When the plot-skips players into the game world Chapter 916: 286 We Are All Volunteers

Chapter 916: Chapter 286 We Are All Volunteers

Leipzig, White Dove Opera House.

The prelude played by the orchestral ensemble cos to an end, as the audience takes their seats.

“Ladies and gentlen! Our performance today is about to begin!”

Before the curtain rises, a man with the physique of a ager stature, arms spread towards the slanted sky above the stage, his voice clear and resonant like that of a radio host, stands in the middle with a White Dove mask covering his face.

As if imrsed in wholehearted praise of The Sun, or embracing the night sky cast above the open theatre.

Under the grand lights of Leipzig, the night sky is no longer purely black but rather a chaotic hue nestled between deep blue and deep purple.

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The audience below is exceptionally polite—not bursting into cheers but showing their enthusiasm with an enduring round of applause.

Such applause continued ceaselessly. Even within the private boxes above, faint sounds could still be made out.

The decorative pattern of the White Dove Opera House is akin to an oddly shaped, yet pointer-less watch.

The main stage below is a glowing crescent moon, while the audience basks in the pitch-black space it faces.

On the second floor, there are twelve large inward-bulging rooms, with the rooms at twelve, three, six, and nine o’clock being particularly imnse. In addition, there are forty-eight smaller spherical rooms.

If anyone could look down from above, they would see the audience scattered like shattered diamonds upon the face of a watch; the sixty private boxes making up the rest.

At this mont, Honey Badger stays within one of these private boxes.

The room she occupies is the luxurious box facing six o’clock. As the “crescent moon” of the main stage spans from ten to four o’clock, this is arguably one of the best viewing positions.

The plush red carpet, captivating as if drenched in fresh blood.

Yet, the room is not bedecked in the gold and glitter Honey Badger expected—instead, it’s adorned with a mystic and subdued dark palette.

Within the purplish-black room, akin to the night sky itself, large athysts are dotted about. Their peculiar pinkish glow seeping through… the sensation upon one’s skin akin to whispering sighs, gentle and sensuous.

Honey Badger, dressed in a fitting butler’s attire, stands at the forefront of the room with a half-filled glass in hand.

This perch is much like a diving board, the furthest from “shore,” yet she feels not a hint of instability or wobble.

Half of the entire room’s front wall is made of a transparent sort of glass. However, according to the manager, this glass is one-way… visible from the inside but not from the outside.

The host’s and the opening opera singer’s voices clearly perate directly into the room; however, audience noise is minimized—if she were not a Transcendent on the Path of Adaptation, it would be impossible to discern any rumbling beyond the applause.

Adjacent to the wall, two knobs exist, adjusting the one-way visibility of the glass and the level of audience noise filtration.

As Honey Badger gazes down on the entire opera house with an indifference that verges on detachnt, the deep red curtains rise at just the right mont.

Directly opposite the stage, as well at the back of the audience area facing nine o’clock, the foggy Grey wall suddenly becos clear.

Shadows blurry and indistinct begin to perate through the glass wall from the other side—bodies entangled against the wall in ambiguous embrace. Among them, a male shadow reaches out towards the wall as if to twist a knob… and the glass becos even more transparent.

At this very mont, the curtain-raiser of the opera singer is underway, and so too does the activity within that room intensifies. A man presses soone’s hands against the glass from behind with both his own, with two girls on either side clinging to him. The movents seem to speak a cinematic language, presenting an eye-dazzling drama.

From the singer’s perspective, she no doubt can see all of this—yet she betrays no hint of discomfiture; instead, she directs a sweet smile towards that direction, her voice elegantly trilling as she skips offstage like Little Deer to the other side.

Then, like an invitation, a hedonistic and chaotic prologue unfolds—

Under Honey Badger’s watch, each of the private boxes at the other three points removes their visual shields in turn. Diverse performances flaunt themselves one after another, sixty rooms shrouded in a misty wall, alternately illuminating and going dark.

From Honey Badger’s vantage point, it all resembles an absurdly rapid puppet show. Each room is a window, each window presents a different drama of joy, anger, sorrow, and mirth.

So portray a mutual ecstasy, others a Blood Slave’s tornt, so showcase their bound visage, others guests flaunt their bodies with pride… Among these guests are both n and won, their Blood Slaves varying in gender, number, and attire. Almost every room lights up briefly for a re few seconds before dimming again, forming epheral yet striking afterimages.

The guests appear to favor the “pantomi” they play amongst themselves over the ongoing opera onstage.

Underneath this spectacle, the opera singers cannot afford a shred of panic or hesitation. They must enact everything flawlessly, and make no reaction as though having seen anything—despite the near madness of the revelry, all of this is supposed to be secret, in theory.

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