He sat down at the table and pulled a single card off the top of the deck.
Then everything changed.
He wasn't in the hallway anymore.
The table, the purple light, the ruined dome—all gone.
Around him stretched a flat, endless plain. The ground was pitch black, smooth like glass, without texture or reflection. Above him, the sky was pure white, blank and static like an overexposed photograph.
A parody of a world. A sketch. A dream drawn wrong.
He turned slowly in place.
Nothing. No movement. No sound.
He opened his mouth and shouted, calling out to someone—anyone.
No answer. No echo. Not even his own voice lasted more than a second.
Just him. Alone. In a world made of two colors and no rules.
"Perfect," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "The god of chaos trapped in a geometry project."
He walked through it.
Nothing changed, except the shades. Trees were black. Bushes were black. Mountains and meadows and hills—black. The only difference was the depth of the darkness. Some lighter, some darker. No texture. No scent. Just… variation.
The sky remained white. Too white. A sterile, empty canvas stretching infinitely overhead.
After a while, he gave up trying to make sense of it and sat down beneath a vaguely tree-shaped silhouette. It didn't cast a shadow. Nothing here did.
He leaned back against the trunk and exhaled.
Silence. Not peaceful. Just empty.
He tilted his head and stared up at the ceilingless void above.
"What are the others doing right now," he mumbled. "James punching rocks again? Jasper playing with that new oversized kitchen knife? Noah and his… tree-grass lover. Right. Real life."
He scoffed quietly to himself.
"Had to dig too deep into this, didn't I?"
He didn't expect a reply.
And of course, he didn't get one.
Eventually, he stood up.
He wasn't sure why. It wasn't like he had a destination. But sitting forever wasn't an option either—not even for him.
He stretched, cracked his neck, and instinctively reached into his coat.
The poker card was still there.
He'd pocketed it without thinking, just before everything shifted.
He held it up.
It was blank.
A blink later—he wasn't in the black-and-white void anymore.
But he wasn't back in the ruined dome, either.
This was something else.
He stood inside a massive chamber—familiar, but different. The architecture was the same shape, the same size. But everything had changed.
The walls were pristine—shining gold, trimmed with smooth curves of white and deep cerulean blue. The collapsed ceiling was whole again, arched in perfect symmetry above him.
The strange markings on the walls were gone. Replaced by flowing lines of light, like circuitry etched into the stone.
And in the center, where the massive stalagmite had once pierced through the dome—
Now stood a column of pure energy.
White and gold, roaring silently from the floor to the heavens above. It pulsed with slow rhythm, like a heartbeat trapped in light.
The sky beyond the dome's ceiling wasn't rock or blackness—it was bright blue. Too bright. Too perfect.
Evodil stared.
"…Right."
Evodil sighed, rubbing his temple with two fingers.
"What the actual hell is going on," he muttered under his breath. "Is this another dream? Am I still knocked out on the manor couch? Did Noah actually spike the coffee?"
He took a breath and closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself.
No panic. Just annoyance. Thick, exhausted annoyance.
After a bit of internal swearing, he started to explore.
It was… nice. Unsettlingly so.
Pools of crystal-clear water lined the halls, reflecting warm golden light from glowing orbs floating near the ceiling. The floor was polished marble veined with gold. Pillars of smooth white stone framed the walkways, and there were candles—tall, flickering with steady blue flames, giving the place a gentle hum of peace.
Too peaceful.
He walked until he reached the main archway.
Outside of it, built into the structure like a seamless extension, was a courtyard—half inside, half open. The wind smelled faintly of something sweet. Like vanilla. Or memory.
In the center of the courtyard: a massive table.
Obsidian-black wood, polished to a mirror. Around it, fifty-two chairs, each spaced evenly. Clean, empty, untouched.
At the end of the table, the largest chair sat—more a throne than a seat—with a single star symbol etched into the backrest.
Evodil stared at it all for a long moment.
"…Right. That's normal," he muttered. "I'll just assume I passed out in the snow and this is hypoxia."
But he didn't leave.
He walked to the end of the table, boots tapping quietly against polished stone.
The final chair—larger than the others—had a star etched into the top of the backrest. Not carved. Branded, almost. It shimmered faintly when he leaned in closer.
Below the star, right at eye level, was a line of text.
Curved, elegant, glowing faint gold.
Unreadable.
Not ancient. Not runic. Just... wrong. Like it wasn't meant for him.
Evodil groaned softly. "Oh my me," he muttered. "Really? This cryptic?"
He stepped back, hands in his pockets, looking around the dreamscape-turned-vault. "I just wanted a bit of clarity, not a divine roundtable and a language lesson."
He turned, finally ready to start looking for a way out.
Then he heard them.
Two voices. Echoing softly from the direction of the archway. Not threatening. Not hurried. Just there.
He turned and saw them standing just beneath the arch.
The first was a man—tall, lean, golden hair parted down the center, soft waves curling just below his ears. He wore plain white clothes. Not a robe. Not a uniform. Something simpler. A sailor? A farmhand? His look didn't match the style of any world Evodil recognized.
The second was a woman—shoulders high, gaze sharp, fiery orange hair pulled back in elegant loops. Her robe was regal—too regal. Green velvet, with accents of blue and gold stitched like woven flame.
Victorian? Older? The kind of look that belonged in oil paintings, not in front of him.
Neither of them spoke again.
They just… watched him.
And smiled.
Evodil stared at them.
They were... human. Fully. Tangibly. No divine aura, no flicker of raw energy, no internal hum of power. Just two people. Breathing. Watching. Smiling.
That was the real surprise.
Did they trap him here?
If so, he was probably screwed. He didn't have reality-warping powers strong enough to make this place—or break it. He could beg. Maybe threaten. Probably both.
But he didn't say anything.
The man spoke first.
"You're not from here, are you?" he asked, voice calm, gentle. "Did you summon us?"
Evodil blinked.
Wait.
They didn't know.
They weren't in control. They were just as lost as he was.
And he was standing in front of the largest chair, the one with the star carved into it. He hadn't meant to—but from their perspective?
He must look like the host.
Or the god.
He straightened his posture just slightly. Toned down the smirk. Let his expression settle into something unreadable.
And right then, without even a word—
He decided it was time to lie.
Evodil nodded, letting the faintest smirk pull at the corner of his mouth.
The two figures—Dolorus and the woman—bowed low in front of him. Not dramatically. Not in fear. But with the quiet reverence of people who thought they'd just met something far above them.
One stage down.
He gestured smoothly to the table. "Pick a seat. Any you like."
They obeyed without question, walking toward the nearest chairs as he stepped back to the end—the one he'd found, the one with the star.
He sat like it had always been his.
The woman was the first to speak again.
"I am Iris," she said, voice clear and refined. "I come from the Kingdom of Caerost."
The man beside her nodded. "Dolorus. A humble librarian, i used to study history of Brinehold."
He looked up, almost hesitant.
"How should we refer to the one who summoned us here?"
Evodil tapped the side of his coat absentmindedly, feeling the card still tucked into the inner pocket. He glanced at the table—fifty-two chairs. A full deck.
This wasn't a throne room.
It was a game board.
The palace may have looked like it belonged to some light-worshipping, halo-wearing god, but he didn't have the time or energy to sell divinity. He only needed the idea of it.
He leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table.
"You may call me…"
A pause.
A grin.
"Joker."
Iris took her seat with practiced grace, her posture perfect, back straight as if she were still at court. Dolorus sat more cautiously, like the stone might turn to light beneath him if he shifted wrong.
Neither of them spoke at first. The silence wasn't heavy—it was sacred.
They studied him.
Iris's thoughts spun in quiet awe.
He didn't even need to raise his voice. He simply was. He hadn't arrived with trumpets, hadn't summoned light or fire. No theatrics. No pomp. Just… presence. The room bowed to him.
She looked at the architecture again—the gold-trimmed marble, the floating orbs of light, the table shaped like a perfect rectangle, each chair symmetrical, like the numbers held meaning.
She thought of the myths she'd read as a child. The ancient texts from Caerost, long before the veil of war and politics. The Fallen One, who bore the symbol of stars and gathered the souls of other realms for a divine game.
It couldn't be coincidence.
Could it?
He'd named himself Joker. Strange, yes. But was that not the wild card? The trickster of fables? The untouchable? The one who could be anything, wear any mask?
And he sat on the throne without hesitation.
She swallowed, suddenly unsure if she was breathing too loudly.
Dolorus, meanwhile, was losing himself in a spiral of analysis.
The colors. The geometry. The balance. Fifty-two chairs. The symmetry wasn't by chance. The number had weight. Connection. Arcana. Suits of cards. Decks of fate. Four divisions. Thirteen cycles. A perfect system.
And this figure at the end—no aura, no radiant glow, but everything about him screamed constructed chaos. As if he was shaped from contradiction and held together by meaning alone.
He watched with eyes that didn't need to glow. They simply saw.
And the name.
Joker.
Not just a fool. Not just a wildcard.
The one that doesn't belong, yet completes the deck.
The outlier.
The equalizer.
Dolorus stared down at the polished table, then back up, not daring to meet the god's eyes too long.
Evodil, meanwhile, kept his expression composed, jaw resting lightly against his fist, watching them without a word.
Internally?
He was panicking.
If they ask me where we are, I'm gonna have to make something up.
If they ask me who made the sky, I'll say my intern.
If they start praying, I'm going to commit a fake miracle and hope they don't question it.
He didn't know what was going to come out of their mouths next.
But he knew he had to roll with it.
Because at this point?
The game had already begun.
Dolorus finally spoke.
"Why were we summoned?" His voice was careful, measured. "And… if I may ask, did you summon us into this realm?"
His eyes flicked toward the columns, the sky, the impossible symmetry again.
Iris nodded, her tone gentler. "Yes, please. If we are in your domain, we would wish to understand why we were brought here. We are… honored. Just confused."
Evodil chuckled. Not loudly—just a low breath, short and sharp.
They took it as amusement.
He laughed because it was stupid.
Stupid, and terrifying.
He wasn't prepared for questions, much less theology. His internal monologue was spiraling.
Say something wise. Say something vague. Say something that sounds like it could belong on a stained glass window.
He rested his hand on the table, tilted his head slightly, and let the shadows on his face darken just enough to look thoughtful. Or dangerous. Or both.
Then he spoke.
"It was a test. A try," he said slowly. "An attempt to reach something… beyond. Something deeper than this structure, or your lands. A trick, in a way. But not one made to deceive—one meant to connect."
He let the words hang in the air like they were profound.
Dolorus looked stunned.
"A… trick?" he echoed, eyes wide. "You mean a sacred one. A divine manipulation of fate itself?"
Evodil said nothing.
Iris leaned in slightly, her voice reverent.
"Was the connection successful?"
There was a beat of silence.
Then Evodil smirked, shifting back in his seat slightly.
"Almost."
Evodil leaned back slightly, letting the tension in the room simmer just enough before tilting his head, voice casual—
But he didn't speak yet.
And in the quiet that followed, the two guests found their own thoughts unraveling.
Dolorus sat with both hands folded neatly in front of him. He looked composed, almost formal—but his eyes traced every detail of the room. The marble. The layout. The geometry. His mind was already turning.
He hadn't been a field scholar in years, not since Brinehold's Great Library fell to political collapse and petty gods demanding blind loyalty. But even now, he could feel that old instinct returning.
Patterns.
Symbols.
He had studied dozens of gods. Known hundreds of Oaths by heart. Taught history to people who barely knew their own names. He had even debated priests in whispers about what the Unknown God might represent.
And now he sat before a figure who didn't explain himself, didn't shine, didn't demand loyalty.
The wild card.
He didn't trust it.
But part of him wanted to believe it.
Beside him, Iris crossed one leg over the other, straightening her posture like she'd been trained to in a dozen courts. Her father was the current High Regent of Caerost, and unless the line of succession broke violently—she would be next.
She wasn't afraid of power. She had been raised by it. Surrounded by it.
But this? This was different.
There was no crown here. No velvet. No incense.
Just this... space.
Clean. White. Heavy with something she couldn't name.
Her loyalty was supposed to belong to the Cathedral of Light, like her ancestors. She had memorized all the rites. Spoken every verse.
But it was the Solaris Imperial she prayed to.
The god of fire. Of strength. Of heat and resolve.
The one her father called barbaric.
The one that made her feel alive.
Now she sat in a hall that didn't resemble either faith—and yet felt older than both.
She didn't know what to make of the man seated at the far end.
But she wanted to.
She wanted him to speak.
To name her. To see her.
To confirm something she hadn't dared to admit:
That whatever brought her here…
…it was real.
"What year is it?"
Both Dolorus and Iris blinked.
"Pardon?" Dolorus asked.
Evodil waved a hand vaguely. "The human calendar. I've been… separated from its flow. Time bends differently here. Hard to keep track of the small things when you're peering through the folds of existence."
Another lie. Smooth. Sharp.
He watched their faces carefully.
Iris straightened, almost eager.
"It's 1964. The Age of Magic. About twenty years since the humans were restored to the surface. Since the gods returned magic to them."
She spoke with pride, like it was common knowledge.
Evodil nodded slowly. Calm on the outside.
Inside?
1964?
What the hell—
In his world, it was 1932. Just over thirty years earlier.
Somehow… these people were from the future.
And not just a little. Their world had changed.
Humans were gone? And then returned?
Magic was given to them?
By gods.
Him? James? Noah? Someone else? Other gods? New ones? Are they alive? Was it them? Was it after—
He forced his jaw to stay relaxed, eyes unfazed, fingers folded neatly in front of him. He nodded again, slowly.
"Ah. That explains… much."
They both looked reassured.
He was not.
Iris turned her head toward Dolorus, her expression sharpening slightly.
"You said earlier," she began, voice soft but direct, "that you studied the history of Brinehold."
Dolorus nodded. "I did. Before the libraries were... absorbed. I archived what I could."
She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table. "Then you might be able to help me. I need to confirm something."
He raised an eyebrow. "What do you need to know?"
She exhaled.
"There are rumors. Dangerous ones. Whispers spreading through the northern edges of Caerost—that someone's started a cult. One that worships two gods: the God of Chaos… and the Unknown God."
Evodil didn't move.
Dolorus blinked, clearly surprised. "A cult built on those two?"
Iris nodded. "I am hoping to learn more. If the rumors are true… my kingdom may already be in danger."
Dolorus looked down, visibly troubled.
"I wish I could tell you more," he said quietly. "Most of what we had from that time—texts, records, memories—was lost. Nothing from the Brinehold Vault survived intact."
He paused, glancing toward Evodil without realizing it.
"All we know with certainty is that the God of Chaos lives in Menystria now. After the curse was lifted. After the humans came back from the brink of extinction."
Iris narrowed her eyes, thoughtful. "And the Unknown God?"
Dolorus shook his head.
"No one knows where he went. Or if he was ever real."
Evodil sat perfectly still.
The star behind his head caught the light.
Iris turned her gaze back to him, her expression lighter now, touched with a glint of curiosity.
"Joker," she said with a faint smile. "Should we have names like that as well?"
Dolorus perked up, nodding once. "You did call yourself a card, after all. Joker… is part of a deck."
"A poker deck," Iris added. "Cards of chance. Meaning."
Evodil blinked. The thought was still in his head—about the God of Chaos, the Unknown God, the cult, the future—but now wasn't the time. They were watching again, hopeful, reverent. And he was learning how to wear this mask a little better with every minute.
He nodded, leaning forward slightly, resting both arms on the table with mock ceremony.
"Very well," he said, voice smooth. "Then it's only right you have names of your own."
He looked to Dolorus first, studying him with a faux-calculated pause. Then gave a small nod.
"Full House. A hand of three and two. Balance and history. Two foundations. A strong read."
Dolorus looked like he'd just been knighted.
Then Evodil turned to Iris, eyes narrowing ever so slightly in thought. Then:
"Queen of Clubs. Resilient. Controlled. The battlefield beneath the crown."
Iris raised her chin, pleased. "A fitting title."
Evodil gave them both a shallow nod, and leaned back again, fingers slipping into his coat pocket. He still had the card. He hadn't forgotten it—just hadn't dared to look at it again until now.
He pulled it out.
And this time, it wasn't blank.
It was a Joker card.
His face drawn in black and violet ink, grinning wide, stars behind his silhouette and shadows curling along the border.
So. It really was his now.
He stared at it a moment longer, then tapped it lightly on the table once.
"The meeting's over," he said casually. "Next week. Same time. Sunday, five o'clock."
Dolorus blinked. "Wait, what day is it today?"
Iris was already smiling. "Doesn't matter. We'll find it."
They both stood, bowing their heads slightly in parting. Evodil stood last, still holding the card between two fingers.
"Until then," he said.
Then the card flashed.
Bright. Clean. Violet flame without heat.
And in the next moment—
Evodil was back.
In the ruined dome.
The golden walls gone. The broken ceiling above. The energy beam no longer pulsing. Just cold stone. Moss. Echoes.
And the card?
Still in his hand.
Evodil stood in the silence, staring down at the wooden table.
The same one.
The same one where this whole spiral had begun.
He looked at it for a long moment, lips pressed tight, shadows shifting faintly under his coat.
Then—without a word—he grabbed the deck.
All of it.
Cards clean, smooth, untouched by dust or time. Fifty-two now, maybe fifty-three, maybe more. He didn't check. He just shoved the whole thing into his coat pocket and turned.
He ran.
Out of the corridor, through the archway.
The symbols that had once etched the dome's walls were gone now—just smooth, ancient stone and that familiar, eerie quiet. But he didn't stop to question it. Not now. Not yet.
He crossed the space without looking back, every step sharper than the last.
He needed to find Noah.
And Ariela.
Whatever just happened—whoever those people were, wherever he had gone—it wasn't just a trick anymore. It wasn't just a dream.
It was a beginning.
And it had already started without them.
Evodil didn't slow down.
The underground air pressed heavy against him as he ran, shadows flickering across stone and vine, past glowing moss and walls twisted by time. Somewhere above, far beyond the cracked ceiling, the world might have still been turning—but down here?
Time had broken.
He didn't care.
The distant sounds of the hollow earth echoed around him—creatures shifting, wings flapping, claws scraping over ancient floors. Something roared far in the distance, low and guttural like a continent exhaling.
He didn't care.
Shapes moved in the corners of his vision—spiders the size of trees, serpents weaving through collapsed temples, eyes watching him from the cracks in the world. Old gods would have stopped. Men would have begged. But he was neither.
He kept running.
Not because he was afraid. Not because he was brave. But because someone had to know.
Because if he didn't tell Noah… if he didn't explain what just happened—what he saw, what he became—then he'd be alone in it.
Again.
And maybe—maybe he was tired of being misunderstood.
He passed the stone formations, the spiral trees, the web-filled fields. Landmarks etched in memory.
And then, finally—
The meadow.
Still. Green. Unchanged.
He stopped at its edge, breath steady, coat dragging slightly in the grass.
Noah had to be nearby.
He had to.
"Noah!" Evodil called out, voice sharp.
He waited.
"Noah!" he called again. Louder this time. Firmer.
A pause.
Then a third time, almost reflexively. "Noah!"
For a long moment, nothing answered but wind through the spiral trees.
He stared at the meadow, jaw clenched, shadows flickering faintly around his boots.
Then—finally—movement.
Two figures stepped through the grass.
Noah, looking tired, unimpressed, coat rumpled slightly like he'd been dragged out of a nap he didn't want to take. Ariela trailed beside him, hands folded in front of her, gaze curious but cautious.
Noah stopped about ten feet from him.
"You're back," he muttered. "Did you fall into a second hole?"
Evodil didn't respond. He ran forward—actually ran—and started speaking.
Fast. Sharp. Rambling with precision. Describing the corridor that didn't exist, the table, the deck of cards, the people who thought he was a god. The gold, the white, the energy beam. The card that changed. The way it all shifted when he pulled it.
He talked about Dolorus. Iris. The star on the chair. How time wasn't right. How they said it was 1964. How humans had vanished and come back with magic. How they believed in him. Worshipped him.
He looked Noah in the eyes and said:
"I think I was in the future."
Noah blinked once.
Then sighed.
"Of course you were."
Evodil's mouth hung open.
"You're not listening," he snapped. "I'm serious. This wasn't some dream-hallucination-puppet show in my head. This happened."
Noah raised a brow. "You mean like the time you said James was secretly a sunfish wearing a human suit?"
"That was one time."
"It was three."
Ariela gave a soft laugh beside Noah, though it sounded like she didn't want to. "You're always saying something odd. Maybe take a breath first."
"I don't need a brea—" Evodil started, then stopped.
Noah was already turning away. "I'll try to remember it though, maybe even look into it if i'm bored enough.."
Ariela gave him a small apologetic smile. "Try writing it down," she said gently. "You're… expressive. Maybe that'll help us understand."
Evodil didn't move.
He stood alone as the two of them walked back toward the meadow's edge, soft grass parting beneath their steps, not even questioning what he'd said further.
Not asking questions.
Not taking him seriously.
Because he was the god of shadows. Of chaos.
The mad one. The liar. The joke.
He looked down at the card still gripped in his hand.
It didn't glow this time.
But it was still warm.
He didn't say anything.
Because they never would've believed him anyway.