I didn't want to wait anymore.
Rengoku was still inside that card, and I didn't know how long he could last. Even someone like him… he wasn't invincible. The longer this dragged on, the more I felt like I was letting him down.
I inhaled deep.
And ran.
The Fool's eyes widened as I moved—not walked, not stepped—moved. My feet barely touched the floor. My body blurred through the air, closing the gap in a second.
He lifted his hand to react.
Too late.
Shadow Breathing – First Form: Veiled Fang.
My blade swept upward, sharp and clean.
His hands hit the floor before he realized they were gone.
For the first time, the Fool's grin faltered.
But only for a second.
His arms regrew in an instant—black flesh stretching back into shape like hot wax pulled into a mold.
"…Fast," he whispered.
I took a step back.
That regeneration—it wasn't just quick. It was Lower Moon level. Maybe like Lower Moon one or two. I know because I had seen a Lower Moon fighting with a demon slayer. The one who was fighting with Muichiro Tokito.
Still no mark on his eye. He wasn't part of the Twelve Kizuki. Then how?
I didn't have time for questions.
I charged again.
Another exchange. My blade sliced through his side—clean. He didn't block in time.
But then something flicked past my face.
A thin card.
It had… blood on it.
Mine.
The cut from earlier—on my ear. Just a drop.
But that was all he needed.
The Fool caught the drop on the card, then pressed it against his forehead.
A red ripple passed through the air like a heartbeat.
Suddenly—
My head burned.
Pressure behind my eyes. My vision blurred. For a moment, I thought I was going to fall.
Then I heard him.
"So loud in here," the Fool's voice said.
"So many little thoughts. But now they're mine too."
He smirked.
I staggered backward.
He could read my thoughts.
Blood Demon Art—Mental Link.
He used my blood to bind our minds.
And now, he could see every move I planned before I made it.
I tried to strike.
He dodged effortlessly.
I tried again. He leaned just enough to avoid it. Over and over.
"You think too loudly," he said. "Makes you easy to follow."
I clenched my jaw. Then I focused.
If he could see my thoughts—then I should be able to see his.
I closed my eyes.
A wave of noise crashed into me.
His thoughts were chaos.
Fragments of voices. Screaming laughter. Numbers. Cards. Stage lights. Memories. Rage. Color. Strings pulling in every direction. No single path. Just a tangle of spinning blades.
My mind recoiled.
How could anyone think like this?
I opened my eyes again. Too much.
As if he has multiple brains thinking together.
I couldn't predict him.
But he could predict me.
Still—I wasn't helpless.
I could understand some of his thoughts, though barely. From his thoughts, I pieced together information and understood that he was running out of energy.
His breathing.
It was sharper. Uneven.
His hands were twitching.
And the red glow of the card on his chest—flickering.
Rengoku.
He was still trapped in there. Still fighting back.
The Fool was strong, but keeping Rengoku sealed inside that tiny space was draining him.
Every second, it cost him more.
So I played a dangerous game.
I kept attacking—erratic, fast, inconsistent.
Even if he saw through my thoughts, I made my movements harder to track. Speed over power.
It wasn't working well. I landed a few glancing hits.
But not enough.
I couldn't beat him this way.
I also tried making my thoughts messy and twisted like his.
But I couldn't, because I wasn't a psychopath like him.
So I tried to do the opposite.
I knelt low.
Slowed my breath.
One inhale. One exhale.
I pushed the thoughts out of my mind—one by one.
Pain. Fear. Plans. Gone.
I let go.
There was no strategy. No emotion.
Just movement.
Just silence.
I relied on my muscle memory.
The Fool flinched.
"…Where did you go?" he said softly.
I stepped forward.
He hesitated.
He couldn't see my thoughts anymore.
And for the first time in the whole fight—
He looked scared.
I moved.
Second Form – Ghost Step.
He swung wildly—missed.
I appeared at his side.
Fifth Form – Obsidian Rain.
I unleashed a storm of slashes—sharp, relentless. His coat shredded. Blood sprayed.
He stumbled.
I leapt back.
Then inhaled deeply.
One final strike.
Shadow Breathing – Fourth Form: Crescent Fang.
A curved slash, drawn from the waist with full force. The arc ripped through the air like a crescent moon falling sideways.
The blade hit his chest—and crushed him.
He dropped to one knee.
I also dropped on the ground, no energy left in me as I performed three breathing forms simultaneously.
The red card at his chest flickered—then snapped in half.
Flames burst outward.
And Rengoku stepped through the smoke.
Alive—but furious.
Rengoku looked at me.
His voice was steady.
"You did well, Ryo."
The Fool backed away, stumbling.
He knew.
It was over.
He threw down smoke cards, illusions flaring up—clones and distractions.
But it was nothing to Rengoku.
His blade blazed through the illusions like paper.
And with one final step forward—
He cut the Fool's head clean off.
The body collapsed in silence.
But my eyes weren't on it.
I saw everything.
The mind-link hadn't faded yet.
And now I saw the Fool's life flash before me—like a dream being torn apart.
He was once a man named Kitsune Saburo.
A traveling magician. Not famous. Not rich. Just a young man with worn shoes, a patchy cloak, and a deep love for the stage.
He learned magic from an old street performer as a child—sleight of hand, hidden wires, mirrors and fire powder. To others, it was deception.
To Saburo, it was hope.
He performed in towns, on crates, under bridges. For children, for drunks, for coins or food. He told stories with cards, made birds from paper, pulled light from darkness. Even if only one person smiled—it was worth it.
And one day, his dream came true.
A wealthy nobleman's daughter—sickly, quiet, fond of illusions—heard of a street magician who made paper doves fly.
She asked her father to invite him.
Saburo was thrilled. He worked for weeks preparing the show. Designed new illusions. Practiced endlessly. It would be the greatest performance of his life.
The day came.
The hall was massive. The seats full.
He stepped onto a proper stage for the first time.
Everything began perfectly.
Laughter. Applause.
He smiled. The girl in the front row smiled back.
But halfway through the finale—
Something snapped.
A wire. A pulley.
A mirror fell sideways, revealing the mechanism behind the illusion.
Gasps. Whispers. Confusion.
A boy in the front row shouted, "It's fake!"
Children cried.
The nobleman stood up, face red with rage.
"You humiliated my daughter with lies?"
He stormed the stage, grabbed Saburo by the collar, and slapped him across the face.
Then again.
He kicked the props apart. Snapped Saburo's cane. Tore the curtain.
Saburo didn't fight back.
He just knelt there on broken glass as the crowd left, some laughing, some silent.
His dream shattered.
He wandered into the alley that night, still clutching a broken card between bloodied fingers.
Rain fell. Cold. Heavy.
He sat there in the dark, thinking of vanishing forever.
Then a man stepped out of the shadows.
Pale skin. Red eyes. Calm voice.
Muzan Kibutsuji.
"…Do you seek vengeance?" he asked.
Saburo looked up.
Eyes hollow. Voice soft.
"Yes"
"Then become a demon."
"Can I perform magic shows if I become a demon?"
Muzan smiled. "You'll be able to show them real magic."
Saburo accepted.
Years passed.
And Saburo—now The Fool—became a spectacle. A demon who used illusions not to hide, but to entertain.
His shows were beautiful, disturbing, dreamlike. People watched in awe as he made swords pass through flesh without pain… and sometimes, they never woke up again.
He killed, yes—but with flair. With music. With ribbons and masks.
One day, Muzan called him again.
"You've grown powerful, Saburo," Muzan said. "More than most. I'll make you Lower Moon One."
But Saburo bowed low, his mask tilted in respect.
"I'm honored, Lord Muzan," he said. "But please… let me decline."
Muzan raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"I want no ranks. No orders. Just the freedom to host my shows."
Muzan was silent for a moment.
Then chuckled.
"So long as you continue killing, I'll allow it. You bring fear in a different way."
And so The Fool remained outside the Twelve Kizuki.
Not because he lacked the power.
But because the stage was the only thing he truly wanted.
And he would kill for it—again and again—if it meant he could keep performing.
The vision faded.
I was back in my body.
Flat on the stage. Every muscle aching. Fingers twitching like I'd just been struck by lightning. Probably looked like a dying fish.
Rengoku stood over me, glowing like some divine hero bathed in victory.
He smiled.
"Let's go," he said, extending a hand.
I took it.
Barely.
Because my soul had left my body three times during that fight, and only came back out of sheer spite.
The crowd was safe. The Fool was dead. Rengoku had returned.
Everything… was fine.
And yet—
I. COULD. NOT. FEEL. MY. LEGS.
I limped forward.
No—I dragged myself across the ruined stage like a tragic ghost.
My sword clattered behind me.
Rengoku walked ahead, glowing with purpose.
And I—
I whispered to no one, "I am but a broken man…"
A child in the crowd clapped softly. "That was amazing!"
I nearly collapsed.
Amazing? AMAZING?! I just fought a demon magician psychopath while saving thirty civilians, got slashed, mind-linked, emotionally violated, and now I was walking like a 90-year-old with a dislocated hip!
But still… I couldn't shake what I saw.
The pain. The humiliation. The man behind the mask.
Saburo.
He only wanted to perform.
In another life, he might've just been a traveling magician with bad luck and a kind smile.
Instead…
He died wearing a painted grin that was never his.
"Ryo," Rengoku called. "You coming?"
I straightened up.
Pretended I hadn't just been mentally drafting my own funeral haiku.
"Yeah," I croaked. "Coming."
The show was over.
And this time—
We made sure it would never run again.
…Though honestly?
Neither will I.
To Be Continued...