxford, who only drank for one night and had one day of friendship!

But Maxford was dead, dead in Fite's hands.

How ironic, and how absurd! ===== CHAPTER 1268 =====