The shamisen struck a softer rhythm, joined by the steady beat of a drum. From behind the stage, a flute cried a high, clear note, like wind curling around snowy eaves. The hush of the audience deepened.
Opera raised her lantern high, her eyes shimmering as though she truly carried a piece of the night sky in her hands. When she opened her mouth, her voice poured into the hall — rich, golden, carrying an almost divine warmth that cut through the cold stillness.
"Snow falls softly, quiet white,
blankets rooftops, hides the night.
But see — the lantern's gentle flame,
a friend beside me calls my name.
Winter's chill is not so deep,
when hearts together warmth can keep.
Step by step, the frost gives way,
to laughter shared at end of day…"
She moved across the stage, her lantern swinging gracefully. The light caught the faux snow glittering on the floor, making it sparkle like diamonds. Then she stepped off the stage entirely.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Opera glided between the tables, her sleeves trailing, brushing shoulders as she passed. The guests leaned back instinctively, not wanting to disturb her movement, yet her presence drew them in like moths to a flame. She smiled gently at a group of younger Umas, lowering the lantern so the orange glow bathed their eager faces, then rose and spun, the hem of her plum kimono swishing.
Akuma's voice rumbled through the mic, his tone carrying that reluctant gravitas.
"…Wherever she went, the night seemed brighter. A maiden's voice that could melt even the longest winter. The villagers called her a gift from the gods… but she called herself simply a singer. A girl with a lantern, looking for a reason to shine."
The shamisen struck sharply. The audience turned as Adalbert leapt forward, spinning into the center aisle with the grace of a trained performer. His white and silver robes shimmered, catching the light as though he were made of snow itself. His laughter rang out clear, and then he raised his voice.
"Ha! Snow may bite and winds may roar,
but I'll still dance from door to door!
Feet on frost, the ice may crack,
yet joy is mine, I won't look back!
What is winter but a jest?
Cold is only warmth at rest!
So sing with me, oh night so long,
and let us weave the world a song!"
The crowd chuckled as he stomped playfully in rhythm, pretending to slip before spinning out into another twirl. His laughter wasn't just part of the act — it was real, bubbling with the same energy he'd once carried on grand stages.
Opera joined him, her lantern glowing brighter as she reached his side. Together, they circled each other like fire and snow, her movements elegant, his bold and wild.
Then — they broke apart, each darting into the crowd.
Opera glided past McQueen and Special Week, brushing their shoulders with her trailing sleeves, making them both flush in delight. Adalbert, meanwhile, leaned right over Gold Ship's table, stealing a dumpling with a dramatic flourish before tossing it into the air and catching it, spinning back toward the center.
The music swelled, faster now, joined by drums that beat like festival taiko.
Opera and Adalbert's voices intertwined, weaving melody and laughter:
"Snow may fall, the year may turn,
still our lanterns bright shall burn!
Sing with me, oh friend so dear,
winter fades when you are near!
Raise your cups, your voices high!
Like fireworks against the sky!
Though the world is wrapped in white,
together we shall chase the night!"
They twirled back together at the center, Opera's lantern raised high while Adalbert's arms flung wide, his white sleeves a blur. The banquet hall erupted in applause and laughter, caught up in their rhythm.
Adalbert, in his mischief, circled around Akuma's table. Still singing, he leaned low, pointing right at him, his grin boyish and unrestrained.
"Even grumps can't hide away—join the joy, oh what a day!"
Akuma exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand as the audience burst into laughter. His voice, however, carried on, calm and steady over the music.
"…They wandered from town to town. No coin, no roof, no certainty. Just their art. A song, a dance, a light in the dark. They gave joy to countless hearts — laughter to the poor, warmth to the forgotten. Their footsteps turned festivals brighter, their songs sweeter. To some, they were fools. But to those who listened—"
He glanced up at the two, now hand in hand as they spun, the lantern glowing between them. "…They were fireworks against a starless sky."
Opera's voice rose, swelling like a bell.
"See the night, how long it seems…
but it cannot break our dreams.
Through the cold, through endless years,
our voices ring, the dark it clears!"
Adalbert answered, his tone louder, almost a shout, his laughter ringing through it.
"Sing, oh sing, forget the pain!
Even snow must melt like rain!
Raise your lantern, take my hand—
we bring springtime to the land!"
Together, they closed, their voices overlapping, harmonizing with such power it shook the air:
"Snow may fall, the year may turn,
still our lanterns bright shall burn!
Hearts together chase the night,
love is born in winter's light!"
The shamisen struck a final note.
Opera lifted her lantern high. Adalbert dropped to one knee beside her, his white robes pooling like snow. The hall thundered with applause, fans snapping, tails wagging, voices cheering their names.
Akuma's voice came low, softer now.
"…And so, they lived… not as heroes, not as nobles. Just as themselves. A singer, and a dancer. Two fools who carried joy through winter."
He lowered the mic slightly, almost too quiet to catch. "…And the world loved them for it."
The applause still thundered when the music shifted. The shamisen, once bright and quick, slowed. The drums beat heavy, like footsteps trudging through snow. A single flute note lingered in the air, wavering, then fell silent.
The glow of Opera's lantern dimmed.
Akuma's voice cut through the hush. His tone was low now, heavy.
"…But even the brightest light must dim. Even the warmest song must fade. Such is the march of time. It does not ask. It does not forgive. It only… continues."
Opera and Adalbert still stood together at the center. Their hands touched, yet their heads bowed as though a weight pressed down. The lighting shifted, cold blue shadows stretching across the floor.
Then — a cymbal crash.
The "King of Masks" appeared. Gold Ship — cloaked in absurd layers of black velvet, a gaudy crown lopsided on her head, her face covered by a silver fox mask that failed utterly to hide her mischievous grin. Her entrance was so flamboyant it drew both laughter and unease — and perhaps that was the point.
She spread her arms wide, her booming voice filling the hall:
"All joy must end! All troupes must scatter! For the world demands more, and I, the King of Masks, decree it so!"
She swept forward, cape nearly tripping her, before pointing a jeweled scepter straight at Opera.
"You — the singer with the lantern. The world calls your name. A greater stage awaits you! Leave this foolish jester behind!"
Gasps ran through the audience, though some chuckles still followed Gold Ship's exaggerated flourishes. Yet the weight in the hall remained.
Opera clutched her lantern tighter, her eyes wide. Adalbert reached toward her instinctively.
"The lantern glows, but shakes, it sways…
The voice I sang with fades away.
The call is loud, it pulls, it tears…
But still I long for hands once there…"
Adalbert sang in answer, his voice rougher, like laughter cracking into sorrow.
"Go, my star, the sky is yours,
Open wide those grander doors.
Forget this fool, this frozen stage,
Burn your name on history's page!"
Opera shook her head, her steps hesitant. She moved toward Adalbert — but the King of Masks cut between them, twirling her cape so wide it swallowed Opera from sight.
Akuma's narration growled into the quiet:
"…And so the decree was made. The singer's voice was demanded by the world. A greater stage, a brighter fire… and a silence left behind. The troupe was no more."
The music fell almost silent. A single shamisen plucked a lonely rhythm.
Adalbert now stood center stage, alone. His sleeve was still outstretched where Opera had been, but his hand was empty. Slowly, he lowered it.
The faintest smile tugged at his lips — not of joy, but of acceptance. He lifted his head toward the audience, his eyes glimmering.
"Snow still falls, though lights grow dim…
The song is hers, not mine within.
If hearts still laugh, if dreams still sing…
What more could winter's fool then bring?"
He chuckled lightly through the last note, though it sounded brittle.
The stage dimmed to black. Only his faint silhouette remained, smiling faintly into the dark.
The curtain fell.