Chapter 81: The Performer's Monologue
Amidst the sea of flames and ruins, the musician simply gazed at the star-filled night sky of Ragunna.
The scorching heat, the pain, and the surrounding scenery reminded Phrolova of the past.
A prodigy conductor from a small town, she once believed her hands would lift notes and glory, composing a symphony of hope for her hometown.
But the reality was, faced with a blood-red sky and shattered cries, she was powerless.
She watched helplessly as her loved ones were swallowed by the flames, while she herself, having awakened her Resonance Power, became an empty shell bearing an immortal curse.
Kneeling in the ruins, she dug through the remnants of her kin with her bare hands, carefully sealing their frequencies into her Sonora.
And so, from that moment on, she was left alone to bear this gift and curse known as "immortality."
Age lost its meaning to her; neither aging nor wounds appeared on this body.
Despair became the tone of her life, and sorrow the driving force of this hollow shell.
She tried countless possibilities, but the gods responded only with silence, and science brought deeper emptiness.
Until she met that person.
The only one who could hear the sorrow in her music.
"Silent mourning suits this song better."
That person's response made her withered heart beat once more.
Then, she began to learn to look forward to tomorrow.
She didn't come to today's concert, but what about tomorrow? Would she come tomorrow?
She lost count of how many such "todays" and "tomorrows" she cycled through.
And the final answer was: she didn't come today, nor would she tomorrow.
Later, she learned that person was a hero who saved the world, with countless tomorrows to rush toward and a mission far weightier than any personal tragedy.
"...She won't come again."
Phrolova's self-mockery became the final footnote to her regret.
And so, she became what she is now.
She became the Overseer of Fractsidus, even though she knew they were just using her, like so many others before.
But Phrolova didn't care.
If the gods don't respond, science is unreliable, and even her last kindred spirit breaks their promise, then even dancing with the devil is worth it if there's a chance to grasp the possibility of reaching the "other shore."
And so, Phrolova saw that person again—
along with the noisy, ill-timed, and irritating static by her side.
Thud!
Hecate's blade cleaved through the ruins before them, her light green long braids coming loose and transforming into straight hair flowing behind Phrolova, accentuating her frost-cold expression.
Initially, when the playwright mentioned a variable that needed handling, Phrolova simply found it troublesome.
Now, it seemed her intuition was right.
A suddenly appearing priest, yet acting nothing like one. Causing disturbances, confronting conflicts, breaking every rule.
Unable to be killed, and returning each time after being utterly destroyed with an even more unsettling aura.
It must be said, for Phrolova, this was indeed an interesting trait—"returning from death" was precisely the means she needed most, something that could surely be utilized in constructing the "other shore."
But the moment he pushed Rover to the forefront and blurted out those words, Phrolova changed her mind.
What gave him the right?
That brief intersection, which should have been buried in that person's past memories—by what right did he touch it?
Later, Cristoforo brought even more absurd news.
"He just wanted to find a place to live an ordinary, peaceful life. To achieve that, he'd go to such lengths—don't you find it fascinating?"
Yet Phrolova couldn't comprehend it.
The goal was so absurd it was laughable.
For such a frivolous, insignificant wish—one that was within reach yet pushed away by his own hands—he would go this far? Stirring up storms, harming others, and callously crushing himself without a second thought?
Beneath his seemingly all-or-nothing stance lay a vast emptiness. She could see that void but couldn't fathom its depths, nor understand why it took this shape.
Now, watching the stage not far away at Carnevale, a "malevolent spirit" stood provocatively, blocking everyone's path.
She had once thought he was merely an interesting variable, an unexpected pawn that might be useful.
But now, he had become an obstacle.
Currently, the entire Ragunna was enveloped by a barrier cloaked in crimson drapery, and Phrolova could actually sense her own Resonance Power within it.
He had accomplished what should have been Phrolova's task, stirring up all of Ragunna, drawing everyone's attention, and even... catching that person's gaze.
Standing at the center of the stage, playing the role of the "malevolent spirit," he was steering the chaos in an unforeseen direction.
Amid the raging sea of flames, behind the musician, a ring appeared, lifting and suspending her in the air.
Though reason told her she shouldn't interfere further in what was to come...
But since this was the stage Aeron had built using her, how could she simply be absent?
Phrolova admitted that she was now gradually being controlled by her emotions.
Disdain, anger, irritation... even jealousy, which she herself was unwilling to acknowledge, all urged her not to let that priest succeed so easily.
He was merely a mortal troubled by worldly concerns.
Just a pitiable and detestable clown.
His pain and schemes were nothing but cheap.
If death couldn't end him, then she would use methods beyond death.
Sealing. Imprisoning. Banishing to a void where even time lost its meaning. Or, turning his trait of constant rebirth into nourishment for constructing the "Other Shore."
There were always ways.
For the sake of her loved ones on the Other Shore, for that promise destined to remain unfulfilled yet must be fulfilled, she had already sided with the devil.
"Aeron."
Uttering that name, the bandage covering the musician's right eye drifted from her face, and the crimson eye beneath began to emit a glow.
Now, she would see for herself—just how much this man named Aeron was willing to sacrifice and endure for his ridiculous goal.
"—I've come to kill you."
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