Back once again before the theater.

Cecile stood on the rooftop, gazing silently at it.

Winnie, who had been standing in the wind for a while, finally couldn’t hold back. “Hey, what exactly are you staring at down there? Is there anything worth seeing? It’s just a run-down theater.”

“Waiting for someone,” Cecile replied simply.

“Waiting? For who?” Winnie had watched for ages but seen no one arrive.

She turned to Cecile again, but got no further answer.

Sulkily, she crouched back down.

Together with Helena, she boredly poked at the cat An had projected.

Even she had to admit it was unimaginably soft.

Poke. Poke. Poke again.

Incredibly fun.

Until a flurry of footsteps broke the silence.

Winnie looked up to see a group wielding axes and swords charging fiercely into the theater.

Beside her, Cecile wore that same wicked smile from when she’d schemed against Winnie before.

“The fish has taken the bait. Winnie, get ready to cast the net.”

“How?” Winnie perked up instantly, standing to face Cecile.

She’d been holding back too long; if she didn’t unleash a forbidden spell to vent her frustration, she’d burst.

“Simple.” Cecile pointed at the theater. “Fireball.”

......

The clown had returned to the theater.

Along with the troupe he served.

The troupe leader—an avatar of the Shadowborn—clapped his hands in satisfaction at the brutal slaughter in the corridor.

His troupe members joined in, applauding the beautiful scene.

But praising art didn’t mean he’d forgotten his purpose.

Guided by the clown, he stepped through blood puddles into the room.

Immediately, he let out a fanatical cheer, just like the clown’s.

Yes, even he was captivated by this art.

After this, he’d seal the theater, cast an eternal preservation spell, and present it as a precious gallery to the Shadowborn Clan.

This was his theater—the only place where blood and corpses could become such beautiful art.

A casual glance at the slash marks told him the weapon was an incredibly sharp Great Scythe, wielded with speed and strength.

One strike had split a victim in half.

And that tiger-man... bloodshot eyes and a twisted grimace showed the horror he’d seen before death.

He was the last to die.

His position was too clean, too close to the stage; the only entrance was behind him.

But the room’s victims were more perfect artworks than those in the corridor.

Different killers. Different methods.

The troupe leader scanned for clues.

Just then, noise and footsteps erupted outside.

He frowned, storming out angrily.

He hated being disturbed while analyzing art.

Stepping into the corridor, he saw intruders about to enter. Murderous intent poured from him.

A blood-red longsword materialized in his hand.

“Joyful Ball. This isn’t a place you tread lightly—”

“An avatar of the Shadowborn? Such a small theater involving one is rare indeed!”

A minotaur wielding twin axes stepped forward from the Joyful Ball side.

Seeing the corridor’s horror, he wisely stayed out.

The Shadowborn Clan obsessed over slaughter: how to kill elegantly, and how to make it beautiful after.

Defile their art, and these lunatics would fight to the death—no reconciliation.

Among the five factions, Joyful Ball and Shadowborn Clan clashed often.

Both knew each other well.

So they’d kept peace, leaving each other alone.

In the Shadowborn Clan, an avatar troupe leader was core.

The troupe’s heart was its leader.

“This Shadowborn leader, you must explain this scene,” the minotaur said.

He didn’t care about the tiger-man’s death—a fawning fool.

But Young Master An needed a decent explanation. The Joyful Ball needed a reasonable one.

In Yahar City, the dead mattered less than why they died.

“Explanation? Hahaha! I need none!” The troupe leader laughed maniacally. “Minotaur, you lack the rank to speak with me—”

“Then I’ll show you why Young Master An sent me.” The minotaur raised his axes.

The troupe leader leveled his sword.

Both sides tensed.

At that moment, both snapped their heads toward the window.

The bright night turned dark red.

Dazzling flames flooded through, dyeing the corridor like sunset.

Temperature spiked.

“Run!” they roared together.

......

A scorching fireball annihilated the theater instantly, reducing everyone inside to ash.

The shockwave carried flames across the street, igniting buildings—including a towering one.

Cecile watched, smiling smugly.

This would force Joyful Ball and Shadowborn Clan into two choices: cease fire or keep fighting.

She didn’t care which.

The fire would drag in another faction: Union Works Society.

Those tall burned buildings were theirs—they leased, never sold. That blazing tower was their property.

The fire started at the Shadowborn theater, tied to Joyful Ball before ignition.

But magic caused it. In Yahar City, magic meant Arcane Assembly.

Pinpointing blame would drag in Covenant Keepers—the intermediaries for contracts.

All five factions of Yahar City would sink together.

They couldn’t explain why.

Before they sorted interests, Cecile would create more chaos.

Even Shadowborn and Joyful Ball couldn’t untangle this; others had no chance.

No one would know what truly happened tonight.

Chaos! Let this fire spread.

Let tonight’s play build to its climax!

Distant explosions boomed. Yahar City’s alarms blared.

Cecile looked up. A colossal shadow descended from the horizon—a stone giant, hundreds of meters tall, beyond human comprehension.

Beneath it, smaller stone giants—just taller than Yahar’s walls—marched toward the city.

Cecile had brought power enough to shake all five factions. For Hilris.

Whether he could handle it was his problem.