Lord Of The Lost

The Playwright's lips curled into a sneer.

"Trying to bait me into handing over what you want?" she hissed.

"You're dreaming. God's gift stays with the troupe. Forever."

William's brows furrowed.

Her rank was higher than his—she had most likely reached the limit of Sequence 9.

But she had never advanced to Sequence 8.

Why?

Because she was bound to the troupe.

Even if he had abilities like [Mental Confusion], it wouldn't be enough to shake her.

His powers were too weak to penetrate her unwavering will.

She was ready to die for her story.

Then—

She smiled.

A twisted, eerie grin.

"You think you've won?"

"Look around you."

William froze.

The stench of blood filled his lungs.

His eyes flickered to the ground—

And his stomach twisted.

Bodies.

So many bodies.

Not just the Scarlet Troupe's members—

But also the Forum Master.

The others.

Their blood pooled across the stage, their limbs twisted in lifeless silence.

And the music—

The [Cursed Sonata] still hummed in the background.

He had been trapped in the play card for only a brief moment.

Yet in that short time,

everyone had died.

Either by blade, or by sheer madness.

Their deaths were real.

No resurrection.

No miracle.

Just silence.

A tragedy—exactly as it was meant to be.

---

The Last One Standing

Only one person still lived.

Sophia.

Her eyes burned red with fury, her claws slashing through enemies—

But she was outnumbered.

The remaining troupe members surrounded her, their attacks relentless.

And the Playwright?

She simply laughed.

"You don't need the pen, William."

*"You're already a Transcendent. Who would you even give it to?"

"They're all dead."

She let out a wild, haunting laugh, a sound that echoed like a final curtain call.

William's eyes darkened.

His grip on her tightened.

He whispered—

"So are you."

A Game of Wills

The Playwright didn't flinch.

She leaned in, undeterred, even as William's blade-like palm sliced into her neck, leaving a thin, bloody line.

Yet, she only smiled.

Her voice was low, sultry, taunting—

"Everyone will die, William. That's how the story ends."

"Your path… should have been the Path of Gods. It's the only possibility that makes sense. Because only for someone like you, the 'Writer' cannot dictate fate."

"Because your fate has already been decided."

She chuckled, her breath warm with madness.

"Just like a kite, no matter how high or far you soar, you are always held by the hand of the one who controls your string. That is your source."

William's eyes were frosted steel.

"Trying to shake my resolve?" His voice was ice-cold, unwavering.

"There's only one thing left for me to do—bury you with them."

The Playwright stared into his soul.

"Then why don't you do it?" she whispered.

Her voice was almost tender, but her eyes were hungry.

"What are you waiting for?"

She tilted her head, watching him like an artist admiring their masterpiece.

"I love this version of you, William. You're like a volcano on the verge of eruption—furious, yet suffocating the magma inside you. Holding onto a sliver of hope."

"Why not let go? Destroy everything? Burn it all down? Set the stage ablaze?"

William clenched his teeth.

This was wrong.

The Playwright wasn't just taunting him—she was inviting him to complete her own tragedy.

And that was the problem.

She loved tragedy.

Even if she was the final act, she would embrace her own downfall like a perfect ending.

If he killed her, if he burned everything to the ground in vengeance, he wouldn't be defying her story—

He'd be completing it.

William stood still.

Because deep down—he knew.

The Forum Master and the others might still have a chance.

Maybe the [Anchoring Pen] could undo this.

If four of the strongest players were gone, it would be a crippling blow to their entire faction.

There was too much at stake.

The moment stretched, frozen between rage and reason.

Then—

The Playwright's eyes flickered.

Her lips parted.

Her head slowly turned toward the dark corridor beyond the curtain.

Then—

Her face twisted in fury.

"You can't do this—!"

She wasn't talking to William.

She was talking to someone else.

William's breath hitched.

A name surfaced in his mind.

Alice.

Alice stood in the deepest chamber of the Scarlet Theater.

Shadows pooled around her feet, thick and suffocating.

Before her was a bed, its sheets softly rising and falling, as if something alive lay beneath them.

The Playwright had placed many restrictions on her—

But none mattered more than the one that forbade her from using magic.

Not eating?

Not sleeping?

Secondary concerns.

Alice's lips curled into a small, thoughtful smile.

"Alice fell into a fantasy world when she entered the rabbit hole..." she mused.

"So, what happens… if I lift the quilt?"

Her fingers grasped the edge of the blanket.

"Will I finally meet the mysterious troupe leader?"

Her mind buzzed.

The players were losing.

The Playwright had slaughtered nearly everyone, and the troupe leader had never even appeared.

If she walked away now, she would return empty-handed, nothing more than a pawn for the Witch of the Misty Forest.

No power.

No knowledge.

No second chance.

She would never turn the tables again.

That wasn't an option.

Instead of waiting for death, she'd rather set fire to the stage herself.

The Scarlet Troupe had arrived in Changhu Town long ago.

And yet—

The Troupe Leader had never appeared.

Why?

Why had the leader—the one who should negotiate, should control everything—remained hidden?

Alice had to know.

With a deep breath—

She lifted the quilt.

Her confident smile froze.

Her pupils shrunk to pinpricks.

She had expected a person.

She had not expected…

That.

Lying beneath the sheets wasn't human.

It wasn't even something that belonged to this world.

A thing—

A creature that vaguely resembled a bird, yet had no legs to stand on.

It lay there, unmoving, as if dead.

Its body was covered in black and gray filth, its feathers matted and sickly, as if it had rolled in soot and ash.

Its body was patchy, diseased, a mass of corruption.

There was no clean spot left.

Nothing intact.

It was…

Rotting.

A thing abandoned and forgotten.

And yet, even as it lay there, something about it felt wrong.

Dangerous.

Alice's breath caught in her throat.

She had expected a secret.

She had not expected a nightmare.

The Creature That Shouldn't Exist

The most bizarre thing wasn't the creature itself—

It was its feathers.

Or rather, what should have been feathers.

Instead, thousands upon thousands of tiny, hair-like strands covered its body, layering in dense, intricate patterns.

Each strand was etched with unnatural runes, forming symbols that seemed to be part of some vast, invisible connection.

A connection that extended far beyond sight, stretching into an unknowable distance.

Yet—

Despite their infinite reach, all the hairs curled downward, all the feathers folded inward.

They did not extend forward, but instead coiled back on themselves, forming a perpetual, enclosed loop—

A cycle without an end.

A future that did not exist.

The moment Alice lifted the quilt—

That aura surged outward.

It was not something that should exist in the mortal world.

It wasn't light, nor darkness.

It was pure principle, pure law—a sight so unnatural that it dazzled the mind, pulling the viewer into a dreamlike trance.

It wanted to be understood.

It wanted to be worshiped.

Then—

Pop.

A bubble emerged from the creature's mouth.

Followed by another.

And another.

One by one, dream bubbles drifted into the air.

Each one reflected a scene upon its delicate surface.

A creature that looked like a bird but was not a bird, covered in black and gray filth, spitting out bubble after bubble.

And inside each bubble—

The same scene.

Again.

And again.

And again.

A loop of reflections, an infinite recursion, as if the universe itself had been caught in a mirror that could never stop reflecting itself.

Alice's breath hitched.

A terrible realization clawed at her mind.

"The Troupe Leader…?"

"No…"

"A mythical creature…?"

"No…"

"The God of Dreams and Prophecies?"

Her pupils trembled.

The instant she laid eyes upon the creature's body, Alice felt something inside her twist and unravel.

It was a sense of wrongness, of conflict, like her very existence had just been tossed into a churning dream.

She took a step back.

Her feet felt weightless.

Everything felt weightless—as if she wasn't standing at all, but floating in a reality that refused to hold shape.

The Troupe Leader was that god?

Whether it was a clone, a fragment, or something born of a dream, it didn't matter.

The truth was in front of her, lying naked in this forsaken bed.

Alice had heard rumors, learned secrets from the Witch of the Wilds about mythical beings—

But seeing one with her own eyes—

Her mind couldn't hold it together.

She wavered.

The world around her warped.

The room folded in on itself, forming endless rings upon rings, locking into each other, repeating—

A cascade of endless cycles, an infinity trap.