Nathaniel's pistols rested at his sides, held firmly as his gaze locked with Kadesh, who had emerged from the palace's secret passageways.
"If you'll excuse me," Kadesh began, his voice steady and precise, "Your captain will be coming with us, as previously ordered. The elderly man who accompanied you has already been moved to another location. As for this young man, he will be escorted to the execution site, as decreed by our king."
The soldiers behind Kadesh, some still shaken, scrambled to clear the fallen lantern. One of them, hesitant, spoke up. "Sir! We'll move the lantern out of the way." Without further hesitation, the soldiers quickly removed the broken lantern while another group continued dragging Temoshí deeper into the palace's corridors.
The palace floor gleamed under Nathaniel's feet, its smooth, pristine surface reflecting his figure as he stood tall, unwavering.
"I'll leave the care of the young man to your soldiers," Kadesh said, his tone never changing. "My part in this is nearly finished. However, should I let you be, you would undoubtedly pursue our men and follow after your captain. I cannot allow that. Therefore, I shall ensure you do not leave this place alive."
Kadesh drew his sword with practiced precision, holding it at waist height with a calm, measured grip. "Let us test the theory, gunslinger. A blade versus a gun. In most cases, the gun would triumph. But let us see if that holds true today."
"Guess that's that," Nathaniel muttered, his expression remaining calm but sharp. "I didn't expect secret passageways, but I'm not blind. I understand avoiding a fight when I see it, especially when you know this place like the back of your hand."
Despite the tension in the air, Nathaniel's confidence remained unshaken. He subtly activated the communication device, sending out a warning without a second thought.
Outside the palace, Joker, having received the message, scanned the area with a grin. "Well, I suppose not everything went according to plan," he said, spinning his marotte with a practiced flick.
His cybernetic body hummed with readiness as he stood just outside the palace's grand stairway. Adjusting his focus, he activated his thermal vision, tracking the soldiers moving toward the exterior.
"Looks like it's showtime," Joker muttered to himself, a twisted excitement flashing in his eyes.
The soldiers stormed through the palace's grand entrance hall, their armor clanking, heavy boots hammering against the polished marble. The glow of the evening sun spilled in through the wide-open doors, gleaming off their helms as they began the long descent down the grand staircase that led into the heart of the desert city below.
"Careful with him!" the commanding soldier barked, casting a sharp glance over his shoulder at the men carrying Temoshí's limp body. His voice carried a harsh edge of duty and nerves. "Don't drop the pirate! He's to be delivered to the execution site in one piece!" He motioned them forward with an impatient sweep of his hand.
But before they could make it another step, the world seemed to stutter. A sudden wall of floating cubes shimmered into existence, glowing with an unnatural hue, forming a barrier that blocked the entire staircase. The soldiers slammed into it at full momentum, their bodies ricocheting backward in a clattering pile, tumbling over one another like dominoes.
The commander crashed against the railing, swore under his breath, and scrambled to his feet. "What in the hells—?!" His voice trembled between shock and fury. He whipped his head around, his soldiers doing the same, weapons drawn and eyes searching the space.
The barrier of cubes twisted unnaturally, fragments shifting and scattering like dice tossed across a gambler's table. Then, with a strange shimmer, they dissolved into tiny sparkles of light, leaving the entrance eerily still.
And through that silence, footsteps echoed. Light, casual, almost playful.
From the haze of glittering motes stepped a lone figure, strolling forward as if he were about to step onto a stage rather than into battle. In his hand spun a marotte—twirled, flipped, balanced on his palm with an elegance that clashed with the tension of the moment. Each spin caught the light, reflecting like a performer's spotlight in motion.
"Ahhh, what delightful timing!" came Joker's voice, smooth, lilting, and theatrical. He stopped only a few feet away, bowing deeply with one hand sweeping out, the other still twirling the marotte as if he were presenting himself to an adoring audience.
He rose slowly, tilting his head as his hat slipped forward over his brow. With a playful flick, he removed it, pressing it against his chest as though in respect—though the mischievous gleam in his cybernetic eyes betrayed anything but sincerity.
"Good day, gentlemen of the desert kingdom," Joker declared, every syllable dripping with stage-like projection. "I've come to… settle a score with you." His words curled like smoke, equal parts mockery and promise.
He spun the marotte one last time and rested it against his shoulder, his smile widening into something unnervingly calm. "Now then, a simple request—return my beloved captain." He gestured dramatically toward the unconscious body of Temoshí, his tone carrying a hint of exaggerated sorrow. "Surely you can see… he is helpless in that condition. A man in need of rest, not chains."
He tipped his hat forward once more, bowing low before setting it back upon his head in a flourish. His cybernetic joints clicked faintly as he straightened, his whole posture radiating showmanship.
"Allow us, his crew, the honor of tending to him. For even the grandest performances must rest their leading star… before the curtain rises again."
The commander's grip on his sword tightened, his men shifting nervously behind him. Joker's presence wasn't just threatening—it was unsettling, the kind of eccentric danger that made the air feel thinner.
The soldiers stared, dumbstruck. One of them barked, incredulous, "What the hell is that? He don't even look human — some kind of machine?" A dozen pairs of eyes tracked Joker as he strolled forward, every man trying to place what he was seeing.
Joker flourished his marotte and made a low, theatrical bow. "Allow me to introduce myself," he trilled. "Augustus, at your service — though most call me Joker." He let the name hang for a beat, then tapped his temple with a mechanical finger. "No mistake: I am a cyborg. Part performance, part precision. And I have come to fetch my captain."
He spread his hands in an exaggerated shrug. "You may hand him over now, and we'll part as civilized guests. Or you may refuse — and then, regrettably, I'll have to resort to force. Force, alas, is such an inelegant solution, but sometimes necessary."
The commander's jaw tightened. He barked orders, and the soldiers moved instantly, weapons raised in disciplined unison to form a shield between Joker and the staircase. "Hold your ground! No one hands anything over!" one of them snapped. A younger trooper clicked his rifle into readiness; another drew a spear and planted his feet. A ring of steel closed around Joker, blocking his advance.
Joker gave a soft, amused chuckle — the sound was almost a stage note. He didn't flinch, didn't step back. Instead, he tilted his head, eyes catching the light like spotlights. "How charming," he said, voice sweet as honey and cold as a blade. "So theatrical. Very well — then allow me to perform."
He spun the marotte once, and a faint whirring hummed from the device. Sparks of light traced along its carved surface. The soldiers tightened their grips, murmurs of unease running through the formation. One of them called out a warning to the commander; another glanced up the staircase, worried about reinforcements.
Still Joker did not move from his spot. He smiled with the practiced calm of a performer about to begin the final act, utterly unconcerned by the ring of steel and the raised weapons around him — as if the danger only made the show better.
To be continued...