The rounds of the "Weaving of Fates" game continued like a slow, methodical torture. Each passing turn was like a drop of cold water steadily falling onto my forehead.
Every card the Master of Masks played was another hammer blow against the fragile remains of my confidence, which were eroding at a frightening pace.
His narrative grew stronger and more cohesive with every move, painting a vivid image of his carnival—a place where reality dissolved and illusions ruled, where surrendering to the masks was the only salvation, the twisted bliss promised to all his victims.
As for me… I was drowning.
And I was drowning fast.
Every card I drew seemed worse than the last, as if fate itself had conspired against me in this cursed game.
I desperately tried to find something—anything—a thin thread of logic or strength I could cling to, but my hand was full of cards that seemed either meaningless or mockingly discouraging.
The Master of Masks played a glowing golden card. On it was the image of a terrifying smiling mask devouring a shining star.
[Card: Devouring]
Effect: Any attempt by the opponent to introduce "real-world logic" or "natural laws" into their narrative becomes invalid and is punished with a Despair Point (whatever that meant—I had no desire to find out).
"In my carnival, little one," said the Master of Masks with an arrogant smile, his voice echoing across the arena as if coming from everywhere and nowhere at once,
"reality is merely a suggestion, and logic is an old, ridiculous joke! Here, dreams are truth, nightmares are the evening's delight… and I am the master of both!"
How… how am I supposed to respond to this twisted philosophical nonsense? I thought, my mind sluggish and confused, as if wrapped in a thick layer of fog.
I tried to play the green [Inner Maze] card, the one depicting a tangled forest without a visible end, hoping it might at least confuse him a little—or distract him from my obvious weakness.
"And in this carnival…" I muttered, my voice trembling so much I barely recognized it, "one… one feels lost… like in a maze… with no end… and no way out."
The Master of Masks shook his head in mild disgust, his mocking smile widening.
"A maze? What a… predictable and boring metaphor. Weren't we just in a real maze, boy? Have you run out of ideas so quickly? Or is this truly the peak of what your tiny mind can produce as a narrative?"
He sneered before playing another card—a silver one showing a shattered mirror reflecting a thousand distorted faces, each silently crying or screaming.
[Card: Shattered Fragments of the Self]
Effect: Forces the opponent to focus on only one aspect of a "character" or "element" in their narrative, ignoring the others, potentially creating contradictions that cannot be fixed later.
"In the carnival, every self is merely an illusion—a collection of scattered fragments dancing to chaotic music!" the Master of Masks declared, his voice rising with theatrical delight.
"There is no true 'I,' only masks we wear and discard like clothes. Each mask tells a different story, and every story is just another illusion!"
I looked down at my cards with growing despair.
I still had the red [Silent Betrayal] card—the one with the bleeding heart—but how could I use it?
There were no clear characters in his narrative to betray.
His story was abstract and philosophical in the most infuriating way possible, as if he were trying to convince me that my existence itself had no meaning.
And, honestly… he was doing a very good job of it.
With a trembling hand, I played the pale yellow [Wasted Time] card again, the one with the empty hourglass.
"And time… keeps being wasted… and wasted…" I whispered, feeling stupidity wash over me.
I'm starting to hate this damned card.
"Again with wasted time?" the Master of Masks burst into booming laughter that echoed across the arena.
"It seems time is your only concern, little one. Perhaps because your time here, in this delightful carnival, is about to run out in a rather tragic fashion!"
Maya, who had been silently watching the game behind me in horror, let out a faint, muffled gasp.
Rex lightly slammed his fist against the table, his eyes burning with frustration and anger—directed at me.
He hates me now, I thought coldly. He thinks I'm giving up… that I'm failing them.
And maybe he was right.
A part of me had already begun to feel that resistance was pointless—that every move I made was only prolonging the torment.
The Master of Masks played another card. This one was sky-blue, depicting a tear freezing mid-fall and transforming into a sharp crystal of ice.
[Card: The Frozen Beauty of Eternal Sorrow]
Effect: Any attempt by the opponent to introduce "hope" or "happiness" into their narrative is met with a chilling coldness that greatly weakens its impact, making it appear ridiculous or misplaced.
"Even sorrow here has its own beauty, little one!" the Master of Masks said in a falsely poetic tone as he admired his card proudly.
"It is eternal sorrow… frozen, unchanging… beautiful in its own way."
Eternal sorrow… I repeated the words in my mind like a spell.
I looked down at the pale blue [Lost Dream] card still in my hand, the one depicting a lone butterfly flying toward a shattered moon.
For some reason, it felt like the only card I truly understood in that moment—the only one that reflected what I felt inside.
I played it.
I placed it gently on the table, like laying a gravestone upon my dead hopes.
"Our dreams… all of them… are lost… and frozen… in this cursed place."
This time I didn't even try to make my voice sound sad.
The sadness was real. The despair was real. It poured out of me like blood from an open wound.
The Master of Masks smiled broadly, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.
"I see you are finally beginning to understand, little one. Surrender is the most beautiful dance in this carnival…"
And at that moment, I began doing things I didn't fully understand—or perhaps I simply no longer cared to understand them.
My hand moved on its own, driven by a deeper despair than anything I had ever felt before, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
I played the gray [Empty Echo] card—the one with the blank, featureless face.
"Surrender… the most beautiful dance…" I repeated his words in a hollow voice, like a puppet echoing what it heard, without soul, without will.
Then, unexpectedly, without any visible thought, I played the pale yellow [Wasted Time] card for the third time.
"And time… keeps… being wasted… forever… and ever."
The Master of Masks frowned for a moment.
The confident smile on his golden mask faded slightly.
"Three times with the 'Wasted Time' card? Are you trying to bore me to death, boy? Or is this truly all that remains in your empty bag of ideas? Is this the 'narrative' you offer me? Nothing but a dull repetition of empty words?"
I was supposed to say something.
To build a narrative.
To defend my miserable play.
But I didn't.
I stayed silent, staring at the table with empty eyes.
"Have you lost the ability to speak as well, brave challenger?" the Master of Masks mocked.
His arrogant smile returned—but there was something different in his tone now.
Something like… impatience.
"What an unbelievably disappointing opponent you are. I expected more spark, more desperate resistance at least!"
"Fwoosh!"
Then, as if my mind had completely stopped working—
as if despair had paralyzed every cell of my thought—
I reached out and drew a random card from the draw pile.
Something that wasn't even allowed except at the start of a turn.
"…."
The Master of Masks didn't comment.
Perhaps he was enjoying my complete collapse.
Or perhaps he himself had begun to feel slightly confused by this strange behavior.
The card was a strange orange color.
It depicted a small child crying bitterly while holding a broken lollipop lying on the ground.
[Card: Childish Disappointment]
Effect: Introduces an element of absurdity, triviality, or disproportionate sadness into the narrative, potentially ruining any dramatic, majestic, or even logical atmosphere.
"Bam."
I placed it on the table without saying a word, as if offering a final sacrifice.
The Master of Masks stared at the card.
Then at my face.
"Kyehehe!… Kyahahahaha!"
He burst into laughter—a loud laugh, but this time tinged with confusion and disbelief.
"Childish disappointment? Is this… is this the narrative you plan to defeat me with? Will you fight me with children's tears and broken candy? How… how incredibly pathetic you are!"
I didn't respond.
"Ding."
I felt tears gathering in my eyes again—this time not only from sadness, but from a crushing sense of humiliation.
Despair flooded over me like a dark, unstoppable tide.
The beauty of sorrow…
emptying every suppressed negative emotion from your heart.
Crying… the purest expression of sorrow.
It's over, I thought as the last thread of resistance, the final fragment of pride inside me, snapped.
I can't win. I can't even play properly. I'm just… a burden. A sad clown in this cursed carnival.
I leaned forward, resting my head in my hands on the cold table.
And I began to cry.
"Heh… h-heh… ahh…"
This time the crying wasn't fake.
These weren't forced tears.
It was real.
It came from the depths of my fear and the crushing realization of how insignificant I was in this world, in this game, before this entity.
Since arriving in this strange world… until this moment… I had treated everything as a nightmare, a dream I would wake up from sooner or later.
But now…
My thin body shook with muffled sobs.
I felt shame. Weakness. Absolute, crushing defeat.
"I… I can't…" I muttered between sobs, the words barely escaping my lips.
"This… this is too much… please… please, sir… just… end this… have mercy… I don't even deserve to be dust in your carnival…"
But I realized something.
I didn't want to die.
I heard Maya make a choked sound behind me, as if she might start crying too—or perhaps she was disgusted by my weakness.
Rex cursed under his breath, his voice filled with frustration and undisguised contempt.
I failed them, a small voice whispered in my mind. I failed everyone.
The Master of Masks stood over me, his shadow covering me completely like a shroud.
I felt the cold presence of his golden mask close to me, as if death itself had leaned down to examine its final victim.
"Oh, you poor little mouse," he said, his voice dripping with mockery and victory—but also with something else.
Boredom.
"Is this the end? Is this your beautiful and pathetic moment of surrender? I expected more resistance, more drama… but it seems you are nothing but an empty vessel. Easy to break… and easy to grow bored of."
He raised his hand, as if preparing to play his final card—the finishing blow that would end this farce once and for all.
"Do not worry, little one," he whispered, his voice now filled with fake pity that made my skin crawl.
"I will make it quick. And perhaps… perhaps I will keep your tear-stained mask as a souvenir… a reminder of your stupidity—and my unfortunate luck in choosing such a boring opponent."
I was still crying, my head on the table, my body trembling.
This is the end, I repeated in my mind like a funeral chant.
A stupid and miserable ending… exactly as expected. I am just a mistake… a mistake.
The tears kept falling, with no sign they would stop anytime soon.
All hope seemed gone.
Every thought of resistance felt ridiculous and impossible.
There was only this overwhelming despair—
and the certainty that the trap had already closed.
And that the Master of Masks was about to end this tedious, tragic game in his favor…
Just as it had been destined from the beginning.