In a world carved by mana and shaped by legacy, Amane Tsukihana was born with nothing.
No magic. No light. No destiny.
A daughter of one of the most powerful mage-blooded houses, and yet entirely hollow. Where her siblings lit the air with flames and commanded spirits with a flick of their fingers, she failed even the simplest incantation. Her family stopped saying her name in public. Her tutors spoke to her like one speaks to a pet they intend to abandon.
A ghost. A flaw. A waste.
At sixteen, Amane no longer flinched at the insults. They were part of her. Like skin. Like breath. She had stopped crying years ago. Instead, she walked. Always alone. Always too far.
It was on the night of the Eclipse—when the moon turned black and the world felt just slightly off—that she wandered into the dead woods past the family estate. The air was cold, too still. There were no birds. No sounds. Only a faint, almost musical hum, like laughter echoing across an empty stage.
She followed it.
And she found him.
He sat atop a broken statue, one leg draped lazily over the other, arms stretched across the moss-covered stone. He wore a jester's garb—black and crimson, torn yet elegant, stitched with silver thread that shimmered like frost under starlight. His porcelain mask smiled eternally, though the hollow eyes behind it seemed to stare directly into her soul.
His hair was bone-white, swept back with surgical precision, not a strand out of place. It gave him a regal, almost sculpted look—cold, sharp, and utterly untouchable.
"You're late," he said, not looking at her. "I was beginning to think you'd finally done something interesting. Like die."
Amane froze. "…Who are you?"
He sighed, bored. "Another dull little question."
He turned his head, and though the mask remained still, she felt the weight of his gaze pierce through it.
"Name's Kagetsu no Jōka," he said flatly. "The Joker of the Shadow Moon. The last mistake the gods ever made."
"…What do you want?"
A low chuckle. Not warm. Not amused. It was the kind of laugh people made when watching ants burn.
"What makes you think this is about what I want?"
He stood, lazily brushing dust from his sleeve. "You came here. Empty. Broken. Reeking of desperation. That's the only invitation I need."
Amane clenched her fists. "I'm not—"
"Don't lie." His voice cut across her like a blade of ice. "You've spent your entire life choking on mediocrity, watching from the shadows while others shine. You're not strong. You're not clever. You're not chosen."
He took a slow step toward her. "You're nothing. And you know it."
Amane's breath caught. She should've run. Screamed. But she stood there, trembling.
Kagetsu tilted his head. "But even nothing can be useful. With the right... shape."
He raised a hand. Shadows slithered from the ground, forming into thin, twitching marionette strings. They coiled in the air above her, twitching.
"I'm offering you a chance, little void. Not to be a hero. Not to be loved. But to matter—for once in your meaningless life."
Her voice cracked. "Why me?"
He laughed again—low and sharp, like teeth behind a grin.
"Because you're easy. Forgotten things are always easier to mold."
He stepped in close. She could feel the cold radiating off of him.
"I won't lie to you. This isn't some fated salvation. It's not kindness. I don't care about you." He leaned down, voice a whisper. "But you'll do. And if you survive, you might even be interesting."
Amane looked down. Her hands were trembling. Not with fear. With hunger.
"I don't want to be nothing anymore."
"Of course you don't," he said softly. "And you'll do anything to change that, won't you?"
She nodded.
"Good." Kagetsu smiled behind the mask.
The world cracked.
Darkness slid into her veins like ink through water. Her breath caught as power—not warmth, not light, but something far older—invaded her body. She saw her family's lies like fractures in glass. She felt every false smile, every whispered dismissal. The truth burned away everything soft in her.
And still, she stood.
When it was done, her eyes opened.
Kagetsu had removed his mask.
His face was perfect—flawless, untouched by time—but his eyes… they were empty. Not dead. Not dull. Hungry.
That same sharp, white hair framed his head like a crown of ice. Clean lines, no chaos. Not a man undone by time, but one who had conquered it.
"You're mine now," he said, voice like velvet soaked in poison. "Dance well, little jester. Or I'll find someone else."