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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?

Dalton, Abner—everyone in the crew has been shaped by what happened five years ago. I brought them together on purpose... But you, you were the one exception.

When I approved the outline for the script, I had no idea it was written by you.

I simply felt, from the bottom of my heart, that the story of Lady Dupont—a woman trapped by her brother's lies and need for control, and tormented by the desires of three so-called suitors—was worth my vote of approval.

I knew she'd be a great protagonist for an amazing story, whether she lived or died.

I have never doubted my own vision.

Hey, say something! What are you getting all melodramatic for while I'm out here hauling rocks?!

So it turns out I just don't agree with...

What are you saying?

Ugh! Saget! So it turns out I just don't agree with the 'god's' methods.

There we are! I did it!

This place is about to collapse! I'll help you! Come on!

Wait, wait, wait, Miss Stone.

What now?

Greta helps hold Steven steady as they both come to a stop, and he looks to the side.

There is a wall, only half of it still standing. Faint remnants of vivid graffiti stand out harshly against the grimy, dim surroundings.

It is the giant promotional mural Tippi had painted for the crew, and by some stroke of luck, the title card remains unscathed amidst all the wind and flying debris—

<i>The Death of Lady Dupont</i>.

Steven raises a bloodstained arm and, with considerable effort, wipes away the first three words.

My God...

...It's beautiful.

Not even the most imaginative set designer in Wrankwood could have created a scene like this. Who's to say that ending a film shoot under the shadow of a Catastrophe isn't, in fact, the most fitting conclusion of all?

This isn't just a publicity stunt. I'm finding myself more and more impressed by Greta's resolve.

Alright, that's enough of that. Let's get back to the power deck. It's way too dangerous out here!

Hey, Melanie, leading lady, where are you going? Have you gone mad?!

Abner, you—all of you—never really believed this 'leading lady' could make a comeback with this film, did you?

You don't even think we'll finish filming it...

Honestly, I feel the same. I mean, we don't even have the ending figured out yet, and this whole plate is about to collapse.

But that doesn't mean you have to die for it, does it?

The Catastrophe is closing in.

The howling wind is nature's roar, its fury written across the face of the clouds.

But Melanie still walks forward to face it.

Who said I have a death wish?

Who says Lady Dupont has a death wish?

Who says Lady Dupont is meant to die under her brother's oppression, felled by the swords of the three Rockefellers, at the hands of those onlookers who sought to curse her, humiliate her, drive her out...

Must death be a symbol?

She should instead, on a night no one could have foreseen, walk straight into a storm just as wild and chaotic as this one, leaving that prison of a castle behind.

She shall not perish, because this storm is the chariot that will lead her to freedom!

You must have realized, Abner, that on my journey I've always regarded Marianne as my imaginary enemy, yes?

...Yeah.

But I know I'll never catch up to her.

She was a true genius—born to inhabit any role she was given. Even fate itself seemed to orchestrate one final Catastrophe just so she could exit this business in a blaze of brilliance.

And I'm nobody special.

An ordinary woman from a small town, who traveled to Wrankwood and worked her way up role by role, film by film, for over a decade. Gaining experience and recognition...

That's why I care so much about seniority, status, and etiquette. The aspects of film set culture that so many scoff at... Because that sort of recognition is the reward I deserve as an ordinary person.

This land is quite cruel to ordinary people, Abner.

Marianne's retirement gave me the chance to step into the spotlight, but it took only a single slip-up for me to lose everything I'd gained along the way.

My acting skills have fallen off a cliff. My reputation is a shambles. I've tried everything I could think of, but I just couldn't seem to get it back...

It's ridiculous! I've never wanted to admit this, but it's true... If Marianne hadn't retired, I'd never have caught up to her!

And right this very moment, this Catastrophe is destroying the entire plate, along with my last hope.

But couldn't you also say fate is smiling upon me?

At least I finally have the courage... to let go of my inhibitions, the courage to...

At least I finally mustered the courage to take this first leap.

Come to me, Lady Dupont. Come with Melanie Rutherford, and dance together with the Catastrophe...

Even if no one is filming us.

What are you still doing here, Abner?

Check your camera. You didn't turn it on, did you?

What, what do you mean?

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,

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—