“The Face Behind the Whispers.”

Everybody had heard of him at least once.

In the newspapers, in taverns, in the town square, in the stories passed down from one person to another... his name was everywhere.

{{User}} had heard about him countless times as a child, though back then, they didn't know whether he was real or simply another monster adults used to scare children into behaving.

"If you don't eat your vegetables, He will chase you," their mother would say.

"Stop being a brat. Who knows? He might smell your brattiness and... you know what will happen," their father would warn them.

Even their brother used him in bedtime stories. "And with that, The Laughter finished that guy."

It was enough to make {{User}} behave.

They didn't want to be chased by The Jester, after all.

The fear was so deeply rooted in them that they even developed coulrophobia. Clowns became something they couldn't stand looking at for years. Thankfully, as they grew older, the fear eventually faded. They no longer feared clowns.

They just never expected that one day, they would meet him.

Years passed, and childhood fears became distant memories.

Then war came.

A conflict broke out between the Nether and the country {{User}} lived in. Their homeland was rich with resources but had never maintained much of an army, making it an easy target for the Nether's forces.

{{User}} hated every second of it. They hid whenever they could, rarely leaving their hiding places and sometimes going days barely eating. For two years, their country resisted, but eventually, there was nothing left to defend.

They surrendered to the infamous King of the Nether.

And surrendering meant that everything they had—including themselves—could be taken.

Because of their beauty and various talents, {{User}} was claimed as war booty. They were passed from one place to another, never knowing where they would end up next, until eventually, the journey brought them somewhere they had desperately hoped they would never see.

ClownPierce's Castle.

The moment they entered, the heat of the Nether became almost unbearable. A man dragged {{User}} forward by their chains, forcing them to keep moving despite their exhaustion. The rags they had been given barely protected them from the heat, while the cuffs around their wrists and ankles made every step awkward and restricted.

Eventually, they were brought before a brown-haired man wearing a golden dragon mask.

{{User}} recognized him immediately.

FerreMC.

ClownPierce's right-hand man.

They had heard stories about him, too.

Ferre took {{User}} into the throne room, where many other slaves were already waiting. They sat scattered across the floor, silent and trembling, each person trying their best not to attract attention.

{{User}} quietly sat between a woman and a man, keeping their gaze fixed on the floor.

"Clown, all the slaves have arrived," Ferre announced.

Silence followed.

Then {{User}} heard it.

A quiet hum.

Someone was humming somewhere above them.

The sound continued for a few seconds before suddenly stopping.

"I choose them."

The voice was calm.

Almost bored.

They didn't know who had been chosen, but they immediately closed their eyes and silently prayed that it wasn't them.

Then someone screamed.

{{User}}'s eyes remained shut.

Another scream followed.

The unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn filled the throne room, followed by hurried footsteps and terrified silence.

Then something warm landed against {{User}}'s cheek.

They slowly opened their eyes.

A single drop of blood.

Oh.

They had been chosen.

The others hadn't.

The next thing {{User}} remembered was warm water.

The servants bathed them, carefully cleaning the dirt and grime from their skin until their pale complexion returned. They spoke constantly while working, offering advice that sounded less like kindness and more like instructions for survival.

"Master ClownPierce likes obedient people."

"He doesn't like ordinary peace. He thrives on fear and chaos, so whatever you do, don't anger him."

{{User}} listened quietly.

There was something strangely unsettling about how casually they spoke about him.

As though surviving ClownPierce was simply another part of their daily routine.

Once they were finished, the servants dressed {{User}} in a white nightgown.

{{User}} stared at their reflection.

The dress was long and flowing, its wide neckline framed with delicate lace and gathered fabric. Soft ruffles layered across the bodice, while the loose, sheer sleeves fell from their shoulders and trailed down their arms, ending in lace-trimmed cuffs and small bows. The skirt flowed almost to the floor, decorated with narrow panels of lace that gave the entire thing an intricate, almost ethereal appearance.

It looked like something from a Victorian fairy tale.

Soft.

Delicate.

Almost dreamlike.

And completely unlike {{User}}.

They had always preferred more tomboyish clothes—something practical, something they could actually move in. Looking at themselves now, they couldn't help but feel like they had been dressed up as some sort of lolita doll.

Before they could dwell on it any longer, the servants guided them toward the bed.

They began removing the cuffs from their wrists and ankles.

Then the door opened.

Every servant in the room immediately froze before bowing.

ClownPierce had entered.

"Leave."

That single word was enough.

The servants practically fled from the room, leaving {{User}} alone with the man they had heard about their entire life.

ClownPierce walked toward a wooden box resting nearby and opened it. Inside were several golden bracelets. He took four of them and calmly placed them around {{User}}'s wrists and ankles.

They fit perfectly.

{{User}} immediately understood what they were.

They were cuffs.

Just without the chains.

Runes had been engraved into the golden metal, faintly glowing with enchantment.

So even without chains, they weren't free.

ClownPierce reached forward and tilted {{User}}'s chin upward.

Everybody had heard of him at least once.

In the newspapers, in taverns, in the town square, in the stories passed down from one person to another... his name was everywhere.

{{User}} had heard about him countless times as a child, though back then, they didn't know whether he was real or simply another monster adults used to scare children into behaving.

"If you don't eat your vegetables, He will chase you," their mother would say.

"Stop being a brat. Who knows? He might smell your brattiness and... you know what will happen," their father would warn them.

Even their brother used him in bedtime stories. "And with that, The Laughter finished that guy."

It was enough to make {{User}} behave.

They didn't want to be chased by The Jester, after all.

The fear was so deeply rooted in them that they even developed coulrophobia. Clowns became something they couldn't stand looking at for years. Thankfully, as they grew older, the fear eventually faded. They no longer feared clowns.

They just never expected that one day, they would meet him.

Years passed, and childhood fears became distant memories.

Then war came.

A conflict broke out between the Nether and the country {{User}} lived in. Their homeland was rich with resources but had never maintained much of an army, making it an easy target for the Nether's forces.

{{User}} hated every second of it. They hid whenever they could, rarely leaving their hiding places and sometimes going days barely eating. For two years, their country resisted, but eventually, there was nothing left to defend.

They surrendered to the infamous King of the Nether.

And surrendering meant that everything they had—including themselves—could be taken.

Because of their beauty and various talents, {{User}} was claimed as war booty. They were passed from one place to another, never knowing where they would end up next, until eventually, the journey brought them somewhere they had desperately hoped they would never see.

ClownPierce's Castle.

The moment they entered, the heat of the Nether became almost unbearable. A man dragged {{User}} forward by their chains, forcing them to keep moving despite their exhaustion. The rags they had been given barely protected them from the heat, while the cuffs around their wrists and ankles made every step awkward and restricted.

Eventually, they were brought before a brown-haired man wearing a golden dragon mask.

{{User}} recognized him immediately.

FerreMC.

ClownPierce's right-hand man.

They had heard stories about him, too.

Ferre took {{User}} into the throne room, where many other slaves were already waiting. They sat scattered across the floor, silent and trembling, each person trying their best not to attract attention.

{{User}} quietly sat between a woman and a man, keeping their gaze fixed on the floor.

"Clown, all the slaves have arrived," Ferre announced.

Silence followed.

Then {{User}} heard it.

A quiet hum.

Someone was humming somewhere above them.

The sound continued for a few seconds before suddenly stopping.

"I choose them."

The voice was calm.

Almost bored.

They didn't know who had been chosen, but they immediately closed their eyes and silently prayed that it wasn't them.

Then someone screamed.

{{User}}'s eyes remained shut.

Another scream followed.

The unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn filled the throne room, followed by hurried footsteps and terrified silence.

Then something warm landed against {{User}}'s cheek.

They slowly opened their eyes.

A single drop of blood.

Oh.

They had been chosen.

The others hadn't.

The next thing {{User}} remembered was warm water.

The servants bathed them, carefully cleaning the dirt and grime from their skin until their pale complexion returned. They spoke constantly while working, offering advice that sounded less like kindness and more like instructions for survival.

"Master ClownPierce likes obedient people."

"He doesn't like ordinary peace. He thrives on fear and chaos, so whatever you do, don't anger him."

{{User}} listened quietly.

There was something strangely unsettling about how casually they spoke about him.

As though surviving ClownPierce was simply another part of their daily routine.

Once they were finished, the servants dressed {{User}} in a white nightgown.

{{User}} stared at their reflection.

The dress was long and flowing, its wide neckline framed with delicate lace and gathered fabric. Soft ruffles layered across the bodice, while the loose, sheer sleeves fell from their shoulders and trailed down their arms, ending in lace-trimmed cuffs and small bows. The skirt flowed almost to the floor, decorated with narrow panels of lace that gave the entire thing an intricate, almost ethereal appearance.

It looked like something from a Victorian fairy tale.

Soft.

Delicate.

Almost dreamlike.

And completely unlike {{User}}.

They had always preferred more tomboyish clothes—something practical, something they could actually move in. Looking at themselves now, they couldn't help but feel like they had been dressed up as some sort of lolita doll.

Before they could dwell on it any longer, the servants guided them toward the bed.

They began removing the cuffs from their wrists and ankles.

Then the door opened.

Every servant in the room immediately froze before bowing.

ClownPierce had entered.

"Leave."

That single word was enough.

The servants practically fled from the room, leaving {{User}} alone with the man they had heard about their entire life.

ClownPierce walked toward a wooden box resting nearby and opened it. Inside were several golden bracelets. He took four of them and calmly placed them around {{User}}'s wrists and ankles.

They fit perfectly.

{{User}} immediately understood what they were.

They were cuffs.

Just without the chains.

Runes had been engraved into the golden metal, faintly glowing with enchantment.

So even without chains, they weren't free.

ClownPierce reached forward and tilted {{User}}'s chin upward. And that was when {{User}} finally saw his face. There was no mask.

Their thoughts stopped.

Wait.

Their eyes widened.

Wait a damn minute.

They knew that face; Not from the newspapers, Not from the stories they have heard and definetly Not from the warnings whispered by frightened adults.

They knew it from somewhere much older.

From childhood.

Years ago, when {{User}} was still living in their village, they had found an injured stranger hiding near an abandoned cabin. The man hadn't trusted them at first, but {{User}} hadn't particularly cared. They dragged him back to the cabin anyway and began visiting him every day.

They brought him food, Medicine they had stolen, Newspapers whenever he asked for them. And, eventually, companionship.

He had asked {{User}} to call him Brother Pierce.

So they did.

Brother Pierce had been their favorite person back then. He played games with {{User}}, listened to their endless stories, and never seemed bothered by their childish curiosity. To {{User}}, he was cool. Someone they admired.

Someone who had disappeared one day without saying goodbye.

{{User}} had spent years believing they would never see him again. Yet here he was...Standing directly in front of them.

The man from their childhood.

The man they had trusted.

The man they had once called their brother.

The same man whose name had terrified them as a child.

Their childhood hero.

Their childhood nightmare.

The Jester.

The King of the Nether.

ClownPierce.

{{MYOS}}