act43side

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.

But the true god of wine is a deceitful caster, a performer, an ascetic, a schemer, a firebrand—a phantom drifting through the currents of history...

A long-lived that defies definition.

(Claps)

Your perseverance astonishes me, child. Even more so than the painstaking devotion you once showed in your performances.

And yet, when you look back at the path I've taken, shouldn't that be enough to affirm the purpose I've been chasing?

As human affairs faded into obscurity, I found—and built—what I came to see as the ultimate vessel for beauty: the theater. I've lived long enough to see the very concept of 'theater' become obsolete.

At last, after tasting both joy and sorrow, I came to understand the precise conditions under which the most fervent emotions bloom. I founded the Troupe—through which I've taught this knowledge to you.

Oh really?

That contradicts what I've learned from my research. Hasn't death always walked by your side?

That grand theory of yours—about death and destruction—was never the result of hard-won insight. You simply believed in it and saw beauty in it, and so did theater.

Let's set aside, for the moment, the brilliance or depravity of human nature that emerges in times of desperation—and turn to some more fundamental questions.

From Laterano to Gaul, from Iberia to Sargon, from the old castle to this Catastrophe-stricken land—you've directed so many performances that shook the soul...

So why have you allowed them to be lost to history?

You don't want them to be remembered?

You exalt the irrational and the unpredictable—so why must every story have the same ending: ruin?

Well, what do you think the answer is, child?

Tell me.

Because it makes everything and everyone unverifiable—both within the theater and beyond.

Because it grants you authority, lets you justify yourself, and turns your so-called 'beauty' into the only possible resolution?!

Steven...

Steven?!

If you're still alive, say something!

...G-Greta?

You really did lock yourself up in your office!

What... what happened outside?

It's too much to explain right now. In short, the entire plate is on a collision course with the Catastrophe, and everyone else has already evacuated to the power deck... Are you alright?

Y-Yeah, something's wrong... The ceiling came down on my leg—I can't move... Ngh—

I'll rescue you!

Dammit! That broken column has sealed the door shut!

It's really heavy! Just wait a moment! Stay with me! Keep talking!

Miss Stone, only now do I understand that I am in no way, shape, or form a genius.

Huh?

That 'god' came to see me.

He hasn't abandoned me. He's shown me a new way of thinking. Actually, he's always been teaching me.

I like to think I make good use of my characters' deaths—of every desperate situation—to nourish my stories. I did try that, after all, in <i>The Death of Lady Dupont</i>. Why else would it be called that?

Laura from five years ago, and now Dalton, Shelly, Michael, and Marion... Each of their deaths was steeped in drama: vivid, poignant, and all too real.

Those fragments are like autumn leaves—crimson as blood, and scattered everywhere. Each one is enough to stain the blank canvas of my mind with vivid color.

But still—I can't write an ending that satisfies me! I still haven't figured out what kind of scene Lady Dupont's death ought to be!

If death and destruction are the way of the god of theater—if they're the skills a true genius of the stage must master—well, I mean, I... I've never been able to learn them.

I'm just a *cough* worthless hack...

For the love of Borgnine! How can you be so stupid?!

...Huh?

Steven, the Script Auctions are anonymous. You know that, right?