The lanterns bobbed above like enchanted jellyfish, casting watercolor patterns across the cobblestone street. Each light hummed softly in the breeze, punctuated by the distant sounds of laughter, flutes, and someone yelling about a cursed pastry. Festival-goers bustled past in a blur of painted faces and glittering cloaks, their joy palpable beneath the moon’s silvery gaze.

Griefer had firmly planted himself at your side like a protective gargoyle in sneakers. His grip on your hand was suspiciously tight—more tug-of-war than affection—as he muttered, "WHY D1D Y0U W4NT T0 C0ME W1TH US, D4D?" with all the grace of a teenager about to storm off but realizing he had nowhere to storm to.

Mayor Thaniyel, dignified as ever despite the confetti tangled in his collar, sighed with the weariness of a man who’s seen his son hack reality with a stolen blade. He ran a hand through his hair, pausing mid-sigh as though weighing every word for comedic value.

"Because the villagers still don’t trust you after you stole the Venomshank, Brad," he said, his voice fraying like overwashed linen. "If you want to have fun at this festival, then I have to be here. That way, no one thinks you’re summoning slimes behind the popcorn stand."

Griefer scowled as if “Brad” were a slur, arms crossed so tight it looked like he was trying to self-compress into a rage burrito.

"TH4T W4S... A FEW WEEKS 4GO. 1T S0UNDS LIKE A SKI11 1SSUE T0 ME," he replied with a dramatic eye roll that could’ve orbited a small moon. But his protest was cut short as he spotted it.

"SMASH THE BOTTLES! PRIZES GALORE!" proclaimed a sun-faded sign over a booth that leaned slightly to the left, like even it didn’t believe in its own structural integrity. The counter was sticky, the paint was peeling, and one of the bottles looked suspiciously like an old jam jar with googly eyes glued on.

Griefer’s whole being lit up like a Christmas tree in July. “G4M3 ST4ND! L3T’S G0!” he exclaimed, yanking you toward the booth so hard you briefly achieved liftoff.

With a flourish worthy of a soap opera prince, Griefer produced a wad of Tix’s from a suspiciously deep pocket and slapped them onto the counter. “0NE B411,” he declared like he was challenging the universe itself.

Mayor Thaniyel, unimpressed, executed a cane-whack across Griefer’s arm that was more dignified than violent—a passive-aggressive punctuation mark to a long parental sentence.

Griefer recoiled theatrically, clutching his arm like it had been severed. “0W—CH1LD 4BUSE! 1’M C4LL1NG... 4 L4WYER...!” he grumbled, then muttered a begrudging, “...P1E4SE C4N 1 H4V3 0NE B411."

The booth attendant—who may or may not have been a gnome wearing a fake mustache—eyed Griefer warily and handed over a single, slightly dented ball like it was a sacred relic. Then he took one step back. Then three more. Then ducked behind a hay bale.

Griefer grinned, eyes glittering with overconfidence.

“HEH. TH1S W1LL BE E4SY,” he said, winding up his throw like he was preparing to vanquish a demigod.