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He leaves the bed of withered flowers.

He writes his epitaph into the stirring dust,

Waiting for the day—

When he gazes upon it.

'Death or destruction' is the greatest gift you could ever give your teacher.

But have you considered that what you now reject—and what I've left behind—is only one of theater's countless possibilities, one of the many ways beauty can be defined?

And therefore, that what you've just killed was but one of my thousands of existences?

Go on.

Life rushes by, but the theater endures.

The theater will never perish, and aesthetics will always change, so therefore I will always stand at the pinnacle of everything.

The theater cannot be killed—I can only redefine it, replace one theater with another, overthrow old aesthetics with new?

I can become the new one—the new you?

If that is the only possible fate for the two of us—

Then I accept it.

You see, Lucian? Once again, we've entered into a tacit agreement. Haha!

Continue forward. Climb to the highest point on the stage.

You shall wear the crown of 'performance'. You shall wield the scepter of 'inspiration'. You shall wear the years of performing and being performed.

This process will only add to your pain, but you must accept it.

Child, you shall walk from here with both my blessing and my curse.

I have fulfilled the promise I made to you when we first met: I will never be an obstacle to you... or an obstacle to theater.

This is my final gift to you.

How much further can you walk?

What other answers can you come to—

'Tragodia'.

Lucian does not answer, and the sound finally stops.

He stands at the top of the stairs. The storm is far away now, and blood trails behind him.

He loves this desolate scene, he loves the unformed Arts in his body, and he stretches out all his pain.

Then the new Tragodia sings his song—

He leaves the bed of withered flowers.

They say it is a sign of a bountiful harvest.

And so some walked in the embrace of night,

Some shared nectar before the bonfire,

And some walked hand in hand,

Lost together where the story diverged.

Shut the lips that sound the horn, he said.

Close the eyes about to witness eternity, he said.

Incite a young fowl,

To pick the fruit of pain.

Exile an infant,

To arrive at joyful death.

Weeds walk their own path.

Through tears, falsehoods, and riddles,

He leaves the bed of withered flowers.

He writes his epitaph into the stirring dust,

Waiting for the day—

When he gazes upon it.

Does Lady Dupont still shut herself in her room?

It's been three days, and she's hardly touched her food. What shall we do?

The way I see it, the madam is fretting over nothing.

As heir to the Dupont family, Victoria's most noble lineage, she is both elegant and intelligent, and no one could fault her for choosing any of her three suitors.

But that's exactly why she's so troubled.

The three Rockefeller brothers may look like they come from the same handsome mold, but they each have wildly different personalities and occupations.

When a wise scholar, a brave soldier, and a romantic poet all ask for your hand at once, can you even imagine choosing which to spend your life with?

Besides, whatever choice she makes is bound to bring great pain to the other two.

Why, the very thought!

The very thought of the bonuses we'll get when one of those millionaires moves in! Whatever choice she makes, I hope she chooses soon!

How could you be so—

Cut!

Director Quay?

Stiff as damned statues.

(Mutters) Well, it's just exposition anyway. Might as well cut the scene and add a few symbolic empty shots later...

(Mutters) Let's just hope our overzealous producer lady doesn't sweat the small stuff.

You two take a break while we make some adjustments to the script... Actually, don't bother coming back for shooting.

More adjustments? This guy just can't make up his mind.

Shh—

Alright, people, we're not taking a break just yet. So shut up already... shut up!

Yes yes, I know we've been shooting for two months, and everyone's tired, and the plate's far from the city center, and there are no casinos or shopping districts here, and everything at the self-service bar is undrinkable pisswater...

BUT! For better or worse, this is our last week. Time is precious and so is my film.

<i>The Death of Lady Dupont</i> is the kind of historical tragedy they don't make in Wrankwood these days, exploring Columbia's changing times through the lens of a noblewoman's marriage...

So I don't want it looking like some cheap cash-grab when it finally hits theaters!

Let's move on to the next run-through.

<i>The Death of Lady Dupont</i>, balcony, scene three... Melanie and Michael, you're up.

What's the matter, Miss Rutherford?

What do you think, boy?

Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made a veteran like you wait a whole minute for me to get ready.

Do you think I'm making a big deal out of nothing?

Of course not. Alongside Marianne Blake, you used to be one of the greatest actresses in Wrankwood.

Seniority, status, etiquette... Hate them as much as you like deep down, but you <i>will</i> respect them on my set.

I'm sorry if I offended you, ma'am.

So are we ready?

I know it's not easy playing three different characters, but don't mix them up like you did last time. You're playing the SECOND Rockefeller, the soldier.

You're at Lady Dupont's manor, and have just thrown away your older brother's flowers and torn up your younger brother's love letter. You're rushing into your beloved's bedroom to pour your heart out!

Silence, please—Action!

Believe me, my love, my two brothers could never match my feelings for you!

I've heard more than enough honeyed words, Mr. Rockefeller.

Were I not the scion of Dupont, were our union to bring the Rockefellers no wealth or status in high society, would you still—

You wound me. I am no schemer, and I mean every word I say.

You know I'm not as smart or sensitive as my brothers. How can I hope to move you, if not through the sincerity of my feelings?

And how will you prove it?

I recently returned from the battlefield, where I brushed shoulders with death.

When that shell burst right next to me, when I felt my body and my senses flying away, when I came close to death's door...

All I could picture was <i>your</i> face, <i>your</i> smile!

Er... you have the next line, ma'am—

Despicable.

Uh—What?

What kind of soldier would twist his face up like you did when speaking of the battlefield? You put so much honey in your words, you could stick a fly to the ground with it.

I know you've spent the last two months making moves on anything even vaguely female on this plate, but for God's sake keep your private life off the set, boy.

Not everyone will fall for a wiggle of your ears and a swoosh of your orange tail like that dumb blonde.

D-Dumb blonde...?

M-Marion! What are you doing here?