9. Black and Gold (7)
9. Black and Gold (7)
Some of the acrobats wore easy, confident smiles; the others looked thoroughly sour.
The first group had likely been sent out for strategic reasons, the second because their skills were lacking.
But one thing was the same for both: they had to give the test everything they had—the first group to secure their troupe's selection priority, the second to land a spot elsewhere.
"Silver Screen Circus!"
At the emcee's call, a young woman sprang forward from the hooded crowd in the corner of the hall.
They all believed deeply that outward appearances were false, and most concealed their bodies beneath long robes—but she was the exception. She still wore a hood, but it barely covered her shoulders.
With her slender waist visible beneath the cloak, she rolled a fist-sized crystal ball in her hands as she walked toward the group of examinees.
"Haha, so the Silver Screen Circus is here too. I seem to recall seeing that lady before..."
Sven tilted his head, and Yurakne recalled something she'd read in a magazine.
"I heard she's a new member. I saw her in an interview in Bread and Circus. Remember the 'Subliminal' concept? They said she was the one who came up with it."
"Hahaha, I remember. She used to be a fortune-teller, wasn't she?"
Thanks to the circus magazines covering preliminary news from every region, participants could easily gather information about their competitors.
It was from those same magazines that they'd heard the Silver Screen Circus had already failed the Rekachev exam once.
Ella had mentioned that, according to the schedule, Silver Screen would sit for the next test in October alongside them.
The emcee called the names of the troupes in order.
He tried not to show any bias, but when he announced the next name, his voice grew louder almost involuntarily.
"Golden Carnival!"
Every gaze in the room converged on one spot.
Even under the weight of thousands of stares, the people standing there showed not the slightest unease. They maintained their composure as if the attention were utterly routine.
That composure came from the skills of what was widely considered the strongest dream team in the competition.
Their leader, Mr. Fantastic, glanced back at his daughter and spoke.
"Reina. I'm counting on you alone."
A warm smile—one few had ever seen—lingered on Simon Magier's lips. A stranger might have taken it for the pure, encouraging look of a father cheering on his child.
Reina knew better.
That smile was a lie.
His "I'm counting on you" was no different from a musketeer speaking to his own gun.
She hated herself for being rattled by that scrap of warmth. She hated herself even more for still craving it.
She tightened her grip on her whip.
"Yes, Father. I'll do my best."
She fastened the whip she'd been toying with to her waist and stepped forward.
"Releasing Reina Magier."
Facing thousands of eyes, there was not a trace of hesitation in her stride. None of her inner turmoil leaked through. It was a perfectly trained confidence.
Long, glossy golden hair.
A tall, developed figure reminiscent of a model.
Flawless pale skin and a beautiful face.
People could see now that when Mr. Fantastic called her his "masterpiece," it wasn't just a doting parent's bluster.
"Oh, incredible."
"Now I see. There's a reason he's so protective of his daughter."
"The 'Golden Libra' nickname makes perfect sense."
Listening to the shower of admiration, Reina's inner voice was one of derision.
'A well-made product.'
Everything she had cultivated and achieved was something her father had produced for the show. Her smile, her manner of speaking, even the way she dressed—all of it had been hammered into shape by his punishments and his harsh words.
Just last night, she had been summoned for further correction.
He hadn't always been this harsh. When she was young, he'd been brutal, but once she'd internalized her skills, he'd mostly limited himself to mild criticisms a couple of times a week.
But ever since they'd plunged into the Circus Grand Prix, the great proving ground, his nerves had grown sharper and sharper. Here, in the city where he'd once tasted defeat, that sharpness had reached its peak, and now every small mistake she made drew a cold knife from his lips.
She'd long since abandoned any hope that better performance would change things. This was her fate, for life.
What she wanted wasn't grand. Just an ordinary father who would tell her she'd done well when she succeeded, and offer a word of comfort when things were hard.
Suddenly, she recalled two people she'd seen from a terrace a few days ago. Just passersby, yet the image kept resurfacing for no reason.
The man's warm laugh.
The girl's affectionate, whining voice.
She envied them.
'Cut it out. Enough of that whining. You are Lord Fantastic's daughter. Not the slightest weakness is permitted.'
She steadied herself by reciting the words her father had drilled into her, a mantra so constant it was nearly brainwashing.
Watching her approach the stage, Wonderstein smiled.
Reina Magier.
It had been a very long time.
She was one of the support characters in TTT—and the only supporter who appeared in every entry of the trilogy.
In TT1, she was a panicky mass of dead weight, screaming uselessly in the chaos of the monster raids.
In TT2, she'd improved a bit. Still prickly, but she held her own as a reliable companion.
In TT3, she filled in Maya's shortcomings and became her friend, sharing genuine camaraderie.
Her first impression was that of a nervous, unstable burden, but with each successive game, she visibly matured. Even people who'd hated her at first for being annoying ended up switching sides and becoming her fans by the end of the trilogy.
Reina of the Golden Carnival.
Maya of the Silver Screen Circus.
To fans, they were Silver and Gold—a beloved pair.
Wonderstein felt glad to see her, but also uneasy.
She was even younger now than she'd been in TT1, when her psyche had completely collapsed.
The later games had gradually unveiled bits of her past. Her panic disorder wasn't simply a result of the monster attacks.
How unstable was the self behind that seemingly perfect facade?
"Reina Magier? Is she famous? She's incredibly popular."
Except for Ella, the other members were strangers to the circus world. At Yurakne's question, Wonderstein chuckled cheerfully.
"Seventeen years old. A genius with no peer in her age group. An acrobat with a very promising future."
The others all nodded, but one person bristled.
"What did you say? No peer in her age group?"
Ella's eyes narrowed, glaring at him.
She wasn't arrogant enough to claim there was no one in the world better than her. But hearing Wonderstein praise another acrobat her own age right in front of her—that, she couldn't tolerate.
Seeing her face turn hostile, he realized his mistake and quickly added,
"That's not my opinion—it's... the lore. I mean, that's how the world sees her."
"I don't care what the world says. What matters is what you think. You've never said anything like that to me! Damn it... my pride..."
Ella was once again reminded of a childhood memory. The image of a leading man whose partner actress had been stolen away by a wealthy patron, pushed aside and left standing miserably in a corner of the stage.
That shocking scene from her youth had never left her.
This man was her partner. The troupe leader she herself had chosen. She could not surrender her place beside him to anyone.
As Wonderstein wore an awkward smile, figuring out how to soothe her, a voice rang out from the platform.
"Wonderstein Circus!"
The emcee was calling them from the stage.
By the original plan, Ella was supposed to go out now. But she kept glaring at Wonderstein, showing no intention of moving until she got a clear answer from him.
As he hurriedly tried to placate her, Sven shouted from behind.
"Releasing Ella!"
She blinked at the sudden outburst, then immediately shot Sven a glare.
"You old bag of bones! What are you doing?!"
"Haha, O Deputy Leader—isn't the best way to settle who's better simply to prove it?"
"...What?"
Ella's eyebrow arched.
"What's all this Golden Libra nonsense? We think you're the best. Go out there and flatten her. And then come back and make the boss say it—Miss Ella, you're the best!"
"...That's the best thing you've said in a while."
She sprang to her feet. Turning to Wonderstein, she said,
"You watch closely. I'll stomp this Reina or whoever and come right back!"
Her red tailcoat flaring wildly, she strode toward the stage. Sven cackled with amusement, and Wonderstein shook his head as if to say he couldn't stop her.
"Is this Reina really that impressive?"
It was a question from Maya, who had never shown any interest in the circus world before.
She knew firsthand how exceptional the Deputy Leader was. She couldn't imagine Ella losing to anyone at acrobatics—especially not to someone her own age.
"Of course she is. Her future is bright. In about seven years, she'll have matured even more... heh heh."
Wonderstein said this, eyeing Reina with a smile.
Maya snapped her head away in disappointment.
Her teacher deserved respect—but not when it came to women.
She'd seen it herself. He'd fool around with the Viscountess in public, casually touch Yurakne, and even when the Deputy Leader—who'd at least lost her memory—threw herself at him, he never firmly pushed her away, just laughed and went along with it.
And now he was leering at a girl from another circus.
Not cool at all.
Not someone to admire at all.
So disappointing.
Do you like women that much?
How strange.
If you like women that much...
why don't you show any interest... in me...
...
Maya's mind went blank.
What did I just think?
What...
Wonderstein stopped mid-sentence and looked at her, standing there dazed.
"Miss Maya, what are you thinking about so intently?"
What was she thinking about?
Maya felt her face flush. She bolted upright.
"...I'll be outside."
"But the entrance exam is about to start."
"I'm not interested."
Wonderstein tilted his head, baffled by her sudden flash of anger.
Sitting behind him, Gaston struggled to suppress a laugh.
'Will you look at this kid?'
His few days with the troupe had given him a slow but clear picture of how things worked inside. The members adored their leader, almost to the point of worship, yet no authority forced them to. Theirs was pure gratitude and respect. His pupil, he realized, had a real abundance of personal magnetism.
But there was also a problem.
Women.
From what he'd seen, even Viscountess Bergson seemed interested, and inside the troupe, romantic tension never ceased simmering.
Still, that wasn't a bad thing. Wandering acrobatics couldn't last forever. If the boy found love and settled down, he'd naturally look for a place to put down roots.
Someone who cultivated plants needed to settle somewhere. Otherwise, the very act of nurturing them became impossible.
The real obstacle was Ella, who never left his side. If his pupil got tangled up with that circus fanatic, he'd be a wanderer forever. Gaston's aim was simple: clear away that eyesore from beside his pupil.
Strategically, it was better to back a rival. Anais was too far away. Maya lacked initiative. The most usable racehorse was Yurakne.
Thirty years in the heart of politics had made Gaston sharp. He'd noticed Wonderstein leaning on her more and more.
She knew how to care for people. While their leader was stewing over all sorts of headaches—he hated to admit it, but he himself was among them—she devoted herself entirely to one thing: putting his mind at ease.
Get fussy and jealous for no reason, and a man would just get fed up. But she was wise enough to soothe him instead.
Push her toward Wonderstein, pry the circus girl away, and help him settle down somewhere—that was the best course for his pupil.
Gaston glanced at the two who were now sitting side by side.
Better to give them some time alone.
"Ahem. Say, Mr. Skeleton. How about you step outside with me for a moment?"
He was trying to clear the space for the two of them. But the Skeleton Clown he'd addressed simply tilted his head.
"Mr.?"
"Hm?"
There was a strange note of inquiry in the clown's usually jovial voice. Gaston was flustered.
"Forgive me, but how old are you, Mr. Gaston?"
Gaston felt a sudden unease.
"Sixty... pushing seventy, I suppose..."
"I'm in my nineties."
Gaston swallowed hard.
"Ah... are you...?"
He'd grown plenty old himself—there was no need to suddenly switch to formal speech. But there was something subtly pointed in Sven's manner that compelled proper respect.
Skeleton Clown burst out laughing at his retreat.
"Haha, that's right. You know, I've been surrounded by nothing but youngsters, and it's been a bit dull. I'm grateful you spoke to me so familiarly. In that case, I'll call you little brother—little brother?"
"Er... ah, all right?"
"Little brother."
When Sven said it in that utterly serious tone, Gaston found himself answering before he could think.
"...Br-big brother?"
"Haha, that makes me happy! I know what you wanted to ask. I may look like this, but I'm quick on the uptake. So, shall we step outside?"
And so, the two men, suddenly bound by a strange brotherhood, made an excuse about the stuffy air in the hall and headed out.
In the audience seats, only two people were left.