Chapter 141: Tears of Entertainment
It happened in an instant.
One of those hideous instants where the world rips itself open like a poorly sewn seam, where time doesn’t stop but rather staggers forward like a drunkard, wobbling, letting you see far too much in the space of a heartbeat.
Lysaria’s eyes found mine across the glittering expanse of the colosseum, across the crimson banners and perfumed balconies, across the laughter of the nobles who thought themselves gods.
His eyes—oh saints, those eyes—were no longer the proud, mocking jewels I remembered, nor the sly, venomous flames that had once coaxed me into ruin with nothing but a smile. No, they were wide, desperate, liquid with recognition.
And then they burst.
Not in some metaphorical poetic way—no, I mean literally burst into tears, hot rivulets cutting down his bruised cheeks as though his own body had finally revolted against silence.
His mouth opened wide, and the sound that tore free was not a word, not even a cry that belonged to any language I knew, but something primal, guttural, ripped straight from the cords of suffering itself.
The nobles leaned forward in delight, fanning themselves, marveling at the way agony could apparently be choreographed as entertainment. I heard nothing but the ragged tearing of his throat, the kind of sound that makes your ribs ache in sympathy.
I don’t remember moving. One moment I was standing there, hands trembling on the spear, the sand beneath me still unfamiliar. The next I was screaming, not even with strategy or wit, just raw, blind fury.
"Let him go! Damn you all, let Lysaria go!"
I demanded, I pleaded, I spat curses with all the dignity of a fallen noble haggling with a rat. My knees wanted to buckle, my ribs flared, my throat burned, and still I shouted until my voice cracked into a strangled rasp.
The Auctioneer only smiled. That smug, ring-bedazzled bastard tilted his head, his perfect hair shimmering in the morning sun, his robes spilling smoke like some grotesque prophet. He let me wail. He let the nobles’ curiosity sharpen into amusement. Then, with all the smug timing of a man who knew how to puncture a heart, he raised his jeweled hand and gave me a mock bow.
"Oh, my dear lady," he cooed into the amplified magic that carried his voice across the colosseum, "I hadn’t realized you were auditioning for the role of tragic lover. Do carry on. The crowd adores a sob story!"
The nobles erupted in laughter. Laughter. Oh, how they tittered, their jeweled fingers trembling, their perfumes mixing in clouds of cruelty. One woman nearly dropped her fan from delight, dabbing her eyes with lace as though I had just delivered the greatest farce she’d ever witnessed.
My blood boiled so hot I thought my veins might combust.
Lysaria shrieked again, writhing, the sound like nails dragging across the hollow inside of my chest. And then, with a theatrical flick of his wrist, the Auctioneer gestured.
The curtain of smoke billowed, swallowing Lysaria whole, pulling him back into the gilded balcony chamber as though he were nothing but another stage prop to be whisked out of sight until the finale. My throat tore itself in protest, but the words died uselessly against the laughter.
He was gone.
And then the Auctioneer laughed with them. He spun once in his cloud of smoke, flourished his cloak with such theatrical pomp I nearly vomited, and raised his arms high.
"Contestants, my darlings, my butchers-in-training! Despair not. You will have time enough to sob, scheme, and sharpen your little knives. For now, the Cathedral offers you its... hospitality."
He gestured grandly toward the arena’s edges. With a grinding groan, massive iron doors began to open on either side of the pit, revealing torchlit passages that smelled faintly of mold and iron. Our new homes. Our cages.
"Within those halls," the Auctioneer purred, "you’ll find quarters most suited for champions such as yourselves. Take this time, breathe this breath, and remember... in but a few hours, the true spectacle begins!"
The nobles roared approval again, clapping, cheering, hurling petals like knives of silk. I didn’t hear them. I didn’t see them. My knees buckled. My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped my spear. My vision blurred until the colosseum became a whirl of gold and black, a storm of color crashing around me.
And I fell.
Right there in the sand, I fell, collapsing to my knees like a supplicant before some unholy altar. My palms dug into the grains, hot and coarse, and I pressed my forehead against them because I couldn’t bear to lift my eyes. Not here. Not after that.
The others began to move—Rodrick limping toward one of the doors, Dunny and Nara clinging close, even the Lady striding like a queen inspecting her slaughterhouse. Salem lingered. I felt his shadow fall over me, and then a weight on my shoulder. His hand, warm and steady, infuriatingly steady.
"We’ll get him back," Salem murmured, and damn him, he didn’t even sneer. Not once. His voice was calm, simple, cutting through the sand and laughter. "But not by breaking now."
I just swallowed hard, the grains sticking to my lips. Salem was right. I wouldn’t fold now, not after all that has happened, not after my proclamation back at the Cathedral.
"I’ll get you back, Lysaria. Just you wait. And after I do..."
I stopped. My voice trembled. My mind supplied words—oh, saints, it supplied a thousand words, ranging from romantic drivel to violent oaths—but none of them made it to my tongue. Instead I just exhaled, my chest caving in, and nodded once, as if to seal the promise with my bones.
Salem hauled me to my feet, his grip firmer than it had any right to be.
We walked. My legs shook, but I walked, following the others toward the yawning tunnels. The light of the arena dimmed behind us, the roar of nobles muffled into a dull hum. Ahead stretched torchlit stone, carved archways, narrow halls. The smell of damp brick.
We split. Each of us funneled into different passageways, our shadows scattering across the underbelly of the colosseum. I watched Salem’s back vanish around a bend, watched Rodrick limp into another hall, watched the Lady’s umbrella dip gracefully as she slipped into the dark.
And then I was alone.
No, not alone. A figure waited for me, cloaked, silent. He didn’t speak until I stood before him, the torchlight painting his jaw in flickers of gold.
"Contestant," he intoned, voice smooth as marble, "this way."
I followed without protest. What was the point? Complaining felt like screaming into the ocean—cathartic, perhaps, but unlikely to alter the tide. My spear tapped against the stones as we walked, echoing faintly. The halls twisted, descended, rose again. Until finally, at last, we reached it.
My quarters.
I don’t know what I expected—perhaps a cell with straw, perhaps a velvet lounge with silks dripping from the walls. What I received was... both. A room that reeked of contradiction.
The stones were old and damp, unmistakably the marking of what used to be a prison. Iron rings still jutted from the walls where chains had once clinked, the mortar cracked with centuries of neglect.
And yet, someone had clearly attempted to disguise it. A thick rug sprawled across the floor, a gilded chair sagged in the corner, and a bed—oh saints, a bed—sat proudly against the wall, its sheets crimson and far too clean for comfort.
The cloaked escort spread his hands as if revealing a feast. "You are free to rest, to eat, to mingle with the others in the adjoining halls. However..." His tone dipped lower, warning. "Violence will not be tolerated within these quarters. Any attempt will result in immediate disqualification. Do you understand?"
I nodded once. "Who will I face first?"
His hood tilted. "All matches are kept secret until announced. You will learn with the rest."
And that was that. No further explanations, no kindness, not even a fake smile. He bowed once, stiff and mechanical, and left, the door creaking shut behind him.
I stood in silence. The rug smelled faintly of mildew beneath its perfume. My spear weighed down my hand until I finally leaned it against the wall. Then, with all the grace of a felled ox, I flopped onto the bed.
The ceiling stared back at me. Or perhaps I stared at it. Either way, we had an intimate conversation in silence for a long while.
And then, as always, my mind betrayed me.
The stopwatch. Vincent’s parting words echoed sharp as broken glass: every use cut away a slice of my lifespan. Saints, how many slices had I carved away already? How many breaths had I mortgaged just for the petty privilege of not dying at my most inconvenient moments? My ribs ached. My heart ticked. I rubbed my temples, trying to convince myself that it wasn’t that big of a deal, that it was a sacrifice I was willing to make in this situation.
And then there was the pen.
I pulled it from my cloak, the weight familiar, the nib gleaming faintly in the torchlight. I whispered to it, as though it were alive—because at this point, who was I kidding? Of course it was alive. Or at least something close.
"You’ve ruined me, you know," I muttered, twirling it between my fingers. "You’ve carved me into something I hardly recognize."
This ridiculous relic had reshaped my life in ways I still couldn’t fully comprehend; every triumph, every horror, every fragile victory seemed to funnel back into the gleam of its nib.
And now, standing in its second stage of progression, I understood what that meant: not just more power, not just sharper edges and deeper cuts, but backlash, the inevitable curse that trailed behind every blessing, just like the stopwatch.
I had finally, begrudgingly, pieced together the truth. It was Lust. Not the convenient sort one might wink about in taverns, but something slower, darker, more insidious. A tide building in my chest, trickling into my veins, coiling itself around my thoughts like smoke refusing to clear.
It was growing, not in a sudden rush but with the steady persistence of rot, pulsing faintly at the edges of my soul whenever it had the chance.
I cursed myself for ever touching it, cursed ’The Maker’ for binding me to it, cursed the pen itself most of all, as though it might feel the sting of my resentment and recoil.
And then I heard it. A voice—soft, precise, far too clear to be mistaken for thought. It slid into my head like a knife into butter, uninvited and calm.
Your skill, Velvet Aura, has been upgraded.
The words froze me where I sat. My heart stopped for a beat, then lurched back to life with enough force to shake my ribs. The voice continued, clinical and detached.
Your skill’s radius has expanded to thirty meters, enveloping all within range. Its intensity has deepened—threads of compulsion now run stronger, the atmosphere denser, saturating every breath and thought. Those caught within its reach will find their guard softened, their emotions heightened, their impulses harder to deny.
For a long moment, I just stared. And then I laughed. A jagged, bitter sound that cracked against the stone walls. "Oh, marvelous timing," I hissed at the pen. "You tell me this now? Not when I’m bleeding out under monsters stitched together by nightmares, not when I’m gasping for breath in front of king-class horrors—but here, in a bed, staring at damp stone? Brilliant. Inspired. Truly considerate."
And then, the impossible.
The voice replied.
"Yes," it said, with the inflection of a smirk.
I bolted upright in bed so violently I nearly pitched myself onto the floor. My skin prickled, my stomach twisted, and my pen trembled in my grip.
My blood went cold. I bolted upright, sheets tangling around me, my chest hammering against my ribs. "W-What? What was that just now?" Silence. I swallowed hard, calling out again, my voice cracking. "Say something! Saints damn you, speak again!"
There was nothing. Just silence, as if it had never spoken at all.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, forcing myself to breathe, telling myself I was hallucinating, that exhaustion and despair had finally dragged me into madness. Perfectly normal. Fashionable, even.
And then came the knocking. Sharp, deliberate, echoing faintly through the door. I groaned, hauling myself upright on legs that didn’t want to obey, and yanked it open.
Rodrick stood there, his expression grave, the shadows clinging to his jaw. He didn’t waste a word.
"Walk with me."