Lord Of The Lost

The Pavilion Master and the others were already outnumbered, each of them would have to face two opponents at once.

But even that wasn't the greatest danger.

The real problem was Changhu Town itself.

The dwarves weren't likely to take their side.

If the town guards got involved, there would be no escape, only surrender.

This wasn't something William could figure out on his own.

It wasn't a discussion to have with Alice, but rather with Metatron and the others.

Alice knew that William wasn't working alone. He couldn't afford to be.

If he were acting solo, there would be no way for him to steal the quill from the Playwright's grasp.

Her patience was wearing thin.

"So when are you going to start?" she pressed.

The fourth act had just ended. Only one final act remained.

In this precarious situation, even the contingency plan given to her by the Old Witch might not work.

And if she used it… she would lose all control over herself.

But William shook his head.

"Not yet. If we act too soon, we risk alerting the troops of Changhu Town. That would be a disaster."

His gaze darkened as he added,

"Besides… there are 13 members the troupe. I've only seen 12."

"Where is the last troupe leader?"

A missing piece. A lurking danger.

The final act was about to begin.

The Mystery of the Troupe Leader

Alice froze.

"I… I don't know. I've never seen this person," she admitted, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

Then, as if recalling something, she added, "Oh, but the Playwright did mention the theater director once. She said the director exists in our dreams… That's why she forbade me from sleeping. At first, I thought it was just to stop me from disturbing the director."

But things changed.

Once the Playwright realized Alice had no intention of joining the troupe, the sleepless nights became more than just a rule.

They became a punishment.

"In a dream?" William's brows furrowed.

Could the troupe leader be some kind of dream-based extraordinary entity?

The more he spoke with Alice, the more he realized that the Scarlet Troupe was no ordinary band of thieves or con artists.

They had been performing since the era of the gods, that kind of longevity required something far beyond mere tricks.

As the saying goes, know yourself and know your enemy, and you will never be defeated.

Jumping in blindly, without fully grasping the opponent's strengths and weaknesses, was a one-way ticket to disaster.

And what worried him most was something Black Swan had told him.

When the Scarlet Troupe was supposedly destroyed, there was one person who mysteriously vanished, the troupe leader.

That destruction hadn't been some small skirmish; it had been an all-out assault by multiple major factions.

The troupe hadn't even had a chance to resist. They were wiped out without leaving a trace.

Yet the troupe leader was never found.

That alone was deeply unsettling.

William couldn't shake the feeling that whoever this leader was, they were at least at the level of Sequence 8.

Which meant trouble.

Normally, encountering an unfamiliar High-Sequence individual meant extreme caution.

You never knew their abilities. You never knew their intentions. And at Sequence 8, they had already crossed the threshold of being a major threat.

It was like encountering a wild beast in the dark—you didn't need to see its fangs to know it could kill you.

Instinct alone told you to be careful.

This principle was exactly why all known members of the Scarlet Troupe were Sequence 9—not too powerful, but still dangerous enough.

Had they been a troupe of higher-ranked extraordinaries, they would have drawn too much attention from powerful forces, and they would never have survived posing as mere traveling performers.

But if the troupe leader was indeed Sequence 8, they could easily stay hidden.

Which meant one thing:

There was a missing piece to this puzzle.

Black Swan had no idea about the troupe leader's true rank.

Alice, despite being inside the troupe, had never once seen them.

And that was odd.

No matter how secretive a leader is, shouldn't they at least show their face once?

William's expression darkened.

"We need to find out who this troupe leader is. Otherwise, we're completely in the dark."

Alice sighed.

Easy to say.

But inside the troupe, her status was barely above that of a pet.

Now, she wasn't even being fed properly. If she hadn't had a strong foundation, she might have collapsed long ago.

They had learned some things about the troupe, but the deeper secrets were still beyond their reach.

Still…

She needed William.

And William needed her.

"I'll try," Alice said at last, nodding.

Before William could say anything more, a low rumble of footsteps echoed through the dark corridor.

The troupe members were approaching.

The two quickly agreed to meet again tomorrow.

Then, like a whisper in the wind, William vanished.

The Playwright had just stepped out of a room.

And in that very moment, William had been standing right beside him.

For a brief, tense moment, the Playwright paused and scanned the surroundings.

Had he sensed something?

William held his breath, heart steady.

But after a moment, the Playwright moved on.

Still, it was a close call.

Too close.

From now on, lingering around the troupe was a dangerous gamble.

Because no matter how skilled you were, walk around at night long enough…

And sooner or later, you'd run into ghosts.

William returned to his designated spot, regrouping with the Pavilion Master and the others.

"How did it go?" someone asked.

William exhaled, gathering his thoughts, then gave them a brief but precise rundown of everything he had learned.

The pieces were slowly coming together.

But the biggest mystery still remained.

Who was the Scarlet Troupe's missing leader?

And what power did they truly wield?

Alice's unexpected arrival left everyone stunned.

But after considering Calcifer's connection to the Witch of the Wilderness, things started to make sense.

Calcifer had once been the Witch's apprentice.

He knew how to navigate the Lost Labyrinth, so it wasn't surprising that the Witch of the Wilderness did too.

Master and disciple had simply made the same choice, arriving at the same place by sheer coincidence.

Or at least, that's how it seemed.

The Pavilion Master had expected to encounter stranded players at some point.

It was just that the timing and location of this meeting were so unusual that the odds of it happening were almost impossibly low.

William broke the silence.

"Killing the Playwright is easy," he admitted. "But I can't guarantee we'll get the [Anchoring Pen]."

With his [Stealth] trait, assassinating the Playwright wouldn't be difficult.

But even if he did, there was no certainty that the Playwright would summon the Anchoring Pen before dying.

And if she didn't?

The quill might never be found again.

That uncertainty was enough to keep William from acting rashly.

Alice frowned. "So we have no idea what will happen if we kill the Playwright?"

William nodded. "Exactly. And there's something else, the troupe leader has never shown up even once. That makes me uneasy."

A heavy silence filled the air.

Then, as if sharing the same thought, everyone turned to look at Metatron.

Metatron remained calm, his expression gentle and unreadable.

Without saying a word, he touched his forehead.

A divine glow flickered across his eyes.

God's Perspective activated.

Deep within the Scarlet Theatre's residence, a dimly lit corridor led to the darkest room.

A faint candlelight flickered, casting shadows on the walls.

At the center of the room sat a square table, stacked with various books.

Beyond it stood a classical bed, its silhouette barely visible in the gloom.

The bedding rose and fell ever so slightly—someone was asleep in the darkness.

At the table, the Playwright sat, her face illuminated by the trembling candlelight.

And then, suddenly—

She turned her head.

Cold eyes pierced into the darkness, as if sensing something unseen.

A sneer curled onto her rigid, expressionless face.

Something had caught her interest.

Lifting her hand, she summoned what looked like an ordinary quill.

Then, with practiced precision, she began writing in the air—

Not on paper, but in the very fabric of fate itself.

"The Playwright is dead, and we have nothing."

Metatron saw this vision first.

Then—

"The Playwright is dead, and we have nothing."

The Playwright herself wrote out this same future.

A perfect match.

---

"We fought the troupe and were wiped out."

A second vision flickered in Metatron's mind.

And—

"We fought the troupe and were wiped out."

The Playwright wrote this future as well.

One after another, the futures aligned.

The result was the same every time—

Total annihilation.

The only difference was how many enemies they managed to take down first.

Then, a new vision surfaced.

"A breeze blowing over the hills joined the battle. The troupe was destroyed, but we gained nothing."

Metatron saw a glimpse of William's involvement.

And then—

For the first time, the Playwright hesitated.

Her quill paused slightly.

Her expression darkened.

She continued writing.

"For some special reason, the troupe was destroyed, and we gained nothing."

The vision blurred.

Then, a third possibility emerged.

"Qingfeng Fushangang joined the battle at some point. The troupe was destroyed, and we successfully obtained the [Anchoring Pen]."

Metatron held onto this vision, examining every detail.

Meanwhile, the Playwright's hand trembled ever so slightly.

She had foreseen the same outcome.

"For some strange reason, the troupe was destroyed, and we successfully obtained the [Anchoring Pen]..."

Her cold, rigid face twisted into something unsettling—

A sinister smile.

She had seen something interesting.

And now, she was ready to make her next move.