The darkness on the screen flickered one last time before the mask's voice rose again—
clear, steady, and devoid of all emotion.
The room held its breath.
> — "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome… to the Immutable Theater."
— "I am the director of this performance."
— "Listen carefully—these are the rules."
On the screen, the white mask bowed slightly.
Its voice was calm, almost polite—
and that made it all the more monstrous.
> — "At six o'clock sharp, a train will depart from the underground platform."
— "This train, named The Theater of Pleasure, is your only way out."
— "At that same moment, I will release a deadly gas throughout the network."
— "This gas is designed to saturate the tunnels and dissolve what remains of your fragile lungs."
— "All exits to the surface have been sealed."
— "Your race will take place below ground. The train will be your salvation… or your coffin."
The screen froze on an animation—tracks, switches, and in the distance,
a golden train flickering like a mirage.
The mask continued, merciless:
> — "You have exactly six hours to reach the platform and board the train."
— "Enter the wagon before departure, or stay behind. Latecomers... will become part of the next act."
— "Enjoy yourselves. The King loves applause."
The TV shut off.
Darkness swallowed the room.
The clock struck 00:01.
---
Efa was the first to break the silence, her voice trembling.
> "That's… that's a lie. It's just a joke, right?"
Ban rose slowly, eyes black as a grave.
> "A train. Our only chance is a damn train."
His anger flared again.
> "Six hours… six hours to cross this underground hell."
Hastur, strangely calm, folded the worn map he held.
> "The exits are sealed? Perfect. The ground's flat—we stay below and run straight to the platform."
His tone wasn't comforting.
> "But understand this—it's not a walk. It's a stage. The Vassal's set traps. Obstacles. Performances."
Arata, breathing hard, gripped his injured hand.
> "The train... where does it stop exactly?"
Hastur pointed at a small blot on the map, buried within a web of tracks.
> "Platform H. That's where the train will stop. That's where everything will end."
Ban slung his bag over his shoulder in silence.
> "Then we don't wait. We go now."
Hastur nodded once.
> "Fine. But remember—
The train only takes those who arrive on time.
The rest... become the entertainment."
---
They stepped out of their shelter.
Darkness swallowed them whole.
The walls dripped with condensation;
the underground air smelled of rust and old soil.
Their headlamps swept over the rails like hesitant fingers.
In the distance, echoes of footsteps and cries told the same story—panic spreading through the tunnels.
A metallic voice crackled through the darkness:
> "Reminder: Platform H, departure at 06:00.
Do not attempt to reach the surface.
All exits are sealed.
Have a pleasant journey."
The small cracked stopwatch they carried ticked loudly,
each click echoing like a frantic heartbeat.
Hours passed.
03:59.
They kept moving.
Every corner made their hearts pound faster.
Sometimes the tunnels widened, revealing other groups—
shrouded figures, hollow-eyed families, silent children.
Golden graffiti glimmered on the walls: symbols of the King in Yellow, masks painted in haste,
hands drawn in despair as if begging for mercy.
Efa cursed under her breath.
> "I didn't sign up for this."
> "No one did," Ban replied.
"Now keep moving."
---
The race began.
They dashed through the tunnels, the ground trembling beneath their feet.
They passed rusted signs, remnants of forgotten stations, empty platforms lost to time.
Sometimes Hastur slowed down, scanning the walls, the cracks,
the hidden mechanisms.
He was trying to read the traps—
the Vassal's clues written like lines from a twisted script.
At one intersection, a sharp alarm shattered the air.
> Beep — beep — beep.
Metal grates slammed down behind them,
trapping Efa and Hastur on one side—
Ban and Arata on the other.
And then, between two ragged breaths,
their world exploded again.
A hollow laugh echoed through the smoke—
followed by the metallic sound of boots scraping concrete.
A figure emerged from the haze.
Harvey.
He stepped forward slowly, like a hunter savoring the moment.
> "We're not done yet, commoner."
His voice cracked like breaking glass.
Ban clenched his jaw.
> "Harvey… why? Why come back? Why not let it all die already?"
Harvey laughed—a sound stripped of all pity.
> "Because you humiliated me. Because you laughed."
"Because the King deserves a grand performance."
"And because, deep down, I love watching you run."
He raised his hand—
blades of frost erupted from his palm, lighting the darkness with a deadly shimmer.
The duel was about to begin.