In the gloom, the stage, illuminated by only two spotlights, was the most conspicuous place. By contrast, when Jenkins stood and raised his hand, only those nearest to him in the pitch-black theater could notice the movent.
As he rose, his gaze shifted to the central box on the second floor—the largest one. Miss Bevanna, Miss Broniaons, and three other demigods from the Orthodox Church were inside. They were all there to celebrate the victory over the Skull Sword and to express their gratitude to Jenkins.
"I'm here. Antac, I'm here!"
The threat of the steam bombs strapped to Antac had reduced the theater to a tense silence, broken only by intermittent sobs. But Jenkins's voice cut through the despair, sharp and clear. Heads imdiately turned toward the sound, but in the oppressive darkness, no one could see who had spoken.
"I'm here! Don't you dare harm these innocent people. You're a coward! If you want a duel, you don't have to resort to this. I'm right here!"
Jenkins declared again, his voice ringing out as he moved from his seat toward the stage. Briny's hand shot out, clutching the hem of his coat in a death grip. He was forced to shrug out of it, leaving in just his shirt.
Hathaway remained silent. She, too, had wanted to grab his arm, but she felt the unyielding resolve in his posture. The cat, for its part, had intended to follow, but Jenkins firmly left it on the seat.
The sound of his footsteps ascending to the stage sent a ripple of murmurs through the audience. If the lights had co up then, they would have revealed a tableau of a thousand different expressions—a true drama of human life. But as it was, only Jenkins, with his monocle, could see it all. He was the one on the stage, yet he felt as if the crowd below were the true perforrs, and he, rely an observer.
When Duke Antac had blasted his way through the second-floor balcony down to the stage, he had destroyed nearly all the overhead lights. Only two remained.
The duke now stood bathed in the light of one, a sword in one hand, the other pulling back his coat; Jenkins took a deep breath, stepped into the beam of the other, and bent to retrieve the simple sword that had been left there.
"Williams. It's been a while. Listen to . I am a man of my word. Regardless of this duel's outco, I will not detonate these bombs. But tonight, one of us will die in this duel of honor. I trust you are prepared."
The duke's voice bood with a feigned righteousness, a clear attempt to make the audience question the truth of recent events.
"Of course. A duel of honor. You coward. If you had any shred of a nobleman's honor left, you wouldn't have threatened with all these lives!"
Jenkins retorted, giving the sword in his right hand a few test swings to feel its weight and balance. When it ca to feigning righteousness and innocence, the young duke was no match for the young writer.
Antac seed to realize this too. Unwilling to waste any more words, he stated bluntly:
"The rules are simple. Neither of us may leave the stage. This duel ends only when one of us is dead."
The sword in his hand shimred with a red spiritual aura, though Jenkins couldn't discern what ritual had empowered it. He knew, however, that the mont their blades t, his own would surely shatter.
"Well, I've certainly broken my fair share of swords lately..."
Shaking his head to clear the stray thought, Jenkins refocused. Though both n were young, Jenkins—more confident, more handso, and dressed simply in his shirtsleeves—seed to shine brighter.
"Antac, you must know you can't escape tonight, regardless of the outco. I thought you'd have fled Nolan by now. Are you insane, choosing to do this?"
The harsh glare of the spotlights poured down from above, making the steel of their swords gleam. It was hot under the lights; even in just his shirtsleeves, Jenkins could feel the heat.
"Williams, you will never understand. I am the protagonist of this stage! The stars tonight shine for !"
Antac's voice was steady and powerful, betraying no panic. He swept his gaze over the audience once more, and the strange look in his eyes sent another wave of unease through the crowd.
The audience had adjusted to the situation; many were now genuinely anticipating the duel's outco. A wanted criminal, a nobleman, a fight for a beautiful maiden, a young writer, and one favored by the gods (as the common folk saw Jenkins)—it was all like a scene from a play.
"And you're so certain you'll be the winner?"
Jenkins began to circle counter-clockwise, sword in hand. Antac mirrored his movent, stepping out of the spotlight's glare. They maintained a perfect opposition, circling each other. Though the rest of the stage was dark, the ambient glow from the two beams allowed the audience to faintly make out their silhouettes.
"Yes. The winner will be . Because I am the protagonist. Of that, there is no doubt."
They continued to circle, swords held ready, eyes locked as they searched for an opening. Every few monts, their dance would carry them back into the light. Jenkins had no idea if the duke had ever formally studied swordsmanship, but he himself certainly hadn't.
"The protagonist? I don't think I've ever heard soone publicly declare themselves the protagonist... Have you no sha?"
Jenkins could have sworn he heard a few stifled chuckles from the audience.
"Sha? No, Williams. We may both stand upon this stage, but there is a chasm between us. I am of noble birth, the center of everything since the day I was born. If the world is a stage, then I am its most important actor. Yes, just like now. I am the protagonist."
As if by unspoken agreent, they both stopped in the brilliant pools of light and raised their swords.
"The most important person on the stage..."
Jenkins felt a power welling within him, waiting for him to speak the answer. In the month or so since the vampire incident, he had experienced so much, a constant stream of dramatic twists of fate.
So events had felt like the deliberate arrangents of a play, but every choice had been his own. He knew what he wanted, and he knew what he had co to understand.
Duke Antac's ability was glowing; he had arranged everything. His [Stage Arcane Lock] was active, guaranteeing his final victory.
"The most important person on the stage... is the audience!"
Swords raised, they charged out of the light simultaneously, eting in the deepest darkness at the center of the stage. Destiny collided. A wave of gasps and shouts erupted from the audience. But it was over in a single, sharp clang of steel.
They stumbled back into the light, each in the other's forr spot. Jenkins staggered to a halt, then dropped to one knee.
The surrounding darkness of the theater only made the two spotlights seem brighter. The two n in the light were the focus of every eye, but one was fated to beco nothing more than a stepping stone for the other.
"Sothing's wrong... Who are you?"
Antac demanded. His black greatcoat stood in stark contrast to Jenkins's white shirt.
"I am Jenkins Williams."
As Jenkins rose from his kneeling position, the first drop of blood fell from the duke's chest, staining the stage's wooden floor.
The young writer turned, holding the two halves of his broken sword.
The duke forced himself to turn, a pool of blood already blackening the floorboards beneath his feet.
"How amusing. This isn't how I planned it."
As he spoke, the hand he had kept inside his coat, ready to detonate the steam bombs, instead pulled a pistol from his pocket. He leveled the dark muzzle at Jenkins, the polished black steel glinting in the stage light.
"Oh my god!"
Shrieks and gasps rippled through the audience. To pull out a pistol in a formal duel—Antac had clearly abandoned all pretense of honor.
"Yes," Jenkins agreed, nodding slowly. "This is interesting indeed."
He voluntarily tossed aside the broken halves of his sword. They clattered loudly on the wooden planks.
"Believe , Antac, I am on the side of justice. The gods always protect the upright and kind-hearted. I'll make you a bet, Williams—your gun is empty."
He said this to provide an explanation for what was about to happen. Of course, he expected the Church would issue its own statent later to help conceal his true nature.
Loudly reciting a proverb of the Sage, the young writer paid no mind to the gun aid at him. Instead, he raised a hand to trace the sacred emblem over his chest and said in a clear voice:
"Praise the Sage. May Your brilliance illuminate the path before ."
BANG—
The duke pulled the trigger. For an instant, a sound loud enough to burst eardrums filled the theater.
In that single, frozen mont—Antac's face a mask of savagery, Jenkins with his eyes closed in prayer, the worried young won in the audience, the astonished gentlen and ladies, and the wide-eyed cat watching the drama unfold—everything seed eternal.
The pistol backfired, the explosion knocking its owner to the ground. The report of the gun echoed through every corner of the theater, ringing in every ear.
As the echo of the shot died, the duke collapsed backward, landing flat on his back. In the ensuing silence, the heavy thud of his body hitting the stage was shockingly loud.
Before Jenkins's eyes, a vision blood. His purple [The Observer] ability rged with the fading remnants of the [Stage] Arcane Lock. Six points of light flared into existence, forming a new Soul Emblem. It settled into the core of his being, joining his other abilities—[Life Source], [The Unknown Road Ahead], [Twin Demons], [Undying Man], and [Real Illusion]—to beco a new foundation for his very soul.
On the second floor, Miss Bevanna struck down the demigod from the Tree House.
On the stage, under two lonely spotlights, one man stood while another lay fallen.
And from the audience below, thunderous applause erupted.
Reviews
All reviews (0)