The host snapped his fingers and gestured at the spotlight. The beam shifted, moving through the tavern as if illuminating the silence itself. A moment later, the gag on his mouth vanished.
Victor clutched his fist, knuckles white. He stared at the host, brow furrowed. He was far from being an open person—no matter the circumstances, he would never spill his guts like that.
His glare at the host came out exhausted, but his jaw set firm. He wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him feel anything. After all, knowing all that changed nothing.
The host saw Victor's silence and snapped. Menus materialized in front of everyone—different for each person.
"Well, let's give our stage star a moment to breathe and have a bit of a snack." The host moved back to center stage, stealing the spotlight. He spun through the tavern, drawing every eye.
Two groups exhaled in clear disappointment. The most recognizable individuals—the purple-haired girl in one group, and the cat golem next to the guy who'd stopped laughing in the other—both slumped in their seats.
The host shrugged and snapped his fingers again. A service bell appeared behind each menu.
"Also, when you make up your mind, just ring—"
The spotlight swung violently back to Victor, who looked even more annoyed.
"None of this is needed. If I start something, I'm finishing it. No delays."
His words cut through the air like a blade.
"Well, in that case..." The host reappeared out of nowhere, a magician's cap materializing to cover the right side of his mask. "Sorry, dear guests, but it seems dinner will have to wait."
A succubus and a red fiend—along with more than a dozen others—tried to complain. Tape appeared across their mouths before the first syllable escaped their mouth. The succubus grabbed her chair, muscles straining as she tried to throw it—
The chair refused to budge, as if welded to the ground.
Her eyes blazed at the host. Several raised eyebrows and sighs came from her own group beside her. The fiend shrugged, scooped up the struggling succubus, and tied her to the chair with practiced ease. He gave the host a dissatisfied glare, then looked up.
The spotlight had focused on him.
He sighed, shoulders sagging.
"Well, it seems patience is running thin. It would be quite rude to steal the stage from you any longer, don't you think?" The host's smile widened as his mask gleamed. He gestured playfully to Victor as the stage lights converged—all focus on him once more.
Annoyed. Impatient. With integrity burning behind his eyes. Multiple gazes with different emotions clashed across the audience—no clear judgment, just countless observations. And he stood at the center, sharing a story he could never share otherwise.
And yet it made Victor feel nothing.
He recalled the most meaningful day of his life. "You know, recalling everything so far—how I was raised, how all of it was set on fire in one day. It felt like all of it was a buildup to something, the heat I felt that day as everything burned. I could never forget it."
Victor looked at the burn scar on his hand, then at his crimson sword.
"That day, the palace was on fire. Intruders were everywhere. My first priority was to secure the most dangerous artifact in the palace—the Sword of the Apostle of Fire, the one who ruled this land before the High King on our continent." His fingers traced the blade's edge. "When someone powerful dies, an artifact is born from their remains, holding most of their power. But they're difficult to control, depending on how powerful they were."
"When I first wielded it against the revolutionary guard I met during my escape—they stopped and asked their stupid, pointless questions about random names. Called me a traitor." His laugh came out bitter, sharp. "I would have been a capable king. I knew it. But I was never trained in actual fighting—just dueling and ceremonial duels"
"As I faced death—or a fate far worse—I threatened them. I made it clear, again and again, that they could take anything but that sword. It was Valanis's pride. The weapon of the first king. It was mine. It belonged to the Plutus family." His voice rose. "They could take what they wanted and just leave!"
Victor broke into small, broken laughter. This was something he would never forget—every last minute engraved into his soul.
"Why would someone face certain death for a cause they'd just had for less than a year? A cause that gave them nothing but fire and blood?" His hands spread, bewildered. "Why are all people so insane? There's no desire here. No dream. Just dying for loyalty to something that doesn't exist. I guess only the desperate can be deathly loyal to a dream."
"Even as I burned myself trying to wield something way more powerful than me—wielding magic, as you call it here, way beyond anything I could have controlled—they fired at me. Facing death with emotionless faces. No happiness. Just fear and pointless determination."
"I burned, and so did they. But the fire was way more merciful to them. For me, it lasted far longer, as I was the wielder." He paused, head dropping. "My story should have come to an end there."
He stopped. Removed his gaze from the host. For the first time, he stared at the audience—but he wasn't really looking at the crowd. His focus locked on one person.
The purple-haired girl.
The spotlight slammed down on her.
Her hand gripped the armrest so hard blood welled between her fingers. She looked away, face consumed by complicated emotions as she clawed at the tape with renewed desperation.
"But fate had different plans for me." Victor's voice went hollow. "A rift from somewhere far away appeared out of nowhere. On the other side was an unclear view—like looking through broken glass. There was an empty metal door. I don't think I thought back then. All I remember was pain and me tearing my way through, breaking something similar to glass. The agony of my skin being grilled."
"My whole body should have been beyond recognition—far from the token I was left with after I crossed that bridge and was asked for that wish."
The host clapped, looking at Victor with pride gleaming in his eyes. "Good! Good! You're doing great, but—how should I say this?" He stepped closer, hands reaching for Victor's shoulders. "Your speech lacks the pace—"
Victor frowned. A crimson crown materialized above his head. Red aura flared around him, washing over the host's eyes. The host tried to step back—
Victor's hand shot out, gripping the host's arm.
"I don't need advice." The red aura surrounded the host completely. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His words held power forcing host to stay still
The audience went deathly silent.
Two red spectral gloves manifested behind the host, holding him in place. The host's eyes darted to the spotlight, confused. Victor moved closer, fingers tilting the host's chin up.
"Oh, I see. As long as the act isn't interrupting the flow of events or harming anyone, the tavern won't interfere." Victor's smile was cold. "Your voice holding power is quite common. What a scam, right?"
The host, now tied to the ground by two golems, started laughing passoinlty. "That's it! Bring life back to the show!"
Victor felt the sword in his hand pulse. A new feeling appeared—one that made him realize how pleasant having this power truly was.
When he'd crossed that threshold, a voice he didn't recognize had asked him a simple question: What is your deepest desire?
His answer had been simple. His crown. His right. His throne.
"After gaining my current power, I recalled the day of the revolution. The day everything burned and it all began. The day I should have died." Victor's eyes swept the audience. "I'm sure a lot of people would be happier if that had been how it ended."
He released the host, who staggered back.
"After making my wish to that entity, I lost consciousness. Then I woke up in some people's custody in a city I'd never heard of before." He turned, staring at the purple-haired girl with an expression so complicated it shocked even him. "And this is how I met my old friend."
The words hung between them.
"A lot has happened between us, old friend." His voice softened, just slightly. "But I owe you my life. That I will never forget."
She spat. The sound was wet, vicious.
Her eyes glared venom at him—every word like salt on a wound. Behind the tape, her lips moved, forming words he couldn't hear but could read perfectly:
I should have left you burning in that fire.