The God of Jesters
Chapter 515 - 8.06.4 A tired morning.

Chapter 515: 8.06.4 A tired morning.

As Rosso awoke, he found himself treated as an odd delicacy by the little rats scuttling about the house. Unfortunately for them, his flesh was too tough for their teeth; all they managed was to lick the sweat and grime from his skin.

"It’s noon?" were the first words to escape his lips.

He had spent over a day in a restless haze, and now he felt weaker than before—not merely due to the curse’s backlash, but from hunger. "I apologize," he murmured, reaching for one of the startled rats that attempted to flee at his movement.

With a flicker of his transcendent strength, he caught it effortlessly. He raised it to his mouth but hesitated. "Of course." With a dismissive toss, he flung the rat against the wall, splattering it with a sickening thud.

Then, he retrieved a small ring that he had kept securely within his body. This ring contained a pocket of space, housing various items, from coins to preserved rations—precisely what he needed at this moment.

"Memory is hazy; it took longer to recall than I expected," he muttered, chewing on the dried rations while assessing his condition.

His body showed signs of wear; his ribs were beginning to jut out from beneath his skin. Rest was essential, but the world would not grant him the luxury.

Not long ago, he had been discovered in the southern district. There would be those who sought him out again, hunters eager to reclaim their prize. He needed a new identity and a safe haven, as there was always the risk of being tracked.

"A blood artifact rarely has duplicates, but I can’t take that chance," he thought. While the compass he possessed might be unique, it would be foolish to assume his enemies lacked other means to follow him. Confirmation would require time he did not have.

For now, he ran. The outskirts, mostly home to common folk and free of Knights, felt deceptively safe. He kept his head down, blending in as best he could. The curious gazes of a few children playing in the streets were the only acknowledgment he received, allowing him to slip toward the city’s edge undetected.

His destination lay ahead—the meeting place.

"A day to go; hopefully, I’ll arrive in time." With no one around, Rosso periodically gulped down expensive potions he had scavenged from the ring, tossing coins about to sow a modicum of chaos simply because he felt inclined to.

This behavior was uncharacteristic of the old Rosso, yet it felt instinctual. He willingly placed himself in danger, knowing the money could be traced. His pursuers would surely be vigilant for any disturbances, and this could draw attention.

But he dismissed those concerns. To him, it was merely chaos, an exhilarating distraction.

"The night, this place feels right..." By nightfall, he found a small field to rest in.

Nearby were lodges for farmers seeking refuge from storms or miscreants, often stocked with leftover food for travelers. He could use these lodges freely, though he chose not to leave anything behind this time.

This was no city; if anyone discovered him here, they could easily trace his movements. Caution was paramount from the moment he had departed the urban chaos.

"Be alone; that’s how you survive," a voice echoed in his mind, too clear to ignore.

"Am I delirious... or is the curse fraying my mind?" Rosso pondered, but then he closed his eyes and calmed himself.

He was a perfect creation of Jester’s design, capable of discerning reality from illusion.

"The dream world." He whispered the cursed phrase, and found himself enveloped in a sea of countless bubbles, each representing a dream. The haze surrounding them resembled swirling planets, distant yet familiar.

But Rosso had no interest in the dreams of others. He turned his focus inward once more. "Nothing’s stuck," he realized, feeling a mix of relief and worry.

If there were no external forces at play, then the voices were his own, rising from the depths of his mind. "The curse damages more than just memory, it seems."

He arrived at this conclusion with a heavy heart. He had read about schizophrenia; perhaps he was merely grappling with light symptoms. "Old memories might be the cause of this issue. The Creator did mention that I was a cowardly child; perhaps those memories are unraveling due to my weakened state."

Rosso was not blind to his problems; he faced even the slightest issue head-on rather than allowing it to fester.

"It will heal in time. For now, my focus remains unchanged." With one last glance outside the lodge, he surrendered to sleep.

The next morning, in the airspace above the Southern District of Rudrain, a figure emerged.

"The lost one is found again." The speaker was a young boy, his voice carrying an ancient tone as he turned to observe the approach of the Grand Priest of the Church of Truthful Deceit, known as Righteous Lie—having long since abandoned her former name.

"Duke Wortham, what brings you to this place?" she inquired, her voice deceptively kind, a subservience evident in her demeanor.

"The one you hunt holds my interest," the boy replied, his gaze unwavering.

Duke Wortham had arrived for matters concerning an old grandnephew, but he had stumbled upon peculiar tidings that brought a smile to his face.

"If you hold interest in him, am I to assume..."

"Madam Lilies, do not meddle in this affair. You have been well compensated; there is no need for further inquiry."

At these words, the woman fell silent, understanding the implications of the Duke’s interest, especially in light of the royal family’s recent efforts to obscure the killer’s identity.

Certain truths could be gleaned if one knew the royal family well enough—an understanding that had sparked conflict between the Church and the Duke, who was often viewed as a neutral party.

"Due, I would prefer it if you ceased using that old name of mine; it is disrespectful."

"Then Madam should know her place. You should be aware I’ve been in a foul mood since losing my land years ago."

The Duke’s tone turned threatening, prompting the woman to bow her head in submission, though she sighed, clearly frustrated. "Where did it all go wrong?"

"It went wrong when you broke the contract and sought him again."

"We both know, Sir Duke, that’s not what I meant."

"If it wasn’t this, then you meant the past, which is rather sad for you, Madam of Righteous Lies. ’Live in the present and look toward the future’—didn’t you say those very words to me long ago?"

"You were a very different man then."

"No, I was the same; it just took me time to confront my true self."

"Enough about the past. Explain why you initiated the search despite our warnings."

"... A few in our Church remain ignorant; they do not understand the reasons."

"Then discipline the hot-headed ones. I do not wish to witness a repeat of past mistakes." Duke Wortham’s voice was sharp, making the woman sweat. "We understand."