Penacony, the Dream—[Daydream] Hotel
Stelle hurried through the corridor, finding Aventurine waiting casually outside a guest room.
He leaned against the wall, utterly relaxed—as if he'd known she'd come.
"Good. I knew you would. Oh, about that Memokeeper… never mind, I won't ask."
Aventurine straightened, smile unwavering. "After all, I said you could discuss with companions or even use me—I welcome it! Shows your value."
"I never make losing bets. Hope all you [friends]… don't disappoint." He emphasized "friends," gaze lingering meaningfully on Stelle.
His eyes dropped to her gripped bat—understanding flashed, then casual nonchalance.
"Ah… since you noticed, I'm not some irredeemable villain who burns, kills, and steals. Here, take it back." Like magic, the stolen amber milk tea reappeared in his hand, offered to Stelle.
Stelle took the familiar drink—cool to her fingertips. Adrian's words echoed: [This milk tea can be a gift. Might earn massive favorability~]
Staring at the swirling liquid, after minutes of silent struggle, she reluctantly pushed it back.
"You seem to love it so much—keep it."
Stelle's voice was muffled. Allying with the IPC couldn't hurt the Express.
"Oh right, I think I said something after… what was it?"
Aventurine accepted happily. Another correct bet.
"Ah… familiar corridor, familiar room. Remember? Last time we met here."
"We're here." Aventurine slowly pushed the door. "Hold your breath—behold—"
"Oh, now I remember… friend! Back then, I said—" He feigned mystery, smile deepening, reciting the past invitation word for word:
"Friend, the game has already begun… Make a deal with me. You can't refuse."
Aventurine swept aside obstructing dream bubbles.
When vision finally pierced the illusions to the room's center—Stelle's pupils contracted sharply.
In the dream pool, the famous Theban singer floated as if asleep—yet her lifeless pose screamed one truth: a real [death] in the dream!
"No reason… no room." Aventurine's voice followed.
...
The Golden Hour—Sunday stood alone at a dazzling street corner, empty of people. He gazed at the Grand Theater's cold, eerie blue glow in the distance.
That light like an ill omen—Sunday's brow shrouded in unrelenting gloom.
"You shouldn't be here, sir."
He turned slowly. A black-haired man in exaggerated sunglasses leaned lazily on a nearby ad pillar, sipping star-speckled milk tea.
"Oh, don't mind me—just treat me as air…" HE straightened, scrutinizing Sunday's expression. "That depressed look… what happened? Those guests invited by the [Watchmaker]?"
"Adrian" subconsciously rubbed his lower back (ass)—face flashing subtle pain. No mercy in that hit…
Sunday silent a moment. Just as "Adrian" thought no answer coming, he spoke low:
"At some point, a nightmare called [Death] descended on Penacony. It attacks indiscriminately—bringing mental death equally to all…"
"In the Family's beautiful dream, no misfortune should occur. It severely disrupts order and peace… how hateful."
"Wow~ Interesting. Let me guess—another victim?" "Adrian" dragged the tone dramatically, like hearing a hilarious tale.
Sunday didn't look back—his silhouette only stiffened more, fists clenching, knuckles white.
"Two. One stowaway… and… Robin, killed by your own hands."
The air froze.
"Enough, Fool. Your actions chill me." Sunday's voice ironclad, laced with disgust.
"Oh?" "Adrian" raised a brow—genuine surprise under the sunglasses, soon replaced by thicker amusement. "Sharp, chicken-wing boy~"
Sunday turned, expressionless—eyes unwavering:
"The Ode to Harmony speaks true—[The words of fools begin in folly and end in wicked madness]…"
"…Leave. THEIR dream does not welcome you."
"Wow~ Besides that guy, you're the first to talk to me like that, chicken-wing boy~ I like you more and more."
"Adrian" clapped exaggeratedly—sharp claps echoing harshly in the empty street.
"No need for the long face~ Quoting scripture so seriously? Why so grim?" HE wagged a finger innocently:
"You're missing something—I'm from the [Eternity Church], not some vulgar Masked Fool."
"Adrian" tried pinning it on the Church—Sunday wasn't buying. HE stepped closer, voice low and tempting:
"At this point, the Family still won't act? Not suspicious of the Eternity Church? Sigh~ Don't let illusions blind you. Need a hint?"
"Your poor sister—already done in by that elf priestess~ You knew, yet unmoved? Still cooperating calmly with Blake?"
"Scared of an [Emanator]'s authority? Hehe, no worries—want revenge for your sister? I can help~"
"Adrian" swirled his half-empty milk tea, smiling charitably: "Try it? As… our cooperation deposit? If you don't mind."
HE offered the milk tea to Sunday.
Sunday unmoved—gaze past the cup: "Not yet. Whether Fool or Church—on the fated day, I'll judge justly."
Clap clap clap clap clap clap!
At Sunday's words, "Adrian" applauded again—louder, hotter, dripping sarcasm.
"Impressive—you can stomach that~ Truly cold-blooded. Makes sense—mere flesh and blood. How to fight an [Eternity] Emanator? Ah… reminds me of HIS old stories."
"How about this—I can stand in for your sister at events. You wouldn't want people knowing… the Charmony Festival can't happen, right?"
"The Family has arrangements. Stop defiling my dear sister with your deceitful tongue, Fool."
"Fine fine~" "Adrian" raised hands in surrender, carefree smile—as if not just rebuked.
"Just saying… if you need me, anytime~ Who could refuse a boy with studs on his chicken wings?"
Words unfinished—"Adrian" blurred. In a blink, the noisy figure vanished—as if never there.
Sunday stood still—icy gaze on the leftover milk tea, like filthy trash.
"No need. The killer's already exposed under THEIR light. Soon, he'll fall by his own schemes."
"If he doesn't repent—THEIR blade will sharpen, bow strung. The poison he inflicts will fall on his own head."
"Then, that irreverent foreigner will know he's mere mortal—falling to the underworld… and I'll be THEIR vanguard, personally bringing you the good news—[Watchmaker]."
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