4. Ghost of the Cabaret (End)
4. Ghost of the Cabaret (End)
My first impression of Ella was that she was a good kid.
That wasn't entirely a compliment.
Mockery was mixed in there too.
The Monster Circus Troupe was a collection of people shunned by society.
Ella was the one ordinary human among them.
Even so, she never showed prejudice—she treated the monsters without the slightest hesitation.
The troupe members were grateful to her.
Inwardly, I sneered at them.
Show a little kindness to the pathetic and the pitiful and they don't know what to do with themselves.
Because they're starved for affection.
Kindness and smiles—nothing more than tools for buying their loyalty.
I knew perfectly well I was being cynical.
But I couldn't help it.
Every experience I'd ever had pointed in that direction.
I respected her ability to lead the troupe, but I was skeptical of it too.
The members' support for her only worked because I existed as the counterweight.
With Wonderstein cast as absolute evil, her role as Deputy Leader could shine by contrast—a shield against the dark.
So she could afford to play the saint.
A survival strategy for the opposition party.
That was another sneer I kept to myself.
Then she heard about the two-and-a-half-year contract, and her attitude shifted.
She became strict when training the troupe and stopped bothering to justify the messy details. Even if it made people curse her and paint her a villain, she accepted it—knowing it was best for everyone.
Unlike me, fixated on the Affection level values the system displayed and utterly lost without a quest to point the way.
I hadn't changed one bit from my old self, planted in front of the monitors back in my room.
She made her own judgments, acted on her own, and willingly shouldered the consequences.
That's when the unease started.
And when a struggling actor needed help and she stepped forward and sang without a trace of shame—
She was a girl ten years younger than Wonderstein.
Ten years younger than the original me.
But in that instant, the word that came to mind was magnificent.
That was the turning point.
When she began to occupy my thoughts.
Creeeak. Creeeak.
A groan of protesting wood, and the boat nudged forward.
Thanks to my 3.0 strength stat, rowing took hardly any effort.
Still, I steered as slowly as I could.
Ella was slumped in a corner of the boat, asleep.
The afternoon performance, nighttime rehearsal, and a commotion at dawn—
she had every right to be exhausted.
The white mouse perched on her shoulder had tucked its head and shut its eyes as well.
I rowed and quietly studied her sleeping face.
Was this fondness?
Or something more?
Could be this. Could be that.
But for the sake of clearing the game—for my own future—I denied every one of those feelings.
The guilt from years of belittling her in my head.
Gratitude for the way she shouldered the whole circus alone.
A sense of debt born from a tangle of both.
That was all I was mistaking for affection.
The way Anais was with me.
The way my old self had been with my old helper.
The way the Ghost had tried to condition his little birds.
Right. I was deluding myself again.
I decided to believe that.
I slipped back into my role as the game's player and returned to strategizing.
Clearing the Ghost of the Cabaret had unlocked two additional sub-quests.
Reading their descriptions, they spun directly out of the Ghost questline.
Cleanup quests, so to speak.
I was able to knock both out before sunrise this morning.
***
The VIP rooms at Rouge General Hospital were not open to just anyone.
At minimum, you had to be nobility—or someone who had donated a fortune, or someone whose name carried uncommon weight.
By that standard, a mere stage actress occupying one of these beds was an extraordinary honor.
People agreed she deserved it, if only because she was Yvonne, the Flower of Rouge.
Yvonne herself felt no joy whatsoever.
She knew with certainty that this preferential treatment wouldn't last long.
A livid scar that began at her forehead, swallowed half her face, and stretched down to her neck.
Nobody in the troupe had ever kept that kind of chemical in the prop cabinets. Or so they said.
It had to have been the Ghost's doing.
The same person who wrote those threatening letters—
"Hic... hic..."
She buried her face in the pillow and sobbed.
Tears soaked the pillowcase through.
The crying wouldn't stop.
Why?
Why did this have to happen to her?
She'd spent her whole jagged troupe life bending over backward to avoid making enemies.
Now that she'd become an adult, she was ready to spread her wings and become Rouge's star.
Ghost.
Who were they?
Who could possibly want to do this to her?
The one who profits most is the culprit.
A thought flickered and flashed through her mind.
Yvonne clenched the blanket hard enough to tear.
The one who profits most?
Bwallet's face surfaced almost on reflex.
Not because he was a suspect.
The word profit had simply yanked his image to the forefront before she could consider anything else.
She wiped her tears, steadied her breathing, and went through the names one by one, calmly.
Someone who stood to gain from her leaving the stage.
Someone who hated Antoine enough to kill him.
Someone who fit both—
"Hello."
A cold sweat broke out across Yvonne's back.
This was the deepest VIP room in Rouge General Hospital.
At her own insistence, guards had been posted around the room.
Yet a human voice had sounded.
Right above her head.
"Ah—uh—"
She slowly lifted her head.
Dark ceiling.
There was nothing in the blackness.
Had she misheard?
Terror of the Ghost playing tricks on her ears?
That was when a pale hand clamped over her mouth.
"Mmf?!"
Yvonne whipped her head around, eyes flying wide.
A white mask!
The same shape she'd seen when she was attacked!
"G-gho—mmf!"
"Shh. Quiet. I'd rather not have anyone walk in."
The voice that grazed her ear was so gentle that Yvonne's whole body went slack.
Nothing like the harsh, venomous tone she'd vaguely imagined.
"You'll be quiet, won't you?"
"...Yes."
Half fear, half curiosity.
Yvonne clutched her pounding heart and stared at the form floating before her.
Moonlight shone through the translucent figure.
The white mask, uncanny and luminous, and the dazzling blond hair were stark against his black suit.
This person was the Ghost of the Cabaret.
Resentment flooded Yvonne's eyes.
"Have you come to kill me?"
"No."
"Or was ruining me this much still not enough? Do you need me more broken before you're satisfied?"
"No. I—"
"Then why! What grudge could possibly—you—!"
The Ghost's hand touched her lips.
The softness of the touch cut her words off without force.
The masked man leaned in close to her face and murmured.
"Shh. I have no other purpose. I came to heal your skin, Miss Yvonne."
Her body went rigid at the words.
What?
Heal?
"D-don't make me laugh! The doctors here said even top-grade potions couldn't—how could you possibly—"
"Allow me to show you."
The Ghost's hand settled against her cheek.
Skin they'd sworn would never return to normal.
Without warning, the whole swath from forehead to neck began to itch.
"Huh? What—?"
She looked into the mirror.
What she saw defied belief.
The red, puckered wound was melting away, fresh skin blooming in its place—pale, smooth, her old complexion—no, something even more beautiful, more delicate, spreading like magic.
"Ah... aah... aahhh..."
She wept for a long while.
The eyes she lifted toward the Ghost now held no fear, no hostility.
Only gratitude.
Only wonder.
"Thank you. Thank you. This is real, isn't it? Please tell me it's not a dream."
"Of course it's real."
The Ghost smiled warmly.
Even seeing nothing but the jawline and the smile beneath the mask, Yvonne felt her heart flutter.
"How is any of this possible? Every single thing that happened today—I can't take it in."
"That's what I came to explain."
The Ghost told her.
That an evil spirit had dwelled beneath the cabaret for ages.
That it kidnapped talented, beautiful women, caged them, and forced them to sing for it alone.
And that today, at last, he had destroyed it.
"Those occasional disappearances...."
"Yes. One every couple of years, without fail. Bwallet always said they must have eloped with some man, but... I never dreamed anything like that...."
"Please recover their remains and give them a proper burial."
"I—I will! Of course I will!"
"Heh heh, thank you. I'm afraid I must take my leave now."
The Ghost's body rose into the air.
Yvonne reached for him, but her hand passed straight through.
"W-wait—where are you going?"
"I'm fading. I am a form that manifested only to hunt an evil spirit. My work is done; I have no more reason to remain."
"Ah...."
Watching his shape grow diffuse in the moonlight, Yvonne couldn't hide the pang in her chest.
The warmth of his touch still lingered on her lips and cheek.
And the Ghost vanished before her eyes.
An hour later, something similar unfolded in a boarding room at the Rose Windmill Cabaret.
"Angel! Don't go!"
Shayla lunged at the Ghost.
Her body passed through him as though through smoke.
"Become a magnificent singer."
With those last words, the Ghost dissolved without a trace.
[Sub Quest — Legend of the Ghost of the Cabaret: Complete.]
[Sub Quest — Legend of the Angel of the Cabaret: Complete.]
The Ghost watched the messages float up, then removed the mask.
Name: Ghost's Mask
Applies to: Full body; clothing and belongings under 5 kg.
Effect: While worn, renders the user translucent and capable of matter permeation. Affected by sulfur.
Resource consumed: Stamina
"That wraps that up."
Wonderstein smiled, a weight lifting from his shoulders.
***
The next morning.
The Rose Windmill Cabaret's rehearsal hall.
I settled into a chair in the corner and watched the actors rehearse.
Shayla was focused on her role with an intensity that bordered on frightening.
Nothing like the girl who'd sobbed and clung to me at dawn.
Maybe my parting words—become a magnificent singer—had done something.
She looked more spirited than yesterday.
The actor cast as the Count had died last night, so Paris had taken over the role.
Yug Maroine's face as he watched Paris was pure satisfaction.
The old man was exactly as the game had portrayed him: a lunatic for theater.
A troupe actor dead, the culprit still loose—and all he cared about was throwing himself back into rehearsal.
Before long they reached the scene that had been cut short three times before.
Paris strode toward Ella.
"Can you prove it? Can you prove your love?"
Paris seized Ella's arm—roughly.
His face drew closer to hers, inching in.
The choreographer, Mare, stole a glance at me, but unlike yesterday I simply watched wearing a perfectly serene smile.
Their lips were about to meet—
BANG.
The rehearsal room door flew open.
Every gaze snapped toward it.
A poised young lady with vivid red hair stood there, hands planted on her hips.
"I'm back! We're starting rehearsal immediately!"
Beside her, Bwallet was frantically wiping sweat and babbling about whether she should rest, that it was only the morning show, that surely—but she didn't seem to be listening to a word.
"We have to! After the trouble I caused yesterday, I need to work twice as hard! Isn't that right? The show...."
Must go on.
I tipped my hat lower and smirked.
My blond hair and that smile were distinctly noticeable.
It wouldn't do for her to recognize me.
Before she could ask who this person was, I quietly slipped out the back.
A few minutes later.
Ella came walking out of the theater, sulking.
With the original princess actress back, Shayla had returned to the maid role and there was no longer any reason for Ella to stand in.
[Member Quest — Emergency Substitute: Failed.]
[Penalty: One random Trait destroyed.]
[Trait 'Derek's Vocal Cords' has been destroyed.]
The first quest failure.
This one genuinely caught me off guard.
I never imagined Yvonne would discharge herself from the hospital as soon as morning came.
The failure penalty—destroy a random Trait.
It stung, but at least it didn't hit Mantula's Blade. That alone was a blessing.
Derek's vocal cords served no further purpose beyond fooling Shayla yesterday.
"In the end, we never finished the scene even once."
"Let's just head back and rehearse our own troupe."
Ella snorted at that.
"You're the one who never does anything."
I managed an awkward smile. Ella shook her head slowly.
She tossed the next words out like an afterthought.
"Well, in a way, that's a relief."
"Huh?"
I asked again, but she didn't answer—just gazed out the window.
_______
Ghost of the Cabaret (End)