The caravan rattled across the fractured map of Europe—from the fog-drenched polders of the Netherlands into the dark, whispering heart of the Black Forest, and finally toward the sun-bleached hills of the Italian states—the "Professor" in Faust began to eclipse the "Fool," even as his bells jingled louder than ever.
Life in the troupe shifted.
Most of the "Fools" Faust had started with had been promoted to the rank of Clowns—a promotion in name, though it mostly meant more greasepaint and harder falls.
Because of his uncanny poise and natural authority, the Chief eventually appointed Mephisto as a mentor for the newest recruits.
It was a strange sight: the refined, bells-clad Mephisto patiently teaching a trembling orphan how to "drunkenly" stumble without breaking a rib. He was a surprisingly effective teacher, though he often joked inwardly at the absurdity.
"From lecturing doctoral candidates on the humors of the blood to teaching a pickpocket how to hide a rabbit in a waistcoat. What a spectacular fall from grace," he thought.
Jack, however, the bitter veteran, remained unpromoted. Despite his years of service, he was still stuck at the gates. It was more than unfortunate; it was beginning to feel suspicious. Jack's eyes followed Mephisto with a cold, sharpening resentment that no clown mask could fully hide.
In the quiet hours of the night, while Wunder snored in the bunk above, Faust poured over Johann Weyer's stolen journal.
The book was a maddening mix of clinical observation and occult delirium.
It detailed the 73 demons of the lower spheres and a bestiary of monsters that defied every biological law Faust knew.
As a man of science, he struggled to believe the words, yet the accuracy of the anatomical descriptions—detailing things like the hydra's body structure, process of brain decomposition of a harpia and how to tame chupacabras—felt too precise to be mere fiction.
According to Weyer's frantic notes, the supernatural world functioned on three distinct pillars of energy:
"...A power that can be accumulated within the body as raw vitality. It is the fuel of the living, used to mend flesh and bolster strength. It can also enhance your weapons. That is called Aura or as I call it Life Force."
"A power granted only when a soul is "acknowledged" by the world itself. It is a signature of identity, a key that unlocks the deeper mechanisms of reality and your soul. Every hunter can wield it and it distorts accordingly to attributes of the hunter. There's no attributes of similar Qualities and Uniquenesses. That's what Initiation or The Huntress is."
"And last but not least — Divine/Demonic Power..."
This was where Weyer's writing became most erratic.
He noted that "Holiness" functioned similarly to Aura, but the "Divine Power of Death" felt closer to the Demonic. He agonized over a central inconsistency: the similarity between Demonic power and Initiation.
"The truth seems to slip away from me," Weyer had written in the margins. "Is the devil merely a world-recognized soul gone sour?"
Faust closed the book, his head throbbing.
To his logical mind, Weyer sounded like a madman chasing shadows.
Yet, he couldn't ignore the heat he felt in his own chest when he touched the silver-encrusted Tarot cards.
To prove his scientific skepticism right—or perhaps because he was desperate for a map in this dark new world—Faust decided to test the "least dangerous" ritual mentioned in the journal.
He didn't want to stir the forces of nature yet.
He didn't want to summon entities or manipulate the winds.
He chose Dream Divination, a method supposed to pull fragments of the future into the subconscious during sleep.
The book claimed that most people lacked the "affinity" to perform such acts. It spoke of witches and kings who were slaughtered by the envious because they could hear the world "whispering" back to them.
Tonight, as the El Gloriosa camped on the outskirts of a silent, moonlit village, Faust prepared his mind.
He followed the instructions to the letter, clearing his thoughts of the circus, the bells, and the Inquisition interrogated him, at least that's who Faust suspected them to be.
He focused on a single question, a bridge between his scientific past and his uncertain future.
As he drifted into sleep, the last thing he heard wasn't the wind, but the soft, phantom jingle of a bell that wasn't there.