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What if I'd gotten swept away by the storm? What if your camera had accidentally captured my death, just like before?

The last thing I want is to belittle your work, and to force you to once again resent the tool of your trade.

You know, Abner, I've always thought you were dumb.

Hey, what would you know?

That footage you accidentally recorded back then at least stands as irrefutable evidence—ensuring that a girl named Laura wouldn't vanish from this land without a trace.

Although I couldn't say if that's enough meaning for it to meet your exacting standards.

Friedkin Kubrick! I <i>am</i> an idiot!

This 'dream-making machine' was only made in the first place because people wanted more eyes to see the land with.

How long can you hold on, Melanie?

...I hope I don't break this thing.

Let's finish filming!

Can you see them? Can you hear them... those still fighting to survive the Catastrophe?

Nothing ever truly comes from nothing—not even the most wondrous of art. And it is never death that suddenly awakens the lost or steels the timid.

They always had it in them.

So, answer my question, Tragodia.

Are you attempting to remind me that death would simply end this story, this performance? That there would be nary a trace left after the curtains fall? That I will have, objectively speaking, escaped any and all scrutiny and criticism of my work?

That I am a thin-skinned artist?

You really did find an interesting angle, Lucian.

Perhaps what you say is right, but how are you going to change the ending that has already been written?

That child, Tippi, really did adjust the path of the mobile plate, using only techniques she picked up from watching film reels.

But the shift in its trajectory was insufficient. Nearly half the plate remains on a collision course with the storm.

Lucian, you faced a Catastrophe when you were young. You should know that one of that scale will destroy everything on this plate.

Lucian gently strokes the crystal on his throat.

I haven't sung since releasing the inhibitor.

Singing. It is Blood Diamond's song.

The song that once lit up countless stages, before dying out amidst the darkness of that old castle. Today, it echoes once more. The sound passes through cracks in the ruins and the Catastrophe itself, ringing clearly in everyone's ears.

Singing with such total devotion?

....No.

It seems that dreams can also be used as barriers. This is the first time I've ever seen you use your Arts in reverse, Lucian.

Are you trying to protect everyone with the voice that once brought pain to yourself and disaster to others?

Are you trying to face this Catastrophe alone?

Alone? No. You're here with me.

Hold your scepter steady, Tragodia.

From the moment I rose from that river and walked back to your side... From the moment I returned to the Troupe and stood before you once again...

I have only ever had one motivation.

At the climax of every tragedy, there is always a fierce, cathartic battle—be it inside a palace, atop a tower... or beneath this ever-shifting sky.

Let us finish this drama, where the student kills the teacher!

Haha! My favorite student! My best actor! Everything that is headed for destruction shall serve as your backdrop. I am so glad you can enjoy this moment!

Even I can't help but be swept away in it! I've forgotten all other matters!

But you should know that killing a long-lived is meaningless.

You just told me that I found an interesting angle.

But it's not interesting, far from it.

You aren't a thin-skinned artist. You've just been left with no other choice.

It is not us who need to die, not the audience, not the common folk, bound by the laws of ordinary reality.

It's you—Tragodia.

You've walked through history. You've founded the Troupe. You've created dreams from darkness. You've fed both me and Shalem with despair. You've drawn in lost souls, one after another, and lashed actor after actor...

You taught us to feel pain, to learn evil, to be stained with blood, to sing of destruction. You taught us to dress for the stage, to wear a mask in life, to believe in what you called rebirth.

You built the story and drew in the audience. You chose that Lateran cardinal, that Gaulish general, Whiteflower, Bladedance, Shadow, Dalton, Shelly, Moira...

You've chosen a million 'Lucians' with which to bring about death.

You exhausted its form, crafted its style, and perfected its meaning—

Because it is all so far away from you.

...So far away.

Long lived—death is the one shore you will never reach. Director—death is the one performance you can never take part in. Tragodia—death is the one art you will never embody!

All your aesthetics, your insights, your experiences—everything you pushed us to pursue has done nothing for you in the end.

I once thought this brought you joy, but your sorrow has always outweighed your sense of accomplishment!

If you yourself are the theater, then your very existence is a paradox!

The ending is nigh, isn't it?

Do you feel resentful or helpless?

Do you find this funny or confusing?

Or have you simply ignored it?

Have you never felt the same pain that I have?

Tragodia is uncharacteristically silent, his eyes fixed on the face in front of him that is lost in emotion.

Lucian shouts loudly. The raging storm does not even distort his voice in the slightest. He sings, and chants—while the Originium crystals creep visibly along his neck.

Does it hurt, child?

Ngh—

Yes. Of course it hurts.

If you keep using your Arts without restraint, it will kill you, child.

Are you jealous?

Hahahaha.

Perhaps, but your performance really is moving.

Lucian responds to Tragodia with even greater fervor. His surging emotions give him newfound strength, and at last, he seizes the upper hand in their clash. In an instant, he plunges the scepter into Tragodia's torso.

Pain is my blade, and at last, I have driven it into the one who caused my pain in the first place—

You!

The curtain must fall on every performance.

Cycles will not help shape our so-called 'destiny'.

Child, I've just gained new inspiration.

This story deserves to be continued.

The plate beneath their feet is swaying and shaking, but is starting to stabilize.

People start to poke their heads out from the ruins and look at the receding disaster. They can hardly believe the Catastrophe they have just experienced.

Hundreds of broken masks drop to the ground, as Tragodia slowly falls to his feet.

Lucian is sure that he has pierced Tragodia's heart and completed his grand, murderous drama. However, he also notices a change in himself.

These clothes, this scepter, this crown...

Have you given me a new ad-libbing?

The silver-white hem of his robe flutters in the wind, brushed by grains of sand, yet spotless as ever. Lucian silently studies the elegant garment—

It is flamboyant and exquisite and fits him perfectly—as if it had been tailored just for him. He could walk into any festival or onto any stage in it, and it would suit him perfectly.

It is as if this is the Catastrophe's gift to him, his reward for slaying his teacher.

The theme of this murder was clearly 'betrayal', yet at the last moment it became a 'passing of the torch'?

Lucian is silent.

The fallen Tragodia has disappeared. Where he once lay, there is only blood, and his mask. The dark red carpet extends upward along the steps, without end.

This is the path he was meant to walk, and it is now free of all obstacles. These thoughts spring to Lucian's mind from nowhere.

So he climbs the stairs without lowering his head or looking back.

Just then, he hears Tragodia's voice.

Lucian, you are the finest actor in the land. You have honed your craft well, and you use your powers of reason to grasp hold of the mask of emotions.

You know well my origins, so it should be clear to you that you have not ended me by merely killing me.

You shouldn't pin your hopes on a scene that was once performed in an ancient castle.

Or is it that you were certain I would think this way—make this choice?

Haha. It's all so interesting.

Maybe you were right. Death is the one shore I will never reach, the one performance I can never take part in, and the one art I can never embody.

Weeds walk their own path.

Through tears, falsehoods, and riddles,