The man walked through the palace halls with stiff shoulders.

Servants bowed and greeted him on both sides, but he didn't return a single look.

His face stayed cold, as if nothing in these warm halls had anything to do with him.

He reached the large audience chamber and finally stopped.

He didn't knock, didn't clear his throat, he simply said to the guards, "Open the door."

The two guards bowed quickly and pushed the heavy doors apart.

The sound echoed across the chamber like a slow drumbeat.

He stepped inside with steady, controlled steps.

When he reached the center of the hall, he went down on one knee and bowed his head low.

"I greet the king of the north."

A deep voice rolled from the highest point of the platform, calm and heavy like falling stone.

"Rise."

The man stood up at once. His eyes lifted toward the throne.

There sat Ravan Tramplin.

He looked almost the same as he always had, sharp face, steady eyes, a presence that felt colder than the winter outside.

But something else sat around him now, something that didn't belong to him a few weeks ago.

An aura.

Thick. Heavy. Impossible.

Just a few weeks ago, Ravan had been a mid-stage swordmaster.

Strong, yes, but not someone who could shake the empire by simply breathing.

Now he sat there as a mid-stage grandmaster, and the power rolling off his body felt like a mountain pressing down on the room.

If any trained warrior walked into this chamber and sensed that aura, they wouldn't even scream.

Their jaws would drop, their minds would snap, and they might actually bite their own tongue from shock.

It simply didn't happen. Not in one lifetime. Not in one empire.

Becoming a swordmaster was already rare.

Most of them reached early stage and got stuck there until the day they died.

Even in the whole Indrath Empire, huge land, huge army, countless warriors, but there were only two grandmasters and two ascended.

Two.

And recently, when Vined broke through to grandmaster, everyone thought the heavens were already being too generous.

Three grandmasters in one generation was madness.

But this?

Ravan Tramplin suddenly rising from mid swordmaster to grandmaster in a few weeks?

And his younger brother doing the same?

This wasn't luck. This wasn't talent. This wasn't effort.

This was something else. Something unnatural.

The strange part was how calm they both looked.

Everyone outside was preparing for war, the empire's army was building a bridge to cross the Indus river, and yet these two men stood here as if they had already written the ending.

Ravan sat on the throne like a man who had already claimed victory and carved his title into stone.

He had even announced himself as the King of the North, something that would've been seen as lunacy a month ago.

Now it felt… almost natural, like the north had simply bent to him without a fight.

"Zaphir," Ravan said, calling the man's name with a steady, quiet tone. "How many days until they arrive?"

Zaphir's voice stayed neutral, almost empty of emotion. "My lord, they will reach us within a month from today."

Ravan hummed softly, head tilting up as if the answer pleased him.

"One month, hm?" he murmured.

His eyes narrowed with a spark of excitement, an excitement that didn't belong on the face of a man whose territory was under threat.

"Are the weapons ready?"

He didn't say the word lightly.

There was a pressure behind it, as if the word itself carried more weight than cannons or armies.

Zaphir straightened a little. "Yes, my lord. They are ready. When the empire reaches our walls, we will fire them."

A small tremor of excitement slipped into his voice, quick and sharp, as if he couldn't hide it no matter how calm he wanted to appear.

The weapons they spoke of weren't normal weapons.

They weren't made in any forge of the empire, nor crafted by any mage from the capital.

They came from the other continent.

And whatever those weapons were, both Ravan and Zaphir trusted them enough to face the empire without a hint of fear.

In fact, they looked like men waiting for a show they'd already seen once.

Ravan's fingers tapped once on the arm of his throne, a soft sound swallowed by the vast hall.

"Very well," he said, voice calm but edged with interest. "Is there any news of another grandmaster, or anything higher, joining the war?"

Zaphir shook his head. "No, my lord. No signs of any new grandmaster. But there will be one or two swordmasters accompanying the army."

His tone stayed flat, carrying the confidence of someone who trusted his information.

Their spies were already mixed into the empire's forces, watching every move.

Ravan gave a small nod, thoughtful. "I see. That will be enough." He waved one hand lightly, dismissing him. "You may leave now."

"Yes, my lord," Zaphir replied.

He turned smoothly and walked out of the audience chamber, the heavy doors shutting behind him with a dull echo.

Silence stretched through the hall.

Ravan didn't move.

He didn't blink. He simply leaned back in his throne and stared up at the ceiling, as if watching something only he could see.

His face was calm and cold, but in his eyes… there was a clear shine of anticipation, a spark hiding under ice.

The quiet grew heavier.

Then, without warning—

as if the air itself cracked—

a maddening laugh exploded out of nowhere.

"HAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!"

It bounced off the stone walls like something wild and unchained, a sound that didn't belong to any sane man.

The throne room, so quiet moments before, shivered as that laughter rolled through it, twisting the silence into something sharp and wrong.

Ravan didn't flinch.

His cold eyes simply narrowed, as if he had been waiting for this voice all along.

After a while the laughter died down like someone had snapped its neck.

A shape flickered into existence on the same spot where Zaphir had been standing a moment ago.

But this person didn't kneel, didn't bow, didn't even stand straight.

He slouched there with a loose, lazy posture, as if this grand hall were his living room, and a bright clown mask hid every inch of his face.

The mask grinned even though the man had stopped laughing.

"Clown," Ravan muttered.

His voice didn't shake, but something colder tugged at the edges of his tone.

Ravan had come far, too far for what should be humanly possible.

He had stepped into the same realm as the clown, reached grandmaster, stood as king of the north, and commanded an army of a hundred thousand.

He had no reason to fear anyone now.

Yet this masked figure still poked at some old instinct that told him to be careful.

It wasn't the clown's strength.

If it came to raw power, Ravan believed he could match him now.

No—the problem was that he had no idea what the clown wanted.

The clown had given him power, knowledge, and those strange weapons from the other continent.

He had never asked for payment. Never asked for favors. Never stated any goal.

Nothing in this world came free.

Ravan knew that better than most.

So when he looked at the clown, he didn't see an ally. He saw a question with teeth.

If the empire fell, if the Tramplin name rose higher than ever before—

that would be when the clown showed his true colors.

Whatever deal the clown had in mind, he would demand it then.

Which meant Ravan had to be the one who struck first.

A thin thought slid through his mind like a blade.

'It would be best… to kill the clown after everything is over.' He thought.

'Because without a bamboo stick, a flute can't be played.'[1]

The corner of Ravan's mouth lifted in a cold hint of a smile.

The clown didn't react, he simply tilted his masked head, watching Ravan with silent, unreadable interest.

The throne room felt colder than the snow outside, as if the air itself understood that two predators were now sharing the same floor.

The clown didn't move.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't tilt his head any further.

Yet beneath the mask, something shifted, an invisible ripple, like a sharp mind brushing against another and finding it predictable.

He didn't need to read Ravan's thoughts; he had lived more lifetimes than this entire estate had bricks.

Twenty times Ravan's age, twenty times his experience, twenty times his betrayals. Men like Ravan were easy to understand.

But the clown didn't mention it.

He didn't say, "I know what you're planning."

He didn't say, "Try it and see."

He simply let the tension hang for a heartbeat… then spoke.

His voice came out muffled through the painted smile of the mask, quiet and casual, as if they were talking about weather instead of possible murder.

"Why did you call me here?"

No anger.

No threat.

No respect either.

Just a simple question dropped into the cold air.

_______

[1]It basically means this:

If the clown isn't alive, then he can't make any demands later.

Remove the source, and the problem never appears.

The Hindi proverb behind it is:

"ना रहेगा बाँस, ना बजेगी बाँसुरी।"

"Na rahega baans, na bajegi baansuri."

In English:

"If the bamboo is gone, the flute won't play."

Bamboo is the raw material of a flute.

No bamboo → no flute → no sound.

No clown → no demands → no problems.

That is the whole meaning in the simplest form.

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