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My deepest apologies for ruining the play.

If you are referring to how you dealt with that Moira girl... then you owe me no apologies, Lucian.

With your intellect, I can only assume you've figured out the original ending of the story.

An old case from five years ago, and a Catastrophe that arrives right on cue. Both the storm and the delayed judgment rain down on this plate.

The Zalak, who once stood outside the story, slowly walks to the center of the stage—and kills all those burdened with sin.

Later, she comes to realize that everything she's done has been driven by delusion. She awakens—hollowed out, broken—and judges the last remaining soul—

Herself.

And you?

In the script, you are the Messenger who happens to pass through, the insignificant newcomer to the cast. You are so far removed from the core conflict, yet in the end, you become the one who ties all the threads together.

The more unexpected the 'coincidence,' the more shocking it is when the 'inevitable' unfolds... This is the allure of drama, something you and I have experienced countless times.

So, you haven't ruined a thing. You've merely added to the performance.

...Just like what you've done for the Troupe.

I've suffered all manner of tragedy in my quest to find you.

Haha. Naturally.

The Troupe's mark at the auction was insufficient proof of my existence, I suppose?

Thankfully.

After all these years, 'death', or rather, 'destruction', remains the plot device you wield so well, the ending you so cherish.

Child, oh child, how I wish you could appreciate its beauty.

Hmm... do I?

I wouldn't say I 'appreciate' it, but I am very familiar with it.

I've acted in so many plays. I've killed so many people. My hands are drenched with blood.

That is the education and training I received in my childhood, the life you instilled in me.

You are my best student, Lucian.

Before the climactic finale arrives, let us review the performance so far. You and I know this routine all too well.

The Troupe Leader smiles and bows towards Lucian. His scepter, wrapped by his tail, points toward the approaching Catastrophe clouds, like a pen dipped in ink.

A familiar scene unfolds before Lucian's eyes. He knows he can't refuse—no, this is what he came for.

Lucian gives a slight nod.

First we have Dalton.

Originally, this middle-aged actor who resembled nothing more than a walking corpse didn't feel this scene was all that significant.

He offered up what little lucidity he could muster, summoned the last dregs of his acting instincts, recited his few remaining lines, and held out until the director called cut—all to earn just enough for another night of drinking.

He has never mourned the actress who died because of him, nor reminisced about his once spirited past. He was not even ashamed of his current sorry state.

You manipulated him.

Indeed. Without my intervention, he would never have taken it upon himself to retrieve the swapped knife and deliver it to you.

But I never commanded him to put his chest up to the blade.

By the time you were acting opposite him, he was already fully awake, fully aware of the danger he was in.

Lucian, your talent shines just as brightly in film as it did on the stage.

Your performance awakened his memories, reminding him of how great an actor he once was, of a time when he was immersed in his roles, expressing real emotions: joy, sorrow, fury, and mirth.

In that moment, 'the Messenger' slipped fully into character, while the looming threat of financial ruin warped 'Sir Dupont's' thoughts.

He had to cover up the truth. He had to do whatever it took to kill the person before him—without pausing to think that his own blade might be turned on him.

You were right there with him—you know better than anyone just how intense his fear and anger were in that moment.

As a farewell performance, it was nearly perfect.

Indeed, death's imminent approach did not frighten him. Instead, it ignited his competitive fire, which had long been dulled by drink. He performed with unrestrained zeal. It was exhilarating!

Then there was Michael and Marion.

The philandering actor and the shrewd costume designer were found hanging above their own set, their farcical romance laid bare for all to see.

Their union was both shameful and absurd—a mess of indulgent desire, scheming ambition, mutual disdain, and mutual exploitation.

There wasn't a trace of anything real about them, inside or out. That Michael—even his ears and tail were fake.

Their deaths served no purpose, save for giving that camera assistant a juicy bit of gossip to peddle.

But you, Lucian, you were at the scene. Even the cat could taste the lingering emotions left behind.

When Moira knocked on that door, when the footsteps of death drew near, in that fleeting moment where there was no time to think, I'm sure you know what each of them did.

Tear stains.

What a fascinating detail.

Tear stains lingered in the corners of his eyes—none of the three Rockefeller brothers had ever shown Lady Dupont such heartfelt emotion.

That fireman's axe was originally meant for Marion.

Yet Michael shielded her from harm, exposing himself to the blade instead.

In the last moments of their lives, that man and that woman, who up to that point had been attacking each other, instinctively protected each other.

They confirmed their true feelings for one another.

Although this, by itself, is not worthy of praise.

You're correct, my child.

However, the audience had already taken their seats. What did they expect to see in this illusion of light and sound?

Ultimately, the schemers will end up with nothing while the hedonists are devoured by their own desires, yes? Naturally. It's the neatest kind of story—just an excuse to trot out well-worn platitudes.

They would never imagine that a flawed, 'unworthy' love could still be real, and still turn heads.

Just as those two never imagined there would be a moment when they grew feelings for each other.

Made possible by death?

Made possible by death.

And then, of course, there was Moira—the one I had the highest hopes for, before you showed up.

Moira rebuilt her faith through another's death.

Every detail about Laura was etched into her mind: her name, her eating habits, her unmistakable smile, her extraordinary life, her violent end, and the killers who still hadn't been brought to justice.

Grief, anger, doubt, hatred—every emotion that rose within her set fire to a buried past, and to herself.

She directed this entire performance.

Why do you insist on downplaying your own role in all of this?

It was you who inserted that ad-libbing, forcing a past that did not originally exist into her mind—bringing 'Laura' into her life.

Yes. And what of it?

Look at her—

She is dancing.

You were her dance partner back then. You must have felt it.

She isn't like the children from the Crimson Troupe, who've been receiving Whiteflower's training since they were young. But when you look at her dancing, her physique, her tears, her smile...

She is acting out a version of life. Or perhaps crafting a kind of truth. Or perhaps she no longer has any constraints, and can be whoever she wants to be.

She will dance through countless people's lives, dithyramb unending, until her mind and body can no longer bear the weight of those emotions.

Or maybe she will finally encounter you, or some other fool seeking the truth, and one night finally awaken from her dream and end her own life.

Regardless of her ultimate fate, her soul will be rich and fulfilled.

Regardless of her ultimate fate, she is already no longer just a nameless prop-maker from the frontier. No longer a Zalak with nothing and no one to hold on to.

You're as talkative as ever, Troupe Leader.

It's been a long time since you've spoken about someone with such passion.

...Not since you, Lucian.

I don't deny that I've exerted my influence on Moira. I encouraged her, just as I once encouraged you.

My child, have you forgotten?

If not for your thirst to perform, you would have died long ago.

When that Catastrophe drove you from your home, when you lost your parents, when you found yourself adrift in that towering castle amongst strangers, you said—

Only when I'm in character, on the stage...

That's the only time my loneliness disappears...

The only time I feel like I belong.

You clung to that feeling, and it kept you alive.

You and Moira... You're both natural-born actors. You both create sorrow and joy from nothing, and use those emotions to survive.

No one can ignore your brilliance!

And for both of you, my two children, death shall be your teacher.

Do you still remember when you hit that wall in your development? When you could not draw inspiration from anything, and were unable to power your performance?

That was when you thrust that Originium into your throat without hesitation.

Then you felt the grip of death, of your inescapable fate!

It gave you fear, jealousy, sorrow, anger, shame, and greed—emotions once foreign to you... And after witnessing all of these things, your heart has become a mirror.

It fueled your desire to dismantle authority, your thirst for destruction. It gave you an endless night—and a song that never ceases.