Chapter 10: The Jester's Dance

Lance stood alone, his scythe dripping blood onto the grain-strewn floor. The Ring of Summoning pulsed with increasing urgency, each beat seeming to whisper of ancient powers waiting to be called.

"Well," he muttered, raising the ring, "nothing left to lose."

The moment his will touched the ring's power, his system exploded with notifications:

[Ring of Summoning Activated]

[Random Summoning Protocol Initiated]

[Warning: No Control Over Summoned Entity]

[Searching Available Dungeons...]

[Entity Located]

[Warning: Power Level Exceeds System Parameters]

[Caution: Ancient Contract Detected]

The air split with a sound like laughing thunder. Reality itself seemed to tear open, revealing a void filled with watching eyes. From this rift stepped a figure that made both the Rat King and Hobgoblin Chief take involuntary steps backward.

[Entity Analysis]

Name: The Jester King

Rank: SSS

Type: Ancient Sovereign

Warning: Power Level Cannot Be Quantified

Threat Level: ABSOLUTE

Note: Ancient binding detected. Entity appears to recognize user.

The Jester stood six feet tall, his black and white outfit adorned with bells that chimed with each graceful movement. His muscled frame was wrapped in leather and cloth that seemed to drink in light, while red accents pulsed like living blood vessels across his costume. A grin split his face-too wide, too many teeth-and around him orbited disembodied eyes that seemed to observe everything at once.

In his right hand, he held a scythe that could have been the twin of Lance's, though the metal seemed to shift and flow like liquid shadow.

The Jester's first words came in a language that made Lance's ears hurt, syllables that seemed to fold through dimensions that shouldn't exist. Then he paused, that impossible grin widening further.

"Oh my, how forgetful of me," the Jester's voice shifted to perfect Etherian, though it carried echoes of that first impossible tongue. "You haven't remembered the Old Speech yet, have you, my dear former Dungeon King?"

"What-" Lance started, but the Rat King chose that moment to attack.

The massive beast lunged forward, its maw wide enough to swallow a horse. The Jester didn't even turn to look. One of his orbiting eyes swiveled backward, and his scythe moved in a casual arc that somehow bent space itself. The Rat King's charge ended with its body split into perfect thirds, each slice cauterized as if cut by burning steel.

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"Now then," the Jester twirled his scythe like a performer's baton, "shall we clean up this little mess you've found yourself in? For old time sake?"

The Hobgoblin Chief roared, rallying his forces. "KILL THEM ALL!"

The Jester's laugh cut through the war cry like a blade through silk. "Oh, how delightfully nostalgic! It's been so long since I've had a proper audience." He began to dance, his movements a twisted mirror of the Seraphis style Lance had been using. "Watch carefully, young master. This is how we used to do it, five thousand years ago."

What followed wasn't combat-it was annihilation set to the music of jingling bells. The Jester moved like liquid shadow, his scythe carving patterns that violated the laws of space. Each swing sent eyes flying in different directions, each one trailing red light that cut through dozens of enemies.

[Combat Analysis Processing...]

[Warning: Unable to track attack patterns]

[Spatial distortions detected]

[Multiple dimensional inversions observed]

[Recommendation: Study combat style for future reference]

Rats exploded into mist. Goblins fell in perfectly symmetrical pieces. The Jester's blade seemed to be everywhere at once, each strike accompanied by his manic laughter. He turned slaughter into performance art, his bells chiming a countdown to oblivion.

"Come now," he called to the retreating Hobgoblin Chief, "your predecessor put up a much better show! Then again," his grin somehow widened further, "everything was grander in the old days, wasn't it, my king?"

The Chief swung his massive blade, only for the Jester to catch it between two fingers. "Boring," he sighed, and with a flick of his wrist, sent the Chief's own sword through his chest. The massive goblin fell, his expression frozen in disbelief.

In less than a minute, the chamber had been cleared. Only Lance and the Jester remained standing among the carnage, while Harper lay unconscious behind them.

The Jester turned to Lance, his orbiting eyes all focusing on him at once. "Now then, shall we talk about old times? About the pact we made when you first claimed the title of Dungeon King?"

"I don't understand," Lance said, gripping his scythe tighter. "I've never-"

"Oh, but you have! Five thousand years ago, in the First Deep, when you discovered what truly lies beneath Etheria's surface." The Jester spun in place, his bells creating a discordant melody. "You were magnificent then-the first human to master the dungeons, to bind creatures like myself to your will. The original Dungeon King!"

He stopped spinning, fixing Lance with his main gaze while his orbiting eyes watched everything else. "But something went wrong, didn't it? Something even I don't know about. You disappeared, and the dungeons grew wild. Now here you are again, wearing that ring, wielding that scythe, yet remembering nothing."

The Jester moved closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tell me, young master, would you like to know what happened? Why you keep dying? Why your brother vanished? Why the dark ones hunt you across lifetimes?"

Lance stared at the carnage surrounding them, trying to process the Jester's words. "My brother... Adrian?"

"Ah, Adrian in this life." The Jester's grin softened slightly, almost sympathetic. "He's had so many names across the millennia. Each time he's reborn, each time he tries to reclaim what was lost, each time he dies..." The bells on his costume chimed mournfully. "Five thousand years of cycling through life and death, searching for you."

"I don't understand," Lance's grip tightened on his scythe. "You're saying I've been gone for five thousand years? While my brother-"

"Dies and dies and dies again!" The Jester pirouetted, his floating eyes forming patterns in the air. "The curse makes sure of that. It's quite elegant really, in a horrifically cruel way. He reaches for power, remembers fragments of the truth, and then-" The Jester made a slicing motion across his throat, bells jingling discordantly.

"But you," he pointed at Lance with his scythe, "you disappeared after that day in the First Deep. Vanished completely! Even I couldn't find you, and I know all the dark places between worlds. Then suddenly, here you are again, wearing that ring, carrying that scythe, making contracts with dear old Moga..."

The Jester balanced his scythe on one finger, letting it spin like a dancer's prop. "You know, watching you fight earlier was like seeing a child trying to remember how to walk. The motions are there, but the grace..." He clicked his tongue. "Ironic, really, considering you're the one who turned my simple combat lessons into an art form."

Lance's eyes widened. "You taught me?"

"Oh yes!" The Jester's laugh echoed through the chamber. "I showed you the basics-how to hold it, how to swing it. But you..." His grin grew nostalgic, an unsettling sight on such an inhuman face. "You took those crude movements and transformed them into something beautiful. The Seraphis Blade Dance, they called it. Armies would break at the mere sight of you approaching, a singular figure bringing a storm of bladed grace."

He gestured at the carnage around them. "This? This is nothing. I once watched you clear the Fields of Eternal Night alone-ten thousand shadow wraiths fell to your dance." The Jester's orbiting eyes spun faster with excitement at the memory. "Such poetry in motion! Even the gods took notice."

"Speaking of gods," the Jester's voice turned sly, his eyes glancing meaningfully at Lance's ring, "dear Moga wasn't always the powerful dragon deity you met in the Hallowed Grounds. Funny how he never mentioned that, hmm? How he conveniently forgot to tell you about his... humbler beginnings."

The Jester twirled again, his bells creating a melody that seemed to carry echoes of ancient battles. "Tell me, did he happen to mention how a mere dungeon creature rose to godhood? No? How fascinating that he left that part out."

Lance looked down at the Ring of Summoning. "Are you saying Moga was..."

"Careful now," the Jester waggled a finger. "Some truths are better earned than given. But let's just say your brother isn't the only one who remembers the old days. Though his memories..." The Jester's expression darkened momentarily. "The curse makes sure those memories only return when it's too late to matter."

He moved closer to Lance, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Five thousand years of watching him remember, watching him reach for power, watching him die. Each time he gets closer to the truth, each time he almost breaks free, the curse ensures another tragedy. Another death. Another cycle."

The Jester straightened suddenly, his manic grin returning. "But now you're back! After five millennia, the original returns! And not a moment too soon-things are stirring in the deep places, old powers awakening. The dark ones grow bold, the dungeons grow restless, and your brother..." He glanced at Harper's unconscious form. "Well, let's just say this cycle might be different."