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It shows climbers the next foothold, and gives the farsighted the courage to leap. It turns self-proclaimed beacons into the real thing!

It sows meaning and waters flaws. It cultivates truth and fertilizes falsehoods. It turns dying flesh into blooming flowers, and engraves what would fade without a trace!

It is agony without relief, and overflowing inspiration!

It is drama's cause and consequence, its flesh and its soul—the great force behind creation, the law and tether that binds every ideology, every style, every exploration.

It is the appointed end, where all things return to dust!

The Troupe Leader turns to Lucian, that same smile still lingering on his lips. The wind and sand howl around them, but he remains unfazed.

Child, death is also our chance to reunite.

What a shame. Quite a monologue, yet such little applause.

Because I am the only one standing across from you—and the only one who ever could.

Noise sounds out from all directions, and Lucian listens intently.

The Catastrophe rages. Miss.Christine lets out a low howl—something she would normally never do. Their newly acquainted companions scatter in panic, crying out for help in vain...

As the Troupe Leader said, death is unfolding on stage—what began with a few intense scenes has now taken over the entire production.

You say death is our chance to reunite. I completely agree.

So I won't waste this opportunity.

If I may, I'd like to share a few thoughts of my own, now that you've finished your analysis. After all, both you and I know this routine by heart.

The storm snaps off part of the scaffold, sending a shower of sparks. A nearby rug catches fire, and the flames leap dangerously close to Lucian's side.

But he does not even flinch. He stares intently at the person standing before him and removes his hat.

All this time, ever since you reappeared, you haven't even mentioned the many times I've betrayed you. Why?

(Smiles)

Because that is unimportant. Because you are still you, child.

Getting lost in madness, then returning to clarity. Leaving, only to later return... After all the trials and tribulations, a hard-won reunion is all the more precious. In the end, time can forgive all grievances.

Is that so?

I used to think the Crimson Troupe was your quill, your canvas, and your trap. I thought that in this chaotic world, your audiences sought solace in your performances. I thought you were omnipresent and that no one could escape your grasp.

Which is why the plan that I, Shalem, and the Playwright came up with failed.

Back then, I was young—naive and full of pride. We believed we had seen the Troupe for what it really was. But our carefully planned escape turned out to be just another act in your grand play.

In the end, Shalem fled from you in fear, while I came to you.

You returned to my side.

That was the moment when you decided to learn all of my techniques. You resolved to learn everything you could about the Troupe, then use that information to destroy it.

Your plan was to use death to stop death and to use destruction to stop destruction.

Whiteflower, Bladedance, Shadow... the teachers you once learned from all died by your hands.

...As did I.

I remember my voice, wild and cracking with rage... and the sudden warmth that surged from your chest the moment the blade went in. I thought I had destroyed the Crimson Troupe for good.

And despite all that, I still failed.

You didn't die.

Because death is ever-present, and drama is eternal.

Eternal, yes, but after that, I devoted even more time to studying all your greatest works... including myself.

I wore down your eternity, as any slow-witted disciple might.

And at last, I've arrived, once more stepping into your proud creation: a theater of death, of tragedy, of art.

Now, at last, the Catastrophe has finished setting our final stage.

Troupe Leader, my dear teacher, or perhaps I should call you 'Tragodia'.

I am going to destroy everything that is yours.

Lucian unfastens the inhibitor at his throat. The exposed Originium crystals gleam, as if already rejoicing at the song to come.

He offers the Troupe Leader a deep bow, as the clouds behind him come crashing down.

The flickering lights of the ancient castle, the bloodied corpses of the teachers, the hollow wind in the darkness... Forgetting all of that was not difficult.

Until one day, when Lucian—who has by this time become an assassin—had a dream.

He's still in the old castle, still in that empty hall, sitting alone, singing under the lights, with all the former members of his troupe standing behind him—

As alive as ever.

Child, we cannot truly erase our pasts.

There will always be traces of them.

Do you think I'm scared?

No. I've simply finally confirmed that I've yet to fully tear out the ad-libbing you inserted into my life. In other words, you are still here.

But you're correct: we cannot truly erase our pasts, and there will always be traces of them.

So, to bring your story to an end, I've been walking the same path you once did, for all this time...

I traveled across the entire land!

Calais was a Gaulish border city.

When the allied nations suddenly turned on them, Calais was thrown under siege. Yet thanks to its powerful cannons—and the general hailed as the 'Imperial Standard-Bearer'—Calais held fast for months.

The general stood atop the wall—refusing sleep, refusing rest, refusing to give ground. With their banner still flying high, even the weariest soldiers held the line.

Until the unthinkable happened, the general's most trusted lieutenant opened the gates, a clear act of betrayal.

The Emperor of Gaul had given up on Calais, as by then its fate was sealed.

The Imperial Standard-Bearer had refused to surrender out of honor, and the trusted lieutenant believed he ought to stand by his general. After all, they had already braved so many life-or-death situations together over the decades.

But he knew that holding the line would only lead to more bloodshed—that the city was doomed to become a graveyard.

Perhaps that battle-worn soldier simply realized that although there was no perfect choice, there was a way that would allow him to atone for his sins.

He persuaded the general, who had long since become exhausted, to take a ten minute break. Then he seized his opportunity to open the gate.

Before the allied forces could enter the city, he drove his sword through his own heart... That traitor ended up being the most tragic casualty of the war.

But that is ancient history now, Lucian—so ancient that many of the details have long been lost to the river of time.

Victoria, Leithanien... I spent months traveling between more than a dozen cities across different nations, and at last, I found an aging Vanguard on the brink of death.

The guard had seen the towering flames of Calais with his own eyes. He had found a badge on the traitor's corpse—two faces turned away from each other, one smiling, the other weeping.

We all know what that symbolizes, dear teacher.

Haha.

Then I suppose you made other discoveries as well?

Even earlier in Laterano...

Over 200 years ago, a brilliant cardinal was struck down by gun-knights in the plaza in front of the Basilica.

He was intelligent and compassionate, known as 'the Sankta closest to the Lord.' At just thirty years old, he was already widely regarded as the Pope's heir apparent.

But then, he changed. He grew radical, unyielding, unwieldy. He started preaching, rallying followers, and reaching out to foreign envoys, all in an attempt to check the Pope's authority.

...Until the situation deteriorated into a religious coup that threatened the entire city-state. The Pope was critically wounded, and the gun-knights were deployed. The would-be usurper became the only cardinal in the history of Laterano to die during a coup.

No one knows what exactly happened to him... At some point, in one of the Ecclesia Requietum, he had a chance encounter with a passing Feline—but of course, that is hardly a lead worth chasing.

It must have taken some effort for you to uncover all of this.

Indeed, it was quite troublesome.

I merely offered that Sankta a bit of 'truth'—he was already terminally ill, you know.

Unlike the incompetent Pope, who knew only how to interpret scriptures, his own zealousness knew no bounds. But with limited time, he might not have been able to put his ideals into practice, to hear the church bells ring in the new era.

But in truth, the moment the cardinal struck down the Pope, he came to his senses. He realized that death had never caught up with him after all.

His sudden clarity only plunged him deeper into madness. Faced with the ruin he had wrought, did he choose to walk willingly into the gun-knights' sights?

A microcosm of political tragedy, from which many of the Troupe's plays took root.

Quite a pity, isn't it?

Iberia.

It was during the glorious Golden Age... The lighthouses lit up an approaching ship—only for people to discover it carried nothing but whispering winds from the ocean depths. Ticket stubs stamped with the image of the twin faces were scattered across the deck, and they drifted along with the ship in silence.

The lost sailors sing—

Incite a young fowl, to pick the fruit of pain.

Amidst the spires of Leithanien, ancient Arts recorded the nobles' laments, and desperate cries.

Exile an infant, to arrive at joyful death.

An encampment covered in thick snow.

Weeds walk their own path.

The city in the depths of the sands.

Through tears, falsehoods, and riddles.

He leaves the bed of withered flowers.

...You are everywhere.

I followed the path you once walked. I crossed the lands, encountering all manner of people and unearthing all manner of secrets—until at last, buried in ancient tomes and tangled rumors, I uncovered your name.

'Tragodia'.

However, the legendary Tragodia is a god, beloved by the people.

He wears a crown of grapevines. He is both intoxicated and intoxicating. He bestows joy and grace. He greets the farmers as they bring in their yearly harvest, guiding them from wilderness to civilization through revelry and celebration.