Seven days passed in the capital city, and the world went completely crazy.
At first, the stories sounded like absolute nonsense made up by drunk peasants in cheap taverns. People were talking about a strange figure who walked through the destroyed slums in the middle of the night, wearing a cheap painted wooden clown mask and leaving small paper packets of magical pink dust on people’s doorsteps.
But by the fifth day, the stories were impossible to ignore.
Old man Tobey, who had been crippled for ten years after a heavy ox cart ran over his hip, was seen jumping over wooden fences in the market square like a teenage athlete.
A young girl who had lost her sight after inhaling hot dragon smoke was suddenly walking around pointing at clouds and describing their shapes to her crying parents.
A butcher whose arm had been horribly burned by blue plasma fire woke up with brand new, baby-smooth skin.
Every single one of them told the exact same story. They snorted the pink powder up their nose, heard a weird popping sound inside their body, and were instantly cured of all their injuries.
The citizens didn’t know his real name, so they gave him the only name that made sense.
THE HEALER CLOWN.
Philip sat on a high wooden stool inside Brandon’s Magic Junkshop, wearing his dirty work apron while sharpening an old rusty iron sword with a wet whetstone.
Outside the shop window, a massive crowd of citizens was gathered around a public wooden bulletin board, shouting and arguing at the top of their lungs.
"I am telling you, he is an ancient saint!" a woman screamed to the crowd, waving a wooden broom in the air. "He came to my house on Tuesday night! My husband had three broken ribs from the dragon attack, and after one sniff of the pink dust, he was back to lifting iron barrels!"
"He is not a saint, he is an angel of death who turned good!" a merchant yelled back. "He wears the face of a smiling demon to test our faith!"
"I don’t care what he wears!" a poor shoemaker shouted, holding up a small, empty paper sachet like it was a sacred relic. "He cured my daughter’s fever for zero coppers! The Cathedral priests wanted fifty silver pieces for a single cup of holy water that didn’t do anything! The Healer Clown is the true protector of this city!"
Inside the shop, Brandon was leaning his heavy elbows on the glass display counter, watching the wild crowd outside through the window glass. He turned his fat head slowly, looking over at Philip who was casually whistling a tune while scraping rust off the old sword.
"Philip," Brandon said, his voice suspiciously low.
"What’s up boss?" Philip asked, not stopping his whetstone work.
"Have you noticed that a lot of people in the lower district are walking around with tiny bits of bright pink powder stuck to their left nostrils?" Brandon asked, narrowing his small dark eyes.
"Must be a new fashion trend boss," Philip said smoothly, flipping the rusty sword over to grind the other side. "You know how peasants are. One guy gets a pink nose, everyone wants a pink nose."
"And have you noticed," Brandon continued, taking three slow steps toward Philip’s stool, "that our stash of cheap green healing cores in the cellar keeps shrinking by twenty bags every single night?"
"Probably rats," Philip answered instantly without blinking. "Giant magic-eating rats. I saw one down there yesterday. It was the size of a small dog and it had a huge appetite for green cores."
"Rats don’t fold paper sachets neatly and write instructions on them with charcoal stick Philip!" Brandon shouted, slapping his fat hand onto the wooden counter. "I found three empty paper tea bags in your trash bin this morning! They had charcoal writing on them!"
Philip stopped scraping the sword. He looked up at Brandon, giving him a calm, completely innocent smile.
"Boss, are you accusing me of being a secret saint who sneaks around at night doing free medical work for the poor?" Philip asked, raising his eyebrows. "Do I look like a guy who does free work? I stole two copper coins off your nightstand yesterday just to buy a cold pear."
Brandon paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "That is true. You are a very greedy and disrespectful employee. It doesn’t make any sense for you to give away thousands of gold coins worth of dragon powder for free."
"Exactly," Philip chuckled, going back to sharpening his sword. "I’m a degenerate slave, remember? If I had that much healing powder, I’d be sitting in a hot tub surrounded by expensive wine, not sweeping dirt off your cellar floor."
Brandon nodded slowly, completely convinced by Philip’s logical argument. "You’re right. You’re far too much of a degenerate to be a hero. It must be some high ranked rogue mage from the eastern continent who is using our neighborhood as a testing ground."
"Definitely an eastern continental mage," Philip agreed, hiding a smirk behind the iron blade.
While Brandon went back to wiping down the glass counter, the heavy front doors of the shop suddenly flew open with a loud sound.
BANG!
Two royal heralds wearing bright red silk doublets and holding long silver trumpets stepped into the shop. Behind them were four tall imperial guards wearing polished silver chestplates and holding long golden spears.
The entire street outside went dead silent as the head herald stepped forward, unrolling a large parchment scroll made of thick, expensive animal skin.
Brandon instantly fell to his knees on the dirty floorboards, bowing his head so low his forehead touched the sawdust. "Welcome, noble imperial messengers! Welcome to Brandon’s Magic Junkshop! How may this humble, law-abiding junk dealer serve the mighty King?!"
Philip stayed sitting on his wooden stool, casually resting the rusty sword across his knees while watching the fancy guards with deep suspicion.
His past-life instincts were ringing alarm bells in his head. Whenever guys in official uniforms showed up with white papers, bad things usually followed.
The head herald cleared his throat loudly, clearing a speck of dust off his silk collar before reading from the royal scroll in a booming, dramatic voice.
"BY ORDER OF HIS MOST DIVINE AND IMPERIAL MAJESTY, KING ELDRITCH THE THIRD!" the herald announced to the entire shop and the crowded street outside. "REGARDING THE MYSTERIOUS INDIVIDUAL KNOWN TO THE PUBLIC AS THE SAVIOR CLOWN AND SECRET HEALER!"
The crowd outside gasped loudly, leaning closer to the open shop doors to hear every single word.
"HIS MAJESTY THE KING IS DEEPLY MOVED AND OVERJOYED BY THE HEROIC AND SELFLESS DEEDS OF THE SAVIOR CLOWN!" the herald continued, his voice ringing across the street. "FOR DEFENDING THE CAPITAL FROM THE S RANK DRAGON AND HEALING THE FAITHFUL CITIZENS OF THE KLOVARIA EMPIRE, HIS MAJESTY DESIRES TO BESTOW UPON HIM THE HIGHEST ROYAL HONOR!"
Philip raised an eyebrow under his messy hair. "Royal honor?"
"HIS MAJESTY WISHES TO APPOINT THE SAVIOR CLOWN AS THE GRAND IMPERIAL CHIEF HEALER AND ROYAL COMMANDER OF THE REALM!" the herald shouted proudly. "HE SHALL BE GIVEN A PALACE OF GOLD, A THOUSAND SERVANTS, AND AN UNLIMITED SUPPLY OF IMPERIAL MANA CORES TO CONTINUE HIS SACRED WORK FOR THE EMPIRE!"
The crowd outside erupted into wild, deafening cheers. People were clapping, hugging each other, and shouting praises for the King’s extreme generosity.
"A palace of gold?!" Brandon gasped from the floor, his eyes turning wide as dinner plates.
"HOWEVER!" the herald yelled, holding up his hand to quiet the noisy crowd. "BECAUSE THE SAVIOR CLOWN HAS CHOSEN TO CONCEAL HIS DIVINE IDENTITY, HIS MAJESTY HEREBY ISSUES A ROYAL BOUNTY FOR INFORMATION!"
The second herald stepped forward, unrolling a second, massive paper poster and slapping it firmly onto the shop’s front display window.
"A REWARD OF TEN THOUSAND GOLD COINS!" the herald declared. "TO ANY CITIZEN WHO PROVIDES TRUE AND ACCURATE INFORMATION LEADING TO THE LOCATION AND IDENTITY OF THE CLOWN HERO! THAT IS ALL!"
The guards turned on their heels, marching out of the shop while the trumpets blared once again.
The front street instantly exploded into pure, chaotic madness. Hundreds of citizens began screaming, running in all directions, and grabbing every person they saw to check if they had a wooden clown mask hidden under their tunic.
Inside the quiet shop, Brandon slowly pushed himself up off the floorboards. He walked over to the front window, staring at the huge black numbers printed on the royal poster.
TEN THOUSAND GOLD COINS.
Brandon’s eyes instantly stopped looking like normal human eyes. They turned into two giant, shining gold coins, reflecting the sunlight filtering through the glass.
His breathing turned fast and ragged, and his fat hands began trembling with absolute, uncontrollable greed.
Standing five feet behind him, Philip looked at the poster, then looked at Brandon’s trembling back.
Philip’s eyes narrowed into tiny, dangerous slits. "Oh boy," Philip thought to himself, griping the rusty iron sword a little tighter. "This fat head is sickly greedy as fuck."