Lord Of The Lost

In the dressing room, the "Makeup Artist" was altering an actor's face, literally molding their flesh like clay.

Outside the tent, in the stables, the "Coach Driver" was feeding horses in the dark.

William clenched his fists, debating whether to eliminate someone, but held back.

The playwright was his priority.

The one writing fate itself.

He continued deeper into the tent.

Ahead, the corridor grew darker.

Scattered prop crates lined the walls, and a single ray of light escaped from a partially opened door.

Then, he heard a voice.

A clear, sharp female voice, filled with anger.

"You're not satisfied with this story?! This is the saddest tragedy I can write! Damn it! I won't write anymore!"

William's eyes narrowed.

That must be the playwright.

From inside the dimly lit room, the voice continued:

"If you can't write a proper script, you won't be eating tonight!"

Someone else was inside with her.

William inched forward, silent as a shadow.

The true scriptwriter of fate was just ahead.

A Caged Songbird

The second voice was cold— sharp as a blade, devoid of warmth.

A woman.

Her words carried authority, dripping with condescension.

William did a quick count.

There were 13 members of the troupe.

So far, he had encountered 11.

Which meant…

The last two inside this room had to be the playwright and the troupe leader.

He silently moved closer, peering through the cracked door.

The oil lamp flickered, casting a golden glow across the dim room.

Two women.

One seated, the other standing.

The seated woman was young, maybe twenty, with golden hair cascading over her shoulders, shimmering in the lamplight.

She was beautiful, but clearly exhausted, frustration and defiance written all over her face.

The standing woman was also in her twenties. Neatly dressed, short hair, sharp features.

Her eyes were cold, a gaze that cut deeper than knives.

On the table and floor, scattered everywhere, were torn pieces of manuscript paper.

It was a mess.

The golden-haired woman clenched her fists, shaking with anger.

"If you don't want to eat, then don't eat!" she snapped.

The short-haired woman sneered.

"Not only can you not eat, you can't even sleep."

The blonde froze.

Her green eyes widened in disbelief.

"What?!"

The short-haired woman leaned forward, smirking.

"The troupe has no place for the useless. If you can't write a script that satisfies me, then you don't get food or sleep."

The blonde exploded.

She grabbed the quill in her hand and slammed it onto the table.

"This is too much! I won't agree to this! I want my rights! I want my freedom!"

The short-haired woman's smile widened.

"You have no say in this."

Her voice was calm.

Too calm.

"You have potential. The greatest I have ever seen. You will be trained properly."

The blonde's fury grew.

"Trained?! You've tortured me for three days and three nights! I haven't slept! I haven't eaten!

You think this is training?!"

The short-haired woman laughed.

A low, cold, merciless laugh.

"Torture?"

She tilted her head, a cruel amusement in her gaze.

"Oh no. You don't even know what real torture is."

Her voice dropped, chilling the air.

"You lack reverence. I see no fear of tragedy in your eyes. No fear of death. No understanding of despair."

The blonde's chest heaved.

She glared at the woman, eyes filled with rage.

If looks could kill, the short-haired woman would have been dead ten times over.

But she wasn't intimidated.

She simply picked up the manuscript on the desk.

And ripped it apart.

She let the pieces flutter to the ground, then turned her icy gaze back to the blonde.

"I want a real tragedy. A profound one.

If you waste my time again, I will show you what true suffering means."

The blonde suddenly smiled.

It was a mocking, bitter smile.

"I can't write what you want."

Her voice trembled slightly, but she forced herself to stand her ground.

"This is the best I can do. Damn you!"

SMACK!

The short-haired woman slapped her across the face.

The sound echoed.

A red palm print appeared instantly on the blonde's pale skin.

The short-haired woman's voice was quiet but sharp.

"Don't forget. You asked for this."

Her green eyes trembled.

A flicker of fear.

A flash of helplessness.

She hated this woman.

She had never hated anyone so much.

Even the ancient witch who tormented her for years didn't compare to the monster standing in front of her now.

The short-haired woman smirked, satisfied.

Seeing no more resistance, she turned away.

She strode toward the door.

Then— she stopped.

Her gaze swept the room.

She paused.

For a moment, William held his breath.

Did she sense something?

Her eyes lingered on the shadows for a heartbeat longer.

Then, she turned and left.

The door creaked open.

And as the blonde beauty stepped forward to close it—

William slipped inside.

Silent.

Invisible.

His eyes immediately landed on the feathered quill lying on the desk.

Was this the Anchor Pen?

And was this woman the playwright?

He needed the Forum Master here.

But instead, his gaze drifted downward.

Among the newly fallen manuscript scraps, one page lay on top.

A single title written across it.

"The Daughter of the Sea."

"The Little Mermaid Princess..."

"Becoming human..."

"Every step I take, my feet hurt like they were cut by a knife..."

William's eyes narrowed as he read the words scattered across the torn pages.

Something felt off.

The more he read, the stranger it seemed.

Could this woman be… a time traveler?

How else would she be writing Andersen's fairy tales?

As he pondered, the golden-haired beauty sighed, absentmindedly pulling another scrap of paper into her hands.

She leaned back in her chair, her long neck arching gracefully, like a swan about to take flight.

Her voice was low, almost a whisper:

"They want a tragedy, but I won't give it to them. Why should I? This is ridiculous. They trapped me here like a prisoner... But time is running out. Do I really have to call that old witch for help? But if I do that—"

She sighed again, her frustration written all over her delicate features.

She tilted back dangerously in her chair, balancing only on its two hind legs.

"This is really the end, isn't it…"

Swish!

A blade flashed.

Her entire body froze.

A double-edged axe hovered above her exposed neck, its edge gleaming cold and sharp.

A single breath, a slight movement, and the blade would slice into her skin.

Goosebumps erupted across her body.

She didn't dare breathe.

Didn't dare move.

Her eyes twitched slightly, shifting just enough to catch sight of the axe's invisible wielder.

A ghost? A shadow? A demon?

A voice from the void.

"Name?"

Her voice came out in a whisper.

"…Alice."

"Alice in Wonderland?"

Her green eyes widened in shock.

"You—how do you know that?!"

"Aren't you the playwright of this troupe?"

Alice hesitated, then smirked bitterly.

"Are you here for the playwright too?"

"Don't answer questions with questions."

Alice huffed, pouting slightly.

"That cold-hearted woman who just left— she's the playwright."

William's gaze flickered toward the feathered quill on the desk.

"And that pen? What is it?"

Alice answered quickly.

"Just an ordinary feather pen. It's not an [Anchor Pen]."

William's grip tightened around his axe.

"And why should I believe you?"

Alice went quiet for a moment, then suddenly asked:

"What's your ID?"

"What's the next line after 'The breeze blows over the hills'?"

Her face was expectant, curious.

But William only saw genuine confusion in her green eyes.

Like she truly didn't know.

Like she was testing him.

A small question mark seemed to float above her head.

"…?"

William smirked.

"Wrong answer."

He raised the whirlwind axe, preparing to strike.

Alice's pupils shrank.

Her chair wobbled violently—

And then—

CRASH!

She tumbled backward, hitting the ground hard.

"Ow! Ow! That hurts!"

Her long golden hair fanned out around her as she rubbed the back of her head in pain.

She opened her eyes—

Only to see a figure looming over her.

A man, half-hidden in shadow.

His face was sharp, handsome, unreadable.

The light flickered, casting shifting shadows across his features.

Alice pouted, cheeks puffing up like a squirrel with stuffed pockets.

William snorted.

"So, how did you end up here?"

Alice glanced at the axe still clutched in his hand and wisely chose to stay silent.

Then, after a moment, she sighed.

"A damn old witch sent me. She told me to find the place where a god fell in this maze."

William's eyes darkened.

"The God of Prophecy and Dreams?"

Alice's expression flickered—

Then lit up.

"So you're here for the same thing!"

That confirmed it.

She wasn't part of the troupe.

And she definitely wasn't one of them.

An outsider sneaking into the troupe could only have one of two goals, to steal something or sabotage something.

William's eyes narrowed. "What exactly is your situation?"

Alice sighed, throwing up her hands in exasperation.

"I originally planned to take the [Anchor Pen] quietly. I even swore to the troupe that I'd only use it once and return it immediately.

But of course, they didn't believe me. So they locked me up. That cold-blooded woman keeps forcing me to write a 'proper tragedy.'"

Her voice was full of resentment.

"But I hate tragedy!" she continued, "The saddest story I can tolerate is the Little Mermaid turning into sea foam under the morning sun.

But that cruel woman doesn't understand the beauty of fairy tales. All she talks about is 'the confrontation between life and fate.'"

Alice scoffed, folding her arms.

"Does she think she's some kind of profound philosopher? Please. She's just depressing."

She grumbled on and on about her frustrations with the playwright, clearly having held in her complaints for a long time.

William listened silently before cutting in: "How did you find this place?"