Adrian took a deep breath, forcing himself to think. The surge of the Clown potion still pulsed faintly beneath his skin, like a second heartbeat out of sync with his own. It made the world feel too sharp, too bright, as if everything had been slightly tilted off its axis. But he couldn't afford to lose himself now. He needed clarity. Precision.
Two enemies.
That much was clear.
Bishop… and the soldiers of Nova Roma.
He paced slowly through the dusty ruins of the warehouse, the morning light bleeding through shattered windows like diluted gold. The stone beneath his feet creaked, groaned—everything around him felt fragile. Temporary. Just like his plans.
Let's start with Bishop.
What did he know?
Bishop was a name pulled from comics, from old panels and half-remembered timelines. A veteran X-Man from the future. Trained soldier. Time traveler. An Alpha-level mutant who fed on energy like a furnace. The more he absorbed—kinetic, thermal, electrical—the stronger he became. If he had time to gather power, he could level buildings. Rip through steel. Burn through anyone.
But without energy?
He was baseline human. Just a man. And men could be outmaneuvered. Men could bleed.
Adrian clenched his jaw. That was his angle. His leverage.
And then there was the tech. Bishop always carried weapons far beyond this time period. Plasma rifles. Personal shields. He likely had portable scanners and perhaps even a damaged time travel device. But even advanced tech had limitations. Especially in 1928. Batteries didn't last forever, and recharging anything from the future in this primitive age wasn't a small feat.
And more importantly—Bishop had rules.
He didn't harm civilians. Didn't initiate wanton destruction unless absolutely necessary. That gave Adrian a sliver of ground to stand on. A code. A pattern.
And unpredictability was now Adrian's domain.
Madness was a mask he could wear freely now. He didn't need to win by strength. He only needed to survive, to twist fate just enough to slip through the cracks.
He paused at a broken window, gazing out across the street. A horse-drawn cart rattled past. London continued its dance of noise and fog and busy lives.
The Nova Roma soldiers were a greater unknown. He didn't know how many had survived Bishop's ambush in the alley. If any. But the danger wasn't over. There could be more of them. Dozens. An entire faction, if they had a hidden base in the city.
And Helen.
His hands tightened around the window frame, knuckles pale.
He couldn't risk going home. Couldn't lead enemies to her doorstep. Bishop probably wouldn't harm her. But Nova Roma? He wasn't sure. They had already tried to abduct him. They might try to use her as bait.
He had to make sure she was safe.
But another question, deeper and darker, clawed at the edges of his thoughts:
How did Nova Roma know about him?
And worse—how did Selene Gallio learn of his existence?
He whispered her name like a curse.
Selene.
The Black Priestess. The vampire-sorceress who had walked through centuries drenched in blood and power. Queen of Nova Roma. One of the oldest mutants in history. She should've had no way of knowing about him.
He had lived quietly. Hidden. Hadn't used his powers in three years. Hadn't sought out magic. Hadn't even touched a mirror for divination.
Agatha was the only one who ever knew. And she wouldn't have betrayed him.
Unless…
Adrian's breath hitched.
Unless this wasn't about what he had done.
Unless it was about what he would do.
Bishop was from the future. If he was here to stop something, that meant something was going to happen. Something that changed the future. Something that made Adrian—an ex-Seer trying to live a quiet life—a threat large enough to kill.
And Selene… she might have gained that knowledge because of a ripple yet to come.
He wasn't being hunted for his past.
He was being hunted for a future that hadn't happened yet.
Adrian turned, stepping over a shattered beam. A plan began to form in the corners of his mind—still vague, but taking shape. The first thing he needed was information. Knowledge. Insight.
And that meant turning to the only tool he had left.
He knelt beside a pile of rubble, brushing away dust and debris until he found a jagged shard of mirror glass, still intact enough to reflect. He held it in his hands like a sacred relic.
Then, he spoke.
"I pray thee… the Fool. Dominator of Fate. Master of Sefirah Castle. Keeper of Mysteries."
His voice was low, reverent, almost a whisper.
"Please show me the location of Bishop."
The moment the final syllable left his lips, the shard of glass pulsed faintly in his hand. It darkened—first like smoke, then like ink—and the reflection inside twisted, changed, became something else entirely.
A vision emerged.
A narrow alley. Close. Damp. Trash scattered across cobblestones. There—Bishop, walking slowly, scanning walls and rooftops, his coat flowing like a shadow behind him. He was methodically tracking Adrian's path, examining scorch marks on brick, even the faint impressions of bootprints in wet mud.
He was close. Too close.
Adrian's breath stilled.
So, that's where you are.
He stared at the shard for a few more seconds, committing every detail to memory—the slant of the buildings, the shape of the drainage pipe, the tilted streetlamp. Then he stood.
And this time, he didn't hesitate.
He pocketed the shard carefully and moved across the warehouse, stepping over fallen support beams and collapsed roof tiles. His movements were silent now, calculated. He could feel the Clown persona beginning to emerge—not as madness, not yet—but as clarity.
As contrast.
Seers saw threads of fate.
Clowns unraveled them.
He was no longer just hiding. He was preparing.
The streets outside were still busy, but now Adrian moved with purpose. Each shadow became a hiding spot. Each pedestrian a shield. His pace was light, balanced. Even his breathing adapted to the rhythm of the city around him.
He was the Fool now.
And the Fool never fought fair.