The music ended, and the stage play named "Massacre" drew to a close.

The red curtain slowly descended.

As the crimson mist faded, applause erupted from the audience.

Winnie clapped while watching Cecile head for the exit. "You should've said you'd play like this! One Fireball spell from me, and they'd all be jerky."

"The current script hasn't reached the point where the Arcane Assembly needs to step in," Cecile chuckled lightly. "Be patient, Winnie. When it's your turn, you'll kill to your heart's content."

"Is that so? I'm looking forward to it!" A blazing tongue of fire shot from Winnie's casually waving hand.

"Mommy!" Helena hopped from the corpse pile to Cecile's side, gazing up expectantly. "Did Helena do well?"

"Very good. This is exactly how I envisioned their deaths." Cecile ruffled Helena's hair as a reward.

Helena lifted her head slightly, closing her eyes contentedly.

Among the five gangs, the Joyful Ball and Shadowborn Clan clashed most easily.

The Joyful Ball controlled all inns, hotels, and night venues. To sustain this massive operation, they recruited anyone who passed initiation trials.

The Shadowborn Clan, however, dominated theaters and all artistic performances. Their creed was art—everything existed for it, including slaughter.

Only cold-blooded, violent killers joined them; "artist" was just a pretext.

This aligned perfectly with Helena.

Naturally, eliminating the Joyful Ball's greedy lackeys required her.

Provoking conflict between these factions was the best opening act for this grand spectacle.

When the tiger-man mentioned Young Master An earlier, Cecile guessed his orders. He had to die here.

This theater wasn't ordinary Shadowborn Clan property. It housed a Harlequin capable of killing that tiger-man—and everyone else.

If An's confidant died here, the Clan owed An an explanation.

But between rival gangs, clarifying anything was hard.

Given An's temper, he wouldn't ask why.

He'd storm the Shadowborn Clan's grand theater blindly. Losing face mattered more to a young master than a dead confidant.

"So? Leaving them like this? No disguise?" Winnie eyed the blood soaking half the floor and the corpses.

"Art needs no embellishment. Pure slaughter is the Shadowborn Clan's art."

Cecile casually opened a teleportation vortex.

"Bang!" The door burst open.

The attendant who'd blocked Cecile earlier froze at the bloodbath.

She turned dazedly toward the three inside—all grinning eerily at her.

"You... you—"

"Slam!" The door behind her shut.

The attendant watched the woman stride up the blood-stained steps.

She screamed, spun to open the door.

It was locked tight. She turned back—the woman was halfway across.

Fear drove her to ram the door.

Once. Twice... three times!

On the seventh hit, the lock snapped faintly.

She reached eagerly for the handle.

A hand pressed down on her head—soft, slender, yet powerful.

"Splat!" It burst like a watermelon.

The headless body slumped against the door.

Cecile turned; blood vanished from her clothes.

"Three magic coins for your life—I still feel cheated."

That slimy feeling of being scrutinized gave her the creeps.

Since he delivered himself, she took the payment.

She walked down the steps, re-entered the vortex, and appeared at the theater's entrance.

...

Long after, the room door finally opened.

The man in white paled at the scene.

Even he'd never killed so many—so brutally—and they were An's men.

"Boss..."

Several underlings rushed out vomiting.

"Damn it! Someone's framing us!" His shout drew the lurking Harlequin.

From ceiling shadows, a figure in black, wearing a raven-beak mask, emerged.

"Why the commotion?"

"Harlequin Lord!" The man in white blanched further.

He bowed low. "An's men were killed here—using our methods."

The Harlequin scanned the room.

He'd been here the whole time yet sensed nothing. The killer was careful... or Shadowborn Clan style... this was...

Taking in the crimson expanse, he dropped down, stepping carefully between blood pools and corpses.

At the center, he cried joyfully: "Splendid! Art! The pure art of slaughter! Splendid!"

A cold sweat dripped down the man's brow. "Wh-what are you saying?"

*Crazy bastard. Shadowborn Clan Harlequins really are madmen.*

Thankfully, he hadn't gone deeper inside.

"Art! Slaughter and violence! Don't you agree?" The Harlequin turned to him.

The man nodded frantically. "Art! Art!"

"Hmph! Hollow cheers." The Harlequin sneered.

He flipped onto the ceiling, walking toward the exit. "But you're right. The Clan's honor must not be trampled. While I'm gone, guard this theater. No one defiles this art."

"Yes! Absolutely no one will enter, Harlequin Lord!"

The man didn't understand the Harlequin's mind. But he'd never enter again—not even himself.

Such a bloody room—he'd never see its like twice.

The Harlequin faded into shadows.

As the killing intent vanished, the man sighed in relief.

With trembling hands, he lit a cigarette, puffing until calm.

"Boss, inside—"

"Don't bother. Don't ask. Not our concern." He squatted in the corridor, speaking earnestly.

"Boss... Boss!"

"Huh? What now? Can't even finish a cigarette—"

"No! Boss, look!" An underling pointed down the hall.

The man turned.

Two pairs of crimson eyes glowed from the darkness.

In a blink, corridor lights died one by one.

Darkness swallowed the hall.

Blood splattered wildly; screams rose anew like a symphony.

Slowly, the theater fell silent.

No one ever walked out again.