Chapter 88: Chapter: 88 Butterfly effect.

One km away from where the students had gathered in the forest behind Akron Academy, a shadow moved silently along the ground before stopping.

From it, a figure cloaked in pitch black rose slowly, stepping out of the darkness.

With one light leap, he landed on the thick branch of a hundred-year-old tree.

The air around him felt heavy and strange.

His face was hidden behind a white clown mask, a wide, painted smile stretched across it, both cheerful and eerie at the same time.

His gaze turned toward the distance, toward the open area where the students had gathered for their mid-term exam.

His eyes scanned through the crowd, searching.

After a few seconds, his sight fixed on one boy.

Even from afar, through the blur of trees, the figure could see him clearly.

“Hmm? He’s changed,” the man murmured softly.

His voice carried a cold amusement.

The figure was none other than Clown.

As he watched longer, his eyes shifted to the girl standing beside the boy.

Her expression, her aura, everything about her felt different too.

“She’s changed as well,” he muttered again, leaning forward slightly as if trying to see deeper through the distance.

The painted smile on his mask seemed to curve even more, though his real face behind it remained unreadable.

He revealed a pondering expression as he kept staring at the boy and the girl, and a chill ran down his spine.

The hair around his neck stood up.

It wasn’t because of them, but because of someone in his memories.

Not long ago, he had gone to the continent of Axian after being urgently summoned.

The memory surfaced slowly, and his chest grew heavy.

“My lord… just what are you?” he whispered, his voice dropping low as a sense of dread crept through him.

He tried to recall that moment, the dark hall, the still air, the faint echo of footsteps, but the harder he tried to remember, the more blurred it became.

He could remember meeting his lord, standing right before him.

He had seen the man’s face, he was sure of it.

Yet now, no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t picture a single detail.

It was as if that face had been erased from his mind, leaving behind only fear.

“That man can’t be understood by common sense,” Clown muttered under his breath.

He had served under his lord for a very long time.

For reasons no one knew, the people who served that man could live far beyond normal limits.

Clown himself had lived for over a thousand years, yet there were others, older, ancient beings, who had served even ten times longer.

But what unsettled him most was that no matter how much time passed, that man never changed.

His appearance, his voice, even his calm presence remained the same through the ages.

And strangely, whenever Clown met him, the wild madness in his heart, the thing that made him who he was, would fade for a time, as if his mind was being wrapped in quietness.

He tried to recall the sensation again: a man walking slowly, dressed in a white gown that brushed against the floor.

His long black hair fluttered lightly and flowed down to his waist.

The memory was faint, but clear enough to leave him uneasy.

He still couldn’t remember the face, no matter how hard he tried.

Yet something deep inside told him that it had been beautiful, so beautiful that it felt almost unreal, something beyond what a human could ever be.

He recalled the conversation he had that day.

His lord had stood there, his calm voice breaking the silence.

“This should be the third cycle, huh?” he had said, almost to himself.

There had been a strange excitement in his tone, the kind that didn’t belong to ordinary men.

“So, it appears he can’t be killed, no matter what I do.”

The words had sounded like a prophecy, cold, certain, and beyond reason.

At the time, Clown hadn’t understood a single thing.

Even now, the meaning escaped him.

’Cycle? He can’t be killed?’

The questions echoed in his mind, each one heavier than the last.

His frown deepened as his gaze drifted back toward the boy in the distance.

The memory of his lord’s words connected faintly to what he was seeing now, though he didn’t know how.

Originally, his mission had been simple, to create unrest in the continent of Elora.

However, he couldn’t understand the reason behind it.

It couldn’t be that his lord simply desired this continent, could it?

But after he was summoned, his lord had said something unusual, words that still echoed in his mind whenever he thought about that mission.

“Interesting,” his lord had said, with that same calm amusement.

“I didn’t know about it in the “past…” but now, I do.”

The Clown could still hear that voice in his head, echoing like a whisper from another time.

The meaning behind it felt larger than anything he could grasp, and for the first time in centuries, the Clown felt truly uncertain.

“However, it appears that no matter which path I take, he must first grow… otherwise, it’s impossible.”

Those were his lord’s words, spoken with a distant, almost nostalgic tone.

It was strange, for someone who had lived longer than time itself, to show emotion at all.

Yet that man didn’t suppress it.

In fact, he seemed to savor it, as if even the faintest flicker of feeling amused him.

The Clown remembered it vividly.

His lord’s face had softened for just a moment, and though the expression was faint, it carried the weight of ages, a trace of longing, maybe regret, or something far older.

Then the man continued, his voice lowering, as if speaking to something unseen.

“The threads I wish to grasp are truly slippery,” he said slowly.

“Though mine was severed long ago… still, I cannot grasp the others’.”

The Clown hadn’t understood then, those cryptic words felt like pieces of a puzzle without edges.

But even now, the memory sent a chill through him.

What kind of being could speak in riddles about time, about cycles, about growth and impossibility, and sound like he was remembering them all?

Then the man’s eyes slowly turned toward him.

Those eyes, calm and endless, met Clown’s as he asked, “Clown, what do you think?”

The Clown froze.

He remembered that moment clearly, the weight of that gaze, the quiet tone that carried more power than a roar.

“I… don’t understand, my lord,” Clown had replied honestly.

His voice had trembled just slightly.

He truly didn’t know what his master was talking about, cycles, growth, things that seemed to reach beyond life itself.

The man smiled faintly then, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Ah, yes,” he said softly, “it was my mistake to ask someone who doesn’t yet understand.”

The way he said it was strange, gentle but final, like a teacher speaking to a child who hadn’t yet learned the language of gods.

His tone carried that familiar calmness, but beneath it was the certainty of someone who had mastered everything the world could offer.

He turned slightly, his long black hair shifting like silk.

“The reason I called you,” he continued, “is to support Duke Tramplin and…”

He paused for a brief moment, as if searching his memory. “Hmm… what was the name again?”

He snapped his fingers lightly. “Ah…Kafrik.”

He said it casually, as though the names themselves carried little weight, yet Clown knew that when he spoke a name, even the air seemed to remember it.

The man’s tone shifted, carrying a faint trace of amusement.

“That child is interesting,” he said slowly. “He was able to go so far… however—”

He stopped for a brief moment, but his voice revealed nothing, no regret, no disappointment, only a quiet sort of curiosity. “In the end, he failed.”

The words hung in the air like a quiet verdict.

Yet, instead of sounding cruel, they felt almost like an observation, as though he were simply describing the inevitable.

“Though he failed,” the man continued, “he still has something that’s quite amusing…”

The Clown, who stood silently before him, lifted his eyes slightly, waiting for his master’s next words.

“Clown, give this to him.”

With a flick of his wrist, the man threw a small orb toward him, no bigger than a clenched fist.

The object shimmered faintly, pulsing with a strange, deep light that seemed alive.

Clown caught it with both hands, the cold surface pressing against his palms.

Yet he didn’t dare to look at it.

His head remained bowed low, eyes fixed on the ground.

The hall was silent except for the faint hum coming from the orb, a sound that felt almost like whispering.

After handing the orb to Clown, the man turned his back to him, his long hair swaying gently with the movement.

His voice remained calm and steady as he spoke, “Make sure there are no mistakes. Simply support Duke Tramplin. Further instructions will be given when the time comes.”

As he said this, he raised his hand slightly and extended a finger into the air.

From the quiet space above him, a butterfly appeared, delicate, its wings shimmering with faint, impossible colors.

It fluttered down and landed softly on his fingertip, as if drawn by something unseen.

“Butterfly effect….” He murmured.

The Clown didn’t move.

He stayed where he was, head bowed, the orb still cradled carefully in his hands.

The silence stretched between them until, at last, the man spoke again, his tone soft but final.

“You may leave.”

The words carried no weight of anger or warmth, only command.

The Clown slowly stood, gave a deep bow, and disappeared into the darkness, leaving his master alone in that vast, quiet hall where the butterfly still danced lazily in the dim light.

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