Ravan felt that stare like a cold weight on his skin.

The clown's gaze wasn't sharp or soft, it was the kind of look that made you feel like your soul was being measured grain by grain.

Ravan tried to read him, tried to sense even a hint of his intention, but the man behind the mask stayed a blank page.

After a moment of silence, Ravan spoke again, voice firm and dripping with arrogance.

"Clown… are you going to take part in the war?"

He said it like he was asking whether someone wanted tea. As if it made no difference.

As if the fate of the coming battle didn't hinge on this very man.

They already had two early-stage grandmasters and one mid-stage.

In Ravan's eyes, they no longer needed the clown.

The clown didn't answer. He stood there, loose and lazy, but inside he was laughing.

Not the wild laughter he showed earlier, this was the silent kind, the type that never reached the mouth.

He sneered at Ravan in his mind, amused by how quickly power had climbed into the man's head.

Then he spoke, calm and almost bored. "Ravan… do you know a proverb?"

Ravan's brows pulled together. "What proverb?" His irritation showed openly now.

Months ago, when he was weaker, he would've never dared to show even a flicker of disrespect.

But now that he had reached mid-stage grandmaster, he looked at the clown like someone beneath him.

The clown didn't seem bothered at all.

His voice stayed steady, almost gentle, but it carried something sharp beneath it.

"A house without a base," He said, " is bound to fall one day."

Ravan's brows tightened even more.

The clown's simple line, a house without a base, gnawed at him like a small stone stuck in his boot.

"What do you mean by that?" Ravan asked, tone sharp and annoyed.

He wasn't used to being spoken to in half-answers anymore. Not after reaching his new strength.

The clown met his gaze with something that wasn't a smile, wasn't a threat, but carried meaning all the same.

He held it there for a moment… then simply let the question die.

Instead, he shifted the topic with an ease that felt almost insulting.

"Alright," he said lightly. "It's up to you. If you need me, I'll be here anytime."

Ravan nodded, and this answer softened the tension in his shoulders.

That was what he wanted, obedience, or at least the illusion of it.

As long as the clown stayed close, he could control him, use him, and then… deal with him once the war ended.

Because ruling a kingdom with a wild card like the clown standing behind your shoulder wasn't ruling at all.

It was waiting to be stabbed.

And then there was the other continent.

The place the clown talked about.

The place those strange weapons came from.

If it was truly as strong as the clown claimed, then it wasn't just a threat, it was a storm waiting to fall on their heads.

So the first step was simple: kill the clown.

Cut off the link.

Cut off the risk.

A world without the clown meant a world where Ravan could plan in peace.

Or… another thought stirred in him, sly and tempting.

Why kill the clown when he could use him?

Why fear the other continent when he could stand beside it?

If their power was as great as the clown hinted, then with the right alliance he could sweep across this entire continent like fire over dry leaves.

Destroy every empire.

Crush every ruler.

Unite the land under one banner, his.

No rivals.

No threats.

No history but his own.

The idea curled through his mind like warm smoke, shaping itself into something sharp and dangerous.

The war coming toward him felt smaller compared to the world he imagined beyond it.

And in the silent chamber, with the clown still standing there, Ravan's ambition grew larger than the hall itself.

Ravan sank deeper into his thoughts, pulled between two choices.

If he didn't kill the clown, then that man would always be like a sword pointed at his back.

The clown wasn't stupid, far from it. Ravan knew that well.

To control him, he first needed to understand what the clown wanted.

So he asked, sharp and direct, "Clown, what's your goal?"

The clown tilted his head. A grin stretched across the mask, but it didn't last.

In the next moment the grin faded, and a flash of anger lit up his eyes, quick, sharp, and cold.

He didn't answer.

He turned around and walked toward one of the large stone pillars.

Not a word, not a warning. He stopped in front of it, raised his fist—

—and boom.

The entire chamber shook. The pillar cracked and fell apart, stones crashing across the floor.

Dust rolled through the hall in thick waves.

The clown brushed the debris off his shoulder like it meant nothing.

"Now it's better," he said, as if he had simply moved a chair that was blocking his view.

He walked back to the spot he stood earlier, calm as ever.

Then he answered Ravan's question with a plain, hard tone.

"You don't need to know."

No emotion.

No opening for more questions.

No hint that he would ever explain himself.

The message was simple:

Don't ask again.

Ravan didn't push the issue.

On the outside he looked calm, but inside he was anything but.

The clown's refusal didn't scare him, what bothered him was the closed door. It told him something very clear.

If the clown had shared even a little of his goal, Ravan would have tried to build a stronger bond.

He would have shaped that connection, used it, maybe even made it look like trust.

But now?

Since the clown shut him out completely, the answer was simple:

Use him while he's useful… then get rid of him.

That thought settled in Ravan's mind like a stone dropped into still water.

He was about to continue speaking when a strange sound slipped from his mouth—"Huh?"—as his eyes scanned the hall.

The clown was gone.

Not walked away.

Not faded slowly.

Gone.

Ravan's eyes widened. He hadn't felt anything. Not a shift of air. Not a ripple of power. Not the slightest sign of movement.

"How…?" he muttered.

A few weeks ago, when he was still only a swordmaster, this kind of thing would have made sense.

Back then, the clown was far above him.

But now that he was a mid-stage grandmaster, the same level, this shouldn't be possible.

He stared at the empty spot where the clown had stood, trying to piece it together.

Different ideas flashed through his mind.

Was it a movement technique?

Was it some hidden skill?

Some unknown trick from that other continent?

But one thought rose above the others, the same one he had ignored before.

"Could it be… his intuition?" Ravan whispered to himself.

Ravan stood there, still staring at the empty spot.

The more he thought about it, the clearer one thing became.

The clown didn't vanish because of strength.

He didn't vanish because of speed either.

It had to be his intuition.

Not the normal kind everyone had, but his own ability, the one the clown always mentioned so casually.

Ravan didn't know the details, but he could guess one thing:

"That intuition… it might be linked to teleportation or something close to it," he muttered.

Nothing else could explain disappearing without a sound, without a sign, without even a flicker of energy.

It wasn't movement. It wasn't stealth.

It was something sudden and unnatural.

Ravan let out a slow breath. The hall was quiet again, but the thought stayed in his mind like a small thorn.

If the clown could slip away like that, anytime he wanted…

Killing him later might be harder than Ravan expected.

"It will be difficult," Ravan muttered.

The clown's sudden disappearance had shaken his certainty for a moment, but he pushed that feeling aside.

After the war, things would be different. If they won, and with those weapons, winning was almost guaranteed, they would have at least two grandmasters standing.

Maybe three, if everything went perfectly.

He counted a possible casualty just to be safe.

Someone might fall in battle, even with overwhelming power, so thinking ahead was better.

With two grandmasters fighting together, the odds of killing the clown would jump to around eighty percent in his mind.

That was more than enough, because he never planned to fight the clown in a clean, equal duel anyway.

Numbers, surprise, and timing would do the work.

But that was for later.

Right now, the only goal was simple: destroy the empire's army.

Crush them so completely that no one would even dare to speak against the north again.

"Vined…" he whispered.

A face flashed in his mind, the man who used to give him endless headaches.

The rival who once stood above him, who made him grind his teeth at night.

The man everyone celebrated when he became a grandmaster.

Ravan felt none of that irritation anymore. No stress. No pressure. No annoyance.

He only felt a cold, growing excitement.

"I want to see how strong you are now," he murmured, his voice low and calm.

The war would answer that question soon enough.

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