There was almost certainly an official player inside the Violet Eye Delegation.
Rhine walked slowly through Windrest Keep’s garden, letting the last of the sunset wash over stone and roses.
He’d been thinking about Player 0097.
Back in an earlier Cycle, after Paper Crane fell to corruption, Player 0097 had warned everyone on Storm Island to be careful. Not only that—he’d specifically said Violet Eye would capture Paper Crane, and there was no need for panic.
Later, when Violet Eye’s ship was delayed by a storm, Player 0097 had somehow known that too.
That kind of information didn’t come from guesswork.
It came from proximity.
So if a Violet Eye apprentice was tailing Rhine now…
It could be a coincidence.
Or it could be confirmation.
Rhine ran through the official team’s logic in his head.
If you were trying to strengthen your people in a hostile world, what did you need?
Relics. Materials. Secrets. And a network to acquire all of it without burning your identity.
Undercover work.
Agents embedded in factions.
Violet Eye had resources and access. It was the perfect hiding place.
Rhine decided to test the man.
If the apprentice only asked about trolls and languages, Rhine would drop the suspicion.
If he angled for anything else—players, relics, the Sorrow Theater, Faranil…
The mask mattered.
Rhine stopped at a fountain and rolled up his sleeves.
Cold water ran over his hands. The gesture looked casual, harmless.
In truth, he was waiting.
Footsteps approached.
The apprentice arrived at Rhine’s side and offered a respectful bow.
“I’m Perry,” he said, smiling easily. “Mentor Orton’s apprentice. I had a few questions about trolls, if you don’t mind.”
Rhine pretended to consider, then sat with him on a bench.
They talked.
At first it was simple: troll history, linguistic drift, what kinds of rituals trolls preferred, what not to say around them if you valued your teeth.
Perry played the conversation like a trained professional.
He asked questions that let Rhine speak.
He reacted with just the right amount of surprise.
He praised Rhine at the exact moments that made a person want to keep talking.
He pivoted smoothly from “troll scripts” to “your adventures,” then let Rhine’s “legend” sit on the table like bait.
Rhine didn’t mind. Friendship—real or staged—was still useful.
But the longer Perry spoke, the more familiar the cadence felt.
Not casual charm.
Conditioned technique.
Half an hour passed like that. Then Rhine nudged the topic toward something sharper.
“I heard a strange story recently,” Rhine said, as if it were nothing.
Perry leaned in, interested.
“Someone in Windrest City was normal,” Rhine continued. “Then one day he started acting… wrong. Saying things his family couldn’t understand. Fixated on buying a Relic. He was ready to sell everything he owned for it.”
Perry lifted his brows. “A curse, maybe? Something from the sea?”
“Could be,” Rhine said.
He let the pause hang.
“Then the man vanished,” Rhine added. “A few days later. Just… gone. No one could find him.”
Perry’s face showed the right kind of concern. His voice stayed neutral.
“Kidnapped by a cult?” he suggested. “Some secret society?”
Rhine watched him closely.
Too calm.
Too controlled.
Either Perry didn’t care… or Perry cared enough to hide it.
Rhine ended the story like a rumor: unfinished, unsolved.
Perry checked his pocket watch.
He sighed with practiced embarrassment. “Sorry. I’m still adjusting to the local water. I—uh—need the restroom.”
Diarrhea again.
Rhine nodded as if it were normal.
The moment Perry walked away, Rhine opened the System chat channel and left it hovering at the edge of his vision.
If Perry was official, the confirmation would come on its own.
It did.
A tall woman in a violet robe approached—Bonnie, giant blood in her frame, shadow falling over the bench.
“Rhine,” she said politely, “have you seen Perry? He’s Orton’s apprentice. Same robe as mine.”
Rhine nodded. “We were talking. He said his stomach’s acting up. He headed to the toilets.”
Bonnie’s expression turned grim. “Still? Then he needs medicine.”
She marched off muttering, “Still diarrhea… time for tonic.”
Rhine watched her go, then waited.
*
Elsewhere in Windrest City, a gray ceramic jar on Huang Yanyan’s vanity suddenly spat a tongue of flame.
A letter condensed out of sparks and dropped onto the tabletop with a soft slap.
Huang Yanyan sealed the jar, opened the letter, and her eyes widened.
Storm Island’s Governor had discovered players.
He had captured at least one.
That was too close. Too real.
Huang Yanyan didn’t hesitate. She opened the chat channel and posted a warning.
[CHAT]
Player 0097: “Heads up. We have intel that Storm Island’s Governor has likely identified the existence of players, and has successfully detained at least one before. If you’re on Storm Island—especially in Windrest City—be extremely careful. Watch what you say. Watch what you do.”
The channel erupted.
Rhine, sitting in the quiet garden with the System chat open, smiled faintly.
Perry was official.
*
Midnight came with salt wind and black water.
Two small boats cut across the dark sea toward Lighthouse Island. Onboard, Violet Eye’s team sat tense and silent, oars dipping in steady rhythm.
Within ten minutes they landed.
Orton led the group up the shore toward the Sorrow Theater’s glowing first floor.
The music was still cheerful. The light still warm.
Primo—the bald Weavecaster, Tier 3, Sixth Seat—asked in a rough whisper, “Rhine said the doors would open tonight. Was he right?”
Orton stared at the entrance. “We’re about to find out.”
He ordered the apprentices to stay outside.
Orton and five other mentors stepped to the theater’s main doors.
Orton placed a hand on the heavy slab and pushed.
This time, the miracle happened.
The door opened as if it had never been sealed at all.
Relief surged through the Weavecasters. Praise spilled from their mouths.
Orton gave final instructions to the apprentices—then led the six mentors inside.
As the last of them crossed the threshold, the theater doors swung shut behind them without a sound.
*
Later that morning, Qi Heng wrote another report.
“Information cutoff: August 17th, 12:00 PM,” he began.
He wrote what none of them could explain.
The mentors entered at midnight.
They didn’t return.
At four in the morning, apprentices found all six of them in the sea below the island—alive, uninjured, and completely broken.
They insisted they had been killed.
They clutched their bodies as if protecting skin that wasn’t wounded.
They muttered nonsense in a voice that sounded like prayer and panic mixed together.
Half the group wrapped themselves in blankets like armor.
The other half hired girls from the pleasure district—not for pleasure, Qi Heng suspected, but to prove something to themselves.
His conclusion was blunt:
The Sorrow Theater didn’t take lives.
It took minds.
Even Tier 3 and Tier 4 Weavecasters couldn’t walk away clean.
And somewhere in Windrest City, an unknown presence had cleared the first floor in one hour.
Qi Heng capped his pen, uneasy.
He made a decision.
Rhine had translated the records. Maybe Rhine could translate what the theater had done to the mentors.
Qi Heng left to seek him out.
*
In Rhine’s room, summer noon light poured across the desk.
The Cinnabar Cup sat beside his inkwell, small and harmless-looking—stage prop reward from the theater’s first act.
Rhine held a pink lace ribbon between his fingers.
It was what he’d fished up from the cup.
In shadow, it was just a ribbon.
In sunlight, a line of text surfaced on the fabric like ink bleeding through.
Rhine narrowed his eyes and read it.
“If you like corpses, you should be interested in my stepdaughter.”