“Good morning, comrades. Intelligence cutoff: 05:00, August 20.”
Summer dawn poured into the hostel where the Violet Eye delegation lodged. Perry Qi sat at a desk with a stack of clean A4 sheets, trading updates with other official players through a secure relay.
He wrote with a smooth ballpoint pen, keeping his tone crisp—like a briefing back home.
“Two key points.
First: thanks to Mr. Rhine, the residents who went mad from the Sorrow Theater have been treated. They’re stable. No side effects observed so far. The therapy potion formula I sent last time is valid—save it and report it to the Institute as soon as we return.
Second: we’ve made progress on entering the Theater.
Our Chief used divination and something left behind by Paper Crane to identify a potential entry method. The premise is sacrifice: offering a supernatural creature called a Lightning Sea Eel to obtain an invitation.
Anyone holding an invitation may enter the Theater during a specific window.
The method still needs confirmation. We hired a hunting ship last night to capture eels; if all goes well, we’ll have results today.
One more note: the person who cleared the first floor did not appear to proceed further. As of now, the second-floor lights are still dark. That means we may still have a chance to be the first to explore Floor 2.
Lastly: the new Tyrant has reportedly taken the seat. The Sea Market may reopen soon.
Details are uncertain, but the Market appears to be an anonymous, protected black market. If real, it could be invaluable for the Institute’s information-gathering efforts.
Please remain alert to any credible intelligence on the Sea Market. For our world—and for the Institute—someone among us must obtain access.”
Perry capped the pen, slipped it into his System backpack, and fed the densely written pages into a Fire-Seal Orb. Sparks licked the edges. Heat pulsed. The paper vanished into flame.
He leaned back, thinking he might squeeze in an hour of sleep—
A knock slammed into the door.
A woman’s voice, loud and energetic, carried through the hallway. Bonnie—giant-blooded and impossible to ignore.
“Perry! Up! Something happened at the Sorrow Theater!”
…
“What do you mean the second-floor lights are on?”
Perry threw on his coat and hurried downstairs with Bonnie.
“The lookout ran in,” she said. “He swears the second floor lit up on its own.”
Perry felt the universe mock him.
Five minutes earlier, he’d just reported the opposite.
They rushed toward the docks to meet their mentors and the archmages.
…
Warm sunrise spilled over the sea. The Sorrow Theater stood on Lighthouse Isle like a pale monument—beautiful in the way a painting of a funeral can be beautiful.
Today, both floors glowed with warm yellow light.
Archmage Quint did not appreciate the view.
For days, the delegation had watched the Theater. The first floor had lit on August 15—five days ago. Since then, the city had suffered nightly madness, but the Theater itself remained unchanged.
Within the Violet Eye, more and more people had started to believe the unknown first-floor clearer had already left Windrest City.
Perhaps the Theater wounded them.
Perhaps clearing a floor came with a cost.
If that unknown rival had gone, it meant two things:
One, the Violet Eye would face less competition for the Theater’s true treasures.
Two, Quint could finally sleep without imagining a hidden monster in the same city.
The unknown clearer was too strong. Strong enough to enter first, shatter illusions, and even destroy a Theater floor.
If such a person wanted the delegation dead, they’d die.
So Quint had relaxed—just a little.
And now, the second floor lit up.
Meaning the unknown clearer was still here.
And last night, they had cleared Floor 2.
Quint’s stomach sank.
From now on, he said, voice like a blade, “Keep your heads down. Don’t wander. Don’t talk unless necessary.”
Orton hesitated. “But… do we continue exploring? The Chief found a way to obtain invitations.”
Quint looked torn.
They’d crossed oceans to reach Windrest City. The Sorrow Theater was their mission. They couldn’t abandon it.
But competing with a hidden powerhouse was a good way to get everyone killed.
“We explore,” Quint decided. “But we move quietly. If we encounter that person, we speak politely and aim for cooperation—not hostility.”
Firebrandy, the dwarven archmage, nodded. “Quint’s right.”
She addressed the mentors and apprentices like a stern aunt.
“The Endless Sea is in a steam age now. Technology is booming. Yet the Violet Eye hasn’t declined—we’re richer and stronger than ever.”
She tapped her goblet. “Not just because of power. Because we know when to bend. When to ally. When money makes a friend.”
Her gaze slid to Orton.
“Orton. You’ve been in Windrest City for days. Why haven’t you visited Baron Warner yet?”
Orton’s ears reddened.
He’d been obsessed with the Theater. Business partners hadn’t even crossed his mind.
But Firebrandy was right. The Violet Eye survived centuries by partnering with nobles and factory owners at the right times, profiting from the steam era’s tide.
“I’ll send a calling card today,” Orton said quickly. “I’ll visit Baron Warner.”
Perry’s pulse jumped.
Baron Warner was Miss Warner’s father.
That meant Perry might finally be able to speak to Huang Yanyan face-to-face… and coordinate how to pull Rhine into their orbit.
Firebrandy wasn’t done.
“I hear Baron Warner dotes on his only daughter,” she said. “And I also hear Miss Warner has been curious about the supernatural lately.”
She smiled. “Orton, bring something with magic. Charm the daughter, and the father opens his doors.”
Orton immediately turned and shot Perry a look.
Perry’s internal scream echoed like a church bell.
“Yes, Mentor,” he said, because what else could he say?
Some people were born nobles.
Others were born to buy gifts for nobles.
He trudged off, swearing softly in a language no one here understood, and decided the fastest option was the supernatural materials exchange.
…
Meanwhile, in a different room, with a different sunrise—
“You have to see this!”
Thea burst into Rhine’s quarters, vibrating with excitement. She held up a tiny glass vial no bigger than his thumb.
Inside, a single pale-blue mote glowed like a trapped firefly.
Rhine took the vial and rolled it in his fingers. “What is it?”
“A grain of moonlight,” Thea said, proud as if she’d laid an egg. “After we cleared Floor 2, I found it on the desk. I don’t know why, but the moment I saw it, I knew its name.”
Thea’s eyes darted away, as if the memory of last night’s performance still made her want to crawl under a rock.
Rhine nodded slowly. “It looks like an alchemical condensation. People have tried to distill moonlight for centuries.”
But the important part wasn’t alchemy.
It was a reward.
Like the Cinnabar Cup.
Like the ribbons.
Rhine held the vial and activated his SSS-Rank Infinite Fishing—rodless.
A faint tug.
A flash of blue.
A ribbon dropped into his System backpack.
Rhine stared at the result with deep resignation.
“Let me guess,” Thea said suspiciously. “Another ribbon.”
“Another ribbon.”
He handed the vial back. “Funny enough, I got something too.”
He pretended to pull it from his inner pocket, but actually retrieved it from his System inventory—then smoothed the blue ribbon flat and held it up to the light.
Thea’s expression went… odd.
She looked at the ribbon. Then at him.
And after a long, pained pause, she said, “Do you really need to keep… Theater-related souvenirs… that close to your chest?”
Rhine froze.
Realized what she meant.
To Thea, last night’s performance wasn’t a clue puzzle. It was psychological warfare.
He cleared his throat. “It’s important. Read the writing.”
Thea took it, still mildly offended, and held it to the window.
She read aloud:
“‘There are always those among us with… special tastes. In the forest, is there something that will please him?’”
Thea frowned. “I don’t get it.”
She frowned harder. “Actually… I get it too well. Are your human ancestors all like this? Why would anyone—”
She made a face, unable to finish the sentence.
Rhine sighed. “I don’t know. And for the record, I’d like to formally distance myself from whatever that prince was.”
“Honestly,” Rhine added, rubbing his eyes, “after two floors of this place, I’m developing a mental scar. I should brew something calming. Want some?”
Thea stared at him. “Aren’t you already an adult? I thought you’d have a tougher heart than me.”
Rhine blinked. “You’re a hundred years old.”
“Yes,” Thea said as if that settled everything. “But by dragon standards I’m not a child… and I’m not an adult either. I’m… in between.”
She brightened abruptly. “You saw my true form, right? I’m still a hatchling.”
Rhine’s brain did a hard reset.
Hatchling. Not adult.
He put his head in his hands.
He didn’t say the thought out loud—because he wanted to live—but the universe had once again found a way to humiliate him.
After a long breath, he sat up straight and forced the conversation onto safer ground.
“Okay,” he said, brisk. “Best treatment for trauma: get out of the room. Let’s go to the supernatural materials exchange, buy ingredients, and I’ll brew calming drafts for both of us.”
Thea considered, then nodded. “That… sounds good.”
Rhine took the ribbon back, eyes narrowing.
The line mentioned a forest.
Something that would “please him.”
Another clue.
Another fragment.
And somewhere in the distance, the Sorrow Theater’s lights burned on—quietly, patiently—as if it had all the time in the world.