The next morning…
I didn't wake up to the sound of roosters.
Roosters here had retired ever since everyone started wearing chicken-shaped hats.
What woke me up was a loud bell that—well, if tinnitus had a loud, nagging twin, this would be it.
"CITIZENS OF PAVILION! TODAY IS NATIONAL MOURNING DAY! THE ROYAL FUNERAL BEGINS AT 08:00! WEAR BLACK OR BE LABELED A TRAITOR!"
Okay.
Good morning to you too, I guess.
I got up, rubbed my eyes, and tried to make sense of this world with my 25-year-old brain that had already digested enough life drama.
But somehow, the drama here was way more… live-action, and uncensored.
At the town square, I saw a sight that almost made me laugh—
but I held it in, for fear of getting arrested.
There were four coffins.
The king, the queen, and their two children.
But honestly? They looked like IKEA wardrobes that hadn't been assembled yet.
The decorations were over-the-top, but the citizens just stared with… blank expressions.
Not sadness. Not grief.
More like someone had just removed their emotional batteries.
Then he appeared—
The Prime Minister of Pavilion—
walking with the confidence of a local theater villain who believed in himself a bit too much.
He climbed onto the podium, voice loud and passionate, like he just downed five espressos.
"MY PEOPLE! DO NOT CRY! TODAY WE MOURN… BUT WE ALSO WELCOME A NEW BEGINNING!"
A new beginning.
Yeah, sure.
A beginning where he gets promoted—no public debate required.
I watched him from afar, squinting, and muttered softly,
"If he's not the culprit, then I'm a mermaid... and spoiler alert: I can't swim."
Suddenly, a pigeon—once again—performed a miracle by dropping a special gift on the Prime Minister's shoulder.
The citizens didn't blink.
The Prime Minister panicked for a second, then pretended to look solemn again.
I sighed quietly.
"Why do birds here have better moral instincts than half the politicians?"
A citizen next to me glanced over, alarmed.
I faked a cough.
The funeral ended.
Everyone dispersed like they'd just watched a performance that was… well, decent, but not worth a rerun.
I walked slowly back to the inn.
Only one thought echoed in my head:
If this is the opening act of a new regime, may the next chapter be… getting out of here. Alive. And sane.
Finally… the lockdown was over.
After who-knows-how-many days trapped in the Kingdom of Pavilion—which honestly felt like the perfect setting for a reality show titled "What It's Like Living in a Massive Shared Delusion"—the announcement finally came:
"CITIZENS & VISITORS MAY NOW RESUME INTERKINGDOM TRAVEL. LOCKDOWN IS OFFICIALLY LIFTED."
I almost cried.
But not from joy—more like panic:
Would I have to attend one more Chicken Hat concert before I got out for good?
Luckily, no.
So, with my barely-packed bag and hopes thinner than a receipt paper, I sped toward the exit gate.
My plan was to leave gracefully by horse carriage—you know, just to add a dash of elegance.
But guess what?
The carriage had to undergo additional inspection.
Not leaving any time soon.
Fantastic.
So I dragged my feet to the outer gate.
Fueled by fake enthusiasm and whispered prayers that there wouldn't be any more weird checks.
But of course… the world is never that generous.
"Please fill out this Kingdom Entry-Exit Form," the gate officer said, handing me a stack of paper as thick as a thesis.
I filled it out in quiet surrender.
Then, just when I thought it was finally over, the officer added—
with a smile as warm as an ice cube:
"Oh right, there's an exit fee, miss. Five gold coins. New policy from the Prime Minister."
…An exit fee.
I stared at him like he'd just asked me to pay for breathing air.
"Sorry, I'm leaving a kingdom, not riding a roller coaster, right?"
He laughed.
"The Prime Minister says, 'anyone leaving Pavilion must leave their love and money behind.'"
I went silent.
Then muttered quietly:
"Can I just leave my trauma instead?"