Liberi Reader

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.

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.

All this time, ever since you reappeared, you haven't even mentioned the many times I've betrayed you. Why?

(Smiles)

Because that is unimportant. Because you are still you, child.

Getting lost in madness, then returning to clarity. Leaving, only to later return... After all the trials and tribulations, a hard-won reunion is all the more precious. In the end, time can forgive all grievances.

Is that so?

I used to think the Crimson Troupe was your quill, your canvas, and your trap. I thought that in this chaotic world, your audiences sought solace in your performances. I thought you were omnipresent and that no one could escape your grasp.

Which is why the plan that I, Shalem, and the Playwright came up with failed.

Back then, I was young—naive and full of pride. We believed we had seen the Troupe for what it really was. But our carefully planned escape turned out to be just another act in your grand play.

In the end, Shalem fled from you in fear, while I came to you.

You returned to my side.

That was the moment when you decided to learn all of my techniques. You resolved to learn everything you could about the Troupe, then use that information to destroy it.

Your plan was to use death to stop death and to use destruction to stop destruction.

Whiteflower, Bladedance, Shadow... the teachers you once learned from all died by your hands.

...As did I.

I remember my voice, wild and cracking with rage... and the sudden warmth that surged from your chest the moment the blade went in. I thought I had destroyed the Crimson Troupe for good.

And despite all that, I still failed.

You didn't die.

Because death is ever-present, and drama is eternal.

Eternal, yes, but after that, I devoted even more time to studying all your greatest works... including myself.

I wore down your eternity, as any slow-witted disciple might.

And at last, I've arrived, once more stepping into your proud creation: a theater of death, of tragedy, of art.

Now, at last, the Catastrophe has finished setting our final stage.

Troupe Leader, my dear teacher, or perhaps I should call you 'Tragodia'.

I am going to destroy everything that is yours.