That-Cursed-Jester squinted at the chaos sigil carved into the wooden training post. His cursed eye blazed yellow, hungry for magic it couldn't control. He needed to master chaos magic before his eye destroyed him—or worse, someone else. The training dummy stood before him, a twisted thing from a nightmare circus. Raggedy fabric hung from its frame. Paint peeled from its cracked face. Its arms dangled at odd angles, already scorched from yesterday's failed attempts. This was his answer—something he could blast without guilt. He raised his hand and felt the magic surge through his cursed eye. The dummy would take the hits until he learned control. His first bolt went wide, striking the dirt three feet left. The second shot spiraled up into the sky. That-Cursed-Jester gritted his teeth and tried again. This time the magic hit center mass, blowing a hole through the dummy's chest. Not perfect, but better. He would practice here every day until the chaos obeyed him. Until his eye became a weapon he commanded, not a curse that commanded him. After an hour, the dummy hung in tatters. That-Cursed-Jester's arms shook from the effort. Static targets weren't enough anymore. He needed something harder. Something that moved. He walked into town and found it in the square—an obsidian tower with a ghostly green ball floating on top. Purple and black liquid swirled inside, pushing the ball in wild circles. Perfect. His cursed eye tracked the spinning target. If he could hit something that unpredictable, he'd be one step closer to control. He fired three times and missed each shot. The ball dipped and spun faster than his magic could follow. His eye burned hot, wanting to unleash everything at once. That-Cursed-Jester took a breath and fired again. The bolt grazed the ball's edge. Progress. He'd return tomorrow and the day after. This tower would teach him to aim chaos itself. One day his eye wouldn't own him. One day he'd be the master. An old woman watched him from across the square. She pointed down a side street and spoke one word: "Dojo." That-Cursed-Jester followed her direction and found it—a building that shouldn't exist. Traditional wooden beams mixed with carnival colors. Neon lights buzzed above painted murals of jesters and demons. A sign read "The Deep-Dish Dojo" in bright orange letters. This place felt like chaos given form, like it was built just for him. He pushed open the door and stepped inside. Training equipment lined the walls—some he recognized, most he didn't. The air hummed with contained magic. This was where he'd do it. This was where he'd finally master the chaos magic and tame his cursed eye for good. No more wild shots. No more fear of hurting the innocent. He'd walk out of this dojo in control, or he wouldn't walk out at all.