“It’s showtime.”

  The voice, deep, resonant, and brimming with a theatrical power, echoed from unseen speakers, washing over the vast, darkened auditorium of the Sey Lanz Opera House. A collective, breathless hush fell over the thousands of assembled guests. The low murmur of excited chatter, the rustle of fine silks and formalwear, the faint clinking of glasses from the VIP balconies—it all vanished in an instant, swallowed by a profound, expectant silence.

  Every eye was fixed on the stage, on the massive, deep crimson velvet curtain that hung like a royal banner, its surface shimmering in the dim, residual light.

  Then, the world began to move.

  From the side of the stage, emerging from the shadows into a series of softly lit orchestra pits, the musicians filed in. They moved with a crisp, practiced efficiency, their formal black-and-white attire a stark, elegant contrast to the opulent gold and crimson of the theater. They took their seats, a quiet, orderly army tuning their instruments, the brief, chaotic swell of strings, brass, and woodwinds rising and then falling just as quickly into a poised, ready silence.

  A single, brilliant spotlight cut through the dimness, illuminating a lone figure who ascended a small podium at the center of the orchestra. The conductor. He raised his baton, his body a coiled spring of potential energy, and for a single, heart-stopping beat, the entire world seemed to hold its breath.

  He swung.

  The sound that erupted from the pit was not a gentle melody, but a glorious, epic explosion of music. Soaring strings, triumphant brass, and the deep, thundering heartbeat of kettle drums wove together in a symphony that was both heroic and tinged with a delicate, underlying sorrow. As the music swelled, the massive velvet curtain began to rise, its heavy folds gathering with a slow, majestic grace.

  It revealed a stage bathed in a soft, ethereal light, and a new voice, this one instantly, painfully familiar, filled the auditorium. It was Lily Pence, but not the chaotic, sleep-deprived gremlin they knew. This was the voice of a master performer, a voice of pure, dramatic honey.

  “Long ago,” she narrated, her voice a rich, storytelling alto that commanded the attention of every soul in the room, “in a land far, far away, there existed a kingdom called Solaire. A prosperous, sun-drenched kingdom ruled by a powerful, tyrannical king…”

  As she spoke, stagehands, clad in black, moved with a silent, ghostly efficiency, sliding massive, ornate golden pillars onto the stage. A single, imposing golden throne was placed in the center, its high back a testament to an arrogant, unyielding power.

  “…and yet,” Lily’s voice continued, a note of dramatic intrigue in her tone, “within this kingdom of shadows, there lived a paradoxical light. A kind, noble, and impossibly strong general, whose loyalty was as boundless as their sorrow.”

  Two figures entered the spotlight. The first was an old man, his beard long and white, his robes heavy with gold embroidery. He moved with the stiff, imperious gait of a man who owned the world, and sat upon the golden throne. The second figure was a man, tall and impossibly buff, his heroic frame clad in shining, silver armor. His hair, a brilliant, shocking shade of sky blue, was tied back in a neat, severe tail.

  The old man, the King, leaned forward, his gaze a sharp, piercing thing. “General Lan,” he barked, his voice a gravelly, impatient sound. “Status report.”

  The blue-haired general dropped to one knee, his head bowed in a gesture of perfect, practiced loyalty. “The rebellion has been quelled, my lord,” he said, his voice a deep, respectful baritone. He rose, his movements fluid and full of a quiet, contained strength.

  Then, he turned.

  The main stage lights dimmed, and a single, brilliant white spotlight snapped onto him, isolating him in a pool of light. The orchestra’s triumphant score softened, shifting into a mournful, solitary melody. General Lan clutched a hand to his heart, his handsome face, which had been a mask of stoic loyalty a moment before, now contorting in a mask of pure, theatrical anguish.

  “Oh, how I disdain this life!” he began, his voice no longer a baritone, but a soaring, beautiful, and utterly tragic tenor that filled the vast auditorium. The musical had begun. “These rebels… they were innocent! Their cries for freedom, a righteous song! And yet, I, bound by this chain of duty, must be the one to silence them!”

  He drew his sword, its prop blade glittering in the harsh light, and held it aloft, not as a weapon, but as a shackle. “This sword, my bride! This armor, my cage! Will no one see the soul beneath this steel? Will no one come,” he hit a note so high and so full of a desperate, longing pain that it made the very air tremble, “and take me away from this life?!”

  Up in the VIP balcony, in the warm, comfortable darkness, two figures sat perfectly still. They looked from the anguished, blue-haired general on the stage, to each other, their faces a mask of pure, unadulterated, and utterly baffled recognition.

  Raito leaned in, his voice a low, incredulous whisper that was almost lost in the swell of the tragic music.

  “This feels… familiar,” he said.

  Yukari just nodded, her silver eyes wide, her own voice a quiet murmur of dazed agreement.

  “Oddly so.”

  The tragic, solitary note of the general’s song hung in the air for a moment, and then the stage went dark. A flurry of motion, masked by the darkness and a sudden, swelling crescendo from the orchestra, filled the silence. When the lights rose again, the opulent throne room was gone.

  In its place was a scene of stark, gritty contrast. The stage was now a weathered wooden dock, complete with thick, coiled ropes and stacks of cargo crates. In the background, a massive, painted canvas depicted a harbor filled with towering ships, their sails a stark white against a bruised, twilight sky.

  The music shifted, the mournful strings replaced by a single, melancholic flute.

  A wave of excited, almost reverent applause rippled through the auditorium. A new spotlight, this one a pale, watery blue, illuminated a lone figure entering from the side.

  It was Lily.

  But it was not the dazzling celebrity from the banners, nor the furious gremlin from the mansion. She was transformed. Her brilliant blonde hair was hidden beneath a ratty, grey newsboy cap, its brim torn, a few artful holes revealing glimpses of her hair beneath. Her clothes were a picture of theatrical poverty—a simple, once-white dress, now stained a dingy grey, its hem ragged, worn over simple brown trousers. She held a heavy wooden mop, which she immediately plunged into a bucket, her movements listless, defeated.

  She was Kylie, the poor dockworker.

  She began to scrub the stage floor, her small frame a portrait of weary resignation. Then, she opened her mouth, and her voice, a breathtakingly clear and powerful soprano, filled the entire opera house, a stark, beautiful contrast to her ragged appearance.

  “The name’s Kylie,” she sang, the melody a heartbreaking lament that soared over the quiet flute. “A name no one will remember… a face lost in the crowd…”

  She scrubbed, her movements growing more frantic, more desperate, in time with the rising music. “How I have fallen in this materialistic world! How I long to be more than just a stain upon the docks! Will someone, anyone,” her voice cracked, a perfect, calculated note of despair, “take me away from this life?!”

  With a final, anguished cry, she tossed the mop aside. It clattered loudly on the wooden planks as she collapsed, her small frame sinking to the stage floor. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with great, gulping, and utterly convincing sobs, a lonely, broken figure in a single, cold spotlight.

  The introduction act was over, and the audience was completely captivated.

  In the VIP balcony, a loud, wet sniffle broke the stunned silence. Bob was a wreck. He was already weeping openly, his massive shoulders shaking, a comically large silk handkerchief dabbing at the tears that flowed freely into his beard. “Oh, how touching,” he bawled, his voice a thick, emotional rumble. “Such tragedy! Such art!”

  Beside him, Mila, her tolerance for theatrical despair apparently at its limit, was already fast asleep, her head tilted back against the plush velvet chair, her breathing a soft, even rhythm.

  But Raito and Yukari weren’t watching either of them. They just looked at each other, the same, shared, and utterly bewildered expression on their faces. A powerful general trapped by duty, and a poor, forgotten worker longing for a different life.

  The bizarre, almost uncanny parallel was not lost on them.

  “This,” Raito whispered, his voice a low, incredulous thing, “is getting a little too familiar.”

  “How…?” Yukari whispered back, her own voice a mixture of awe and a dawning, slightly terrified suspicion. “Raito… how does she know that? How could she possibly know that?”

  The play continued. The dock scene faded, the stage now transforming into a grand, opulent ballroom. Elaborate, painted backdrops of high, arched windows and marble columns descended from the rafters. The orchestra swelled, shifting from a melancholic flute to a full, sweeping waltz. Dozens of performers, clad in glittering gowns and sharp formalwear, glided across the stage in a perfect, choreographed dance.

  General Lan was there, his blue hair a stark, heroic contrast to the powdered wigs of the other nobles. He looked miserable, a cup of (presumably) wine held loosely in his hand. A new character, a young man with a sneer so pronounced it was almost comical, approached him. This was Liam, the rival, his every movement a theatrical, villainous slink. He bumped into Lan, a "chance" encounter, and with a sleight of hand so obvious it was clearly meant for the audience, he tipped a small vial of "poison" into the General's cup.

  Lan, lost in his tragic thoughts, drank it.

  The effect was instantaneous. The music swelled into a sudden, dissonant crash of cymbals. Lan clutched his chest, his face a mask of pure, theatrical agony. He stumbled, his cup crashing to the floor. The dancers froze, their faces a chorus of shocked, silent screams. With a guttural cry, Lan staggered from the ballroom, shoving his way through the horrified crowd.

  The scene shifted with a speed that was almost dizzying. The opulent ballroom was gone, replaced by a dark, desolate landscape. A single, gnarled tree prop stood silhouetted against a backdrop of angry, swirling storm clouds. A sound effect, a low, rumbling thunder, echoed through the theater, followed by the flash of a strobe light, mimicking lightning.

  General Lan collapsed onto the stage, the fake rain lashing down on his prone form. He was dying. The audience let out a collective, mournful sigh.

  But then, a new spotlight, soft and warm, cut through the darkness. Kylie, her ratty newsboy cap still in place, her form now wrapped in a thin, ragged shawl, appeared. She was carrying a small lantern prop. She saw the fallen general, her face a mask of pure, innocent shock. She rushed to his side, her movements a frantic, compassionate dance as she checked his pulse, her expression shifting from fear to a fierce, sudden resolve. With a strength that seemed impossible for her small frame, she hoisted the massive, armored general onto her back and began the slow, arduous journey off-stage.

  The lights shifted again. The storm faded. The gnarled tree was gone, replaced by the simple, warm interior of a small, rustic farmhouse. A single, prop bed, covered in straw, sat in the center. A large, painted golden sun, hanging from a visible wire, was slowly rising against the backdrop, signaling the dawn.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  The general lay on the straw bed. He stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He looked around, his expression one ofdazed confusion. He saw the blonde-haired girl, Kylie, who was now sitting on a small stool, her head nodding as she dozed, clearly having watched over him all night.

  “Art thou…” the general began, his voice a raw, hoarse whisper, “my savior?”

  “Kyaa!” Lily’s character shrieked, jolting awake, her theatrical panic a perfect, comedic note that broke the heavy, tragic tension. She scrambled back, her eyes wide with fear as she looked at the armored giant in her small, straw bed. “Perchance I am!” she stammerd, her voice a high-pitched, squeak. “Depends… depends on if thou wilt kill me!”

  The general looked at her, at her terrified, innocent face. And then, he did something that made the entire audience gasp. He reached for the massive prop sword at his hip, unbuckled it, and, with a final, decisive motion, threw it to the far side of the stage, where it clattered harmlessly against a wall of painted wheat fields.

  “None shall harm my savior,” he declared, his voice a deep, resonant, and utterly sincere vow.

  The entire auditorium dissolved. A woman below was now weeping openly into her own handkerchief. Sniffles and quiet sobs echoed from every corner of the vast, darkened theater.

  But up in the VIP balcony, two people were not crying. They were groaning.

  Raito and Yukari just looked at each other, their faces a mask of pure, unadulterated, and deeply secondhand embarrassment. The rainstorm. The collapse. The rescue. The "kyaa!" The vow of protection. It was their own story. Their first, chaotic, life-changing meeting, stripped of all its genuine terror and awkwardness, and repackaged as a high-budget, melodramatic, and incredibly cheesy opera.

  They were now, without a shadow of a doubt, utterly, completely, and horrifyingly bewildered.

  “Ok, that is definitely our story,” Raito whispered, his voice a low, defeated thing as he slumped down in his plush velvet chair.

  “She couldn’t have...” Yukari finished, her own voice a horrified murmur as she buried her face in her hands. “Those details… only we should know them. How?”

  The play continued, a relentless, beautiful, and deeply mortifying parade of their most private memories. The scene shifted again, now to the small farmhouse interior. Kylie presented General Lan with a simple wooden bowl. The audience aww’d at the tender, domestic moment.

  Raito and Yukari just groaned, slumping further into their seats. It was the porridge scene. The bland, watery, eighty-percent-salt-and-water porridge, now presented as a life-saving, heartwarming meal.

  Another shift. The stage was the throne room again. General Lan was kneeling, being harshly scolded by the tyrannical king, a clear, dramatic echo of Yukari’s own political punishments. Then, a training ground, where the general displayed his combat prowess in a dazzling, choreographed fight sequence, dispatching a dozen prop-armored soldiers with an effortless grace.

  Then, the date.

  Raito’s groan turned into a low, strangled sound of pure, unadulterated horror. On stage, General Lan, in a "cunning" disguise that consisted of a pair of dark sunglasses and a slightly ruffled tunic, was awkwardly presenting a flower to a blushing, giggling Kylie.

  Yukari just buried her face deeper into her hands, her shoulders shaking with a mixture of laughter and profound, soul-crushing embarrassment.

  The play went on, a highlight reel of their entire relationship. The cooking scene, where Kylie and Lan, now hopelessly in love, tried and failed to make a meal, resulting in a comical, flour-covered mess. The quiet moments of reading side-by-side. Every scene, every private, shared memory, was played out in front of thousands of weeping, adoring fans.

  It was too much. The sheer, overwhelming, and deeply personal nature of the performance was a relentless assault. Raito and Yukari were groaning openly now, their earlier bewilderment replaced by a visceral, almost physical discomfort. They looked as if they were about to be physically ill, their faces pale, their expressions a mask of pure, secondhand mortification.

  Of course, their strange, pained reactions did not go unnoticed.

  Bob, who was in the middle of a fresh wave of heartfelt sobs, finally turned, his face a mess of tears and genuine confusion. He blew his nose loudly into his massive handkerchief.

  “What is going on, kids?” he asked, his voice a thick, emotional rumble. He gestd to the stage, where Kylie and Lan were in the middle of a soaring, romantic duet. “You two seem to not be enjoying the show. This is a masterpiece! Such tragedy! Such romance!”

  Raito and Yukari just looked at Bob, at his tear-streaked, earnest face, and then back at each other. They couldn’t tell him. They couldn’t possibly explain.

  “It’s just…” Raito began, his voice a low, pained thing.

  “…because we are familiar with it,” Yukari finished, her own voice a strained whisper. “Too familiar.”

  The vague, nonsensical answer only seemed to confuse Bob more, but before he could press them, the orchestra swelled, and he was once again lost in the beautiful, tragic, and utterly stolen story unfolding on the stage.

  Then, the orchestra shifted. The uplifting, romantic strings and soaring flutes vanished, replaced by a low, ominous rumble from the cellos and a sharp, militaristic beat from the snare drums. The lights on stage dimmed, the warm, rustic glow of the farmhouse swallowed by cold, blue-white spotlights.

  This was it. The dreaded scene.

  Raito’s stomach twisted into a cold knot. This part of their story… it wasn’t funny. It wasn't romantic. It was a nightmare.

  On stage, Kylie was dragged in by two menacing guards, her small frame lost in their iron-clad grip. The tyrannical king sat on his throne, his expression a mask of cold, hard fury. He gestured at Kylie, his voice a booming, heartless declaration. She was arrested, her cries of protest and confusion ignored. She was accused of bewitching the general, of high treason, of crimes she couldn't even comprehend.

  The scene shifted to a dark, damp prison cell. A single, cold spotlight illuminated Kylie, huddled in a corner, her ragged clothes now filthy, her face pale and gaunt. She sang of her despair, her voice a thin, trembling whisper that was a world away from her earlier powerful soprano. She was alone. Starved. Broken.

  In the VIP balcony, Raito flinched, his hand instinctively gripping the armrest of his chair, his knuckles white. The parallel was too sharp, too real. He could almost feel the phantom ache of his own broken fingers, the memory of that cold, hopeless darkness in the Jinlun dungeon.

  Yukari reached out under the cover of darkness, her hand finding his, her fingers lacing through his in a tight, reassuring grip. He looked at her. Her face was pale, her silver eyes fixed on the stage, her own memories of that terrible, helpless time just as vivid, just as painful.

  On stage, General Lan burst into the throne room, his blue hair a wild, chaotic mess. He had had enough. "My lord!" he roared, his voice a desperate, furious plea. "She is innocent!"

  "She is a witch who has poisoned your mind!" the king shot back.

  "Then I shall have no choice," Lan declared, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "I will stage a coup d'état!"

  The stage exploded into a symphony of controlled, theatrical chaos. The orchestra swelled, the music now a frantic, percussive, and utterly epic battle theme. Stagehands, cloaked in black, rushed across the stage, sliding massive, broken pillars into place, creating a scene of war-torn destruction.

  General Lan was not alone. At his side, two new figures appeared, their entrance a dramatic, heroic reveal. The first was a massive, hulking man with a kind face and a pair of long, fluffy white rabbit ears peeking from his helmet. "Jackal, at your service, General!" he boomed.

  The second was an older, broader man with a magnificent grey beard, his formal suit somehow looking perfectly at home amidst the chaos, a comically large bag of gold coins in one hand and a prop cannon in the other. "Balam, the arms dealer, ready to fund this glorious revolution!" he declared, his voice a booming, cheerful rumble.

  Bob, in the VIP box, let out a sudden, startled sniffle, his earlier grief momentarily forgotten. "That one..." he whispered, pointing a thick finger at the stage, "he looks just like me, hohoho!"

  Mila's eyes, which had been closed in sleep, snapped open. She stared at the 'Balam' character, at his beard, his booming voice, his bag of money, and then back at Bob. A look of pure, unadulterated, and utterly profound disbelief crossed her stoic features. She just sighed, a long, slow sound of pure, weary resignation, and closed her eyes again.

  The 'civil war' was a masterpiece of stagecraft. Strobe lights flashed, mimicking the "thunderous might" of the general. Acrobats in guard uniforms leaped and tumbled, choreographed to fall at his every heroic swing. The castle was being ripped asunder, a beautiful, chaotic dance of rebellion.

  Finally, the climax. The stage lights snapped to a single, dramatic scene. The throne room, now in ruins. The old king stood beside his broken throne, his earlier tyranny gone, replaced by a mask of cold, desperate fear. And at his side, held on a short, cruel leash, was Kylie.

  "Run away, my love!" Kylie cried, her voice a raw, desperate plea to the victorious general who now stood at the entrance.

  General Lan just stood there, his armor dented, his breathing heavy, but his gaze was a mask of pure, unadultertking resolve. "Nay, my love," he declared, his voice a triumphant, soaring tenor that filled the entire auditorium. "As long as I breathe, I have vowed that no harm shall befell you. I have failed you once," his voice cracked with a perfect, theatrical emotion, "I will not fail again!"

  A roar of pure, unadulterated approval exploded from the audience. They were on their feet, clapping, weeping, their voices a single, unified wave of adoration for the two heroes on the stage.

  In the VIP balcony, Raito and Yukari just stared, their faces pale, their expressions a mask of pure, secondhand mortification.

  "Kill me," Raito groaned, sliding so far down in his velvet chair that his head was level with the balcony railing.

  "Just... kill me," Yukari whispered, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking not with sobs, but with a quiet, hysterical, and deeply traumatized laughter.

  The orchestra’s triumphant swell reached a deafening crescendo, the final, heroic chords of General Lan’s victory hanging in the air. The audience was a sea of weeping, cheering humanity, their adulation a tidal wave directed at the stage.

  But in the general viewing area, a pocket of stillness existed in the heart of the storm. Anise, perched happily on Emile’s lap, giggled and clapped her small hands, completely engrossed in the fairy tale unfolding before her, her feet swinging in a cheerful, rhythmic arc. Beside them, Mary’s own eyes were welling up, a single, empathetic tear tracing a path down her cheek, lost in the beautiful, tragic romance of it all.

  Emile noticed her quiet emotion. His gaze shifted from the stage to her face, a flicker of that now-familiar, quiet curiosity in his eyes. He reached into his pocket, his movements slow and deliberate, and began to pull out a neatly folded handkerchief.

  But before he could offer it, his entire body went rigid.

  His head snapped up, his gaze no longer fixed on Mary, but on a point high above them—the ornate, vaulted ceiling of the opera house. His gentle smile vanished, replaced by a mask of cold, hard, and absolute stillness. A primal, instinctive dread, a feeling he hadn't known he possessed, washed over him.

  Mary, sensing the sudden, chilling shift in his demeanor, turned, her own smile faltering. “Emile?” she whispered, her voice a small, worried thing. “What’s wrong?”

  His response was not a word. It was a single, explosive command.

  “Run!”

  On stage, the tyrannical king, now held at sword-point by the triumphant General Lan, let out a final, manic, and utterly theatrical laugh. “You fool, General!” he cackled, his voice a high, victorious shriek that was completely at odds with his defeat. “’Tis too bad you rebelled! For I bring thee good news!” He gestured to the heavens. “Thou art outdated! And so, thou wilt be buried by my new, ultimate weapon!”

  As if on cue, the world exploded.

  A deafening roar, a sound not of the orchestra, but of shattering wood and stone, ripped through the auditorium. The massive, ornate chandelier directly above the stage shuddered, then tore free from its moorings. Splinters of wood and chunks of plaster rained down from the ceiling as something massive, something dark, something impossibly wrong , crashed through the roof.

  It landed with a deafening, earth-shaking BOOM in the center of the stage, obliterating the carefully constructed set of the ruined throne room, sending the actors scattering with genuine, terrified screams. A cloud of thick, black smoke and choking dust billowed outwards, obscuring the new arrival.

  The audience, for a single, stunned heartbeat, was silent. Then, a lone voice from the upper balconies, full of a genuine, almost religious awe, broke the silence.

  “Wow!” a man shouted. “They really upped the budget this year! This is awesome!”

  A wave of excited applause rippled through the crowd, their minds, so steeped in the theatrics of Spica, instantly interpreting the cataclysmic, unscripted event as the play’s final, spectacular special effect.

  “Run!” Emile’s voice was a raw, desperate roar that cut through the rising applause. He grabbed Mary and Anise, his arms a steel barrier around them, pulling them from their seats.

  But it was too late.

  From within the swirling cloud of smoke and dust on the stage, a new light bloomed. It was not the warm, golden glow of the spotlights, but a cold, hard, and utterly menacing yellow. A beam of pure, concentrated energy, as thick as a man’s arm, shot from the smoke. It wasn't aimed at the stage. It wasn't aimed at the crowd.

  It was aimed directly at the VIP balcony where Raito and Yukari were sitting.

  There was no time to think. No time to process. Only instinct.

  Raito and Yukari moved as one. They were on their feet in an instant, their earlier mortification completely gone, replaced by the cold, hard reflexes of battle-tested warriors.

  “Now!” Yukari screamed.

  They thrust their hands forward. A wall of shimmering, crystalline ice erupted in front of their balcony, its surface laced with a furious, roaring curtain of crimson fire. A perfect, instantaneous fusion of their powers, a shield born of pure, desperate instinct.

  The yellow beam struck.

  The impact was a deafening, concussive blast that shook the entire balcony, the sound a horrific, alien shriek that was a world away from the orchestra’s music. Their ice-flame barrier held for a fraction of a second, the two opposing energies warring against the beam, before shattering into a billion glittering, molten fragments. The force of the blast sent Raito and Yukari flying backward, crashing over their plush velvet chairs, their bodies a tangle of limbs and ruined formalwear.

  And in that single, terrible instant, the illusion was broken.

  This was not a play.

  The audience, finally, truly, understood. The excited applause died, replaced by a rising, tidal wave of pure, unadulterated panic. Screams echoed through the grand auditorium as thousands of people surged from their seats, a stampede of terror all funneling towards the few, narrow exits.

  The smoke on the stage began to settle, the dust slowly clearing to reveal the thing that had fallen. It stood in the center of a deep, smoking crater, a seven-foot-tall nightmare of brass, iron, and exposed, whirring gears. It was humanoid, its form a grotesque, steampunk-inspired mockery of a man. One of its arms was not an arm at all, but a multi-barreled cannon, its muzzle still smoking from the recent blast. A single, glowing yellow lens, cold and analytical, swiveled in its metallic head, scanning the panicking crowd.

  And then, it spoke.

  Its voice was not a voice. It was a cold, electronic, and utterly inhuman monotone, a sound that seemed to grate on the very air itself.