7. Trial of the Rose Windmill Cabaret (25)
7. Trial of the Rose Windmill Cabaret (25)
Saturday was the decisive day in their competition.
Over the two prior matchups, more than twenty percent of the total revenue had come in on this single day.
Over at the Morning Star Circus, Minova had been out since dawn, hustling customers in front of the concession stand.
Looking back at the last contest, Saturday sales tilted far more toward souvenirs than toward food and drink.
He threw himself into clearing out leftover stock.
"A steal, a downright steal. A rice paddle that rice won't stick to! Buy two, get two free! And for our desk-bound friends, a complimentary ergonomic cushion—proven to ward off hemorrhoids!"
For a project-based circus troupe, the patron's influence ran deep.
The Morning Star's stall was inevitably cluttered with merchandise shoved onto the counter to promote their sponsor's wares.
Minova silently sighed, running through the sponsor's directives in his head.
Even at a modest loss, he was under orders to move every last piece of that inventory.
The Monster Circus, by contrast, enjoyed genuine commercial freedom.
The Bergson Trading Company demanded nothing of them.
So they threw themselves even more aggressively into card sales.
Ella ran the promotional push in front of the life-sized cutouts of the monster troupe members that Maya had painstakingly drawn over several days.
"Today's your last chance—once these are gone, they're gone! On the final day, any Rare Card pull earns you one bonus draw! And buy a bundle of ten cards, and you get the exclusive legendary 'Maid Outfit' card—absolutely free!"
The snake-charmer Suave felt her ears perk up.
Ten cards, plus a guaranteed Legendary.
That was pure profit in her book.
Six of those eleven cards would net her portraits of the entire monster troupe, and she could swap the five common ones for food at the concession stand. Nothing else came close for value.
Of course, she didn't have that kind of coin.
She and her companions had bought the cheapest token option available.
But if the three of them pooled their funds, it was within reach.
She glanced back at the two men behind her.
"Oi. You two. Fork over your tokens. We're getting that."
Despite her urging, both men pointedly looked away, pretending they hadn't heard.
"What's the holdup? I'm telling you, that's the best deal going."
"Er...."
"Well, you see...."
Allen and Joe cleared their throats and slowly spoke up.
"Sure, that's true, but...."
"We... don't have any money left...."
Suave's eyes flared wide.
"What are you talking about? We each got 150 tokens just a little while ago!"
"Ahem, we, well...."
"We bought a few things."
Only then did Suave notice their pockets were bulging conspicuously.
Come to think of it, she'd seen them loitering around the Morning Star's concession stand earlier....
"You two...."
"No, wait, listen!"
"This stuff is really good!"
As her expression turned murderous, they scrambled to produce their purchases.
"This is a toothbrush infused with silver particles. Through a mystical alchemical process...."
"These are socks enhanced with aromatic charcoal. They say the feet are the second heart, right? The charcoal's antibacterial and deodorizing properties...."
"And this is an acupressure massager, great for your health...."
"Plus a daily supplement for cardiovascular wellness...."
The two of them rattled off their products' benefits in a breathless rush.
The sheer absurdity of it knocked the anger right out of Suave.
Supposedly acrobats, and these fools had been reeled in by a traveling salesman's pitch and bought this junk.
"We got three of each—one for you, too."
"I'm losing my mind. We agreed to save our money until we got those portraits. So why did you blow it on this useless crap?"
Under her glare, Allen and Joe shook their heads.
"To be honest, the idea of lining up for those portraits is a little... embarrassing."
"Yeah. Feels like showing up at my ex's wedding."
A few weeks earlier, they'd received an offer to join Wonderstein's troupe.
Back then, they'd been convinced the Monster Circus was a place that turned people into pitiful exhibits and put them on display.
No matter how desperate they were, they wanted no part of a place like that. So they had made up excuses and fled.
Now, coming back just to claim souvenirs in front of those same people felt mortifying.
Especially the thought of facing Wonderstein again.
He'd been a decent man—kind even to bottom-tier nobodies like them.
Considering their low standing in the industry, they had acted outrageously arrogant in front of a troupe leader competing in the tournament.
"...What's done is done. Anyway, you're probably right. Lining up for portraits would be awkward."
With what little money remained, they each bought a cup of tomato juice and sat down at a table near the concession stand.
Suave stared up at the ceiling and let out a long sigh.
"Unbelievable. When we left home, I never thought this trip would end up this broke."
"Same here."
"We figured we'd be on some little stage within three months."
"Tch. With that lousy comedy act of yours? You really thought you'd make money."
At her jab, Joe bristled and blurted out.
"The path of art is long and hard. And you're hardly in a position to lecture us about money!"
Allen fixed her with a frosty stare.
"You gambled away our pooled funds. Every last coin."
Suave's expression wilted.
A tournament like this inevitably attracted gambling.
The betting houses in Rouge had been running odds on the weekly matchups.
In the first week, she'd bet heavily on the Pandora Magic Show to win—and lost it all.
"Oh, how long are you going to drag up ancient history? I really thought I had it! You saw it too! I had it right every single day up to the fifth! We would've won if that bastard Dosville—Dogsville, whatever—hadn't stuck his nose in at the last second! Twenty-to-one odds, I'm telling you!"
Just then, the bell rang, signaling fifteen minutes until the performance began.
The three of them tidied up and rose to their feet.
Behind them, Minova's desperate cries rang out as he tried to squeeze in last-second sales.
"Premium nylon stockings! Stretchy, tear-proof, they don't run!"
***
I watched Ella return from the morning promotional push.
The moment she stepped into the practice room, she collapsed onto the sofa.
Exhaustion was written across every inch of her face.
"Miss Ella, are you all right?"
"Huh? What... me? I-I'm fine? Utterly, completely fine?"
Her eyes had been half-closed, but she startled and snapped her head up.
I sighed inwardly.
"I keep saying, let the ratmen handle the concession stand."
"Like they'll figure it out on their own."
She yawned, got up, and paced the room to shake off the drowsiness.
I was starting to regret giving her permission to join me on stage a few days ago.
She'd claimed her role would amount to only a few lines. With each performance, her part had steadily ballooned. She simply couldn't let any rough patch or missed opportunity slide.
She kept revising the script on the spot and ad-libbing more dialogue. By yesterday, instead of a supporting emcee, she had become a full co-host on equal footing.
I wasn't angry about being upstaged.
Honestly, I was enjoying this.
Back when I streamed online, I mostly stuck to single-player games—hunting for super-play hidden content, recreating absurd in-game scenarios, rather than joking around with other people.
Maybe because of that, this experience of leading a stage together with someone felt genuinely fun for the first time.
Stepping off stage, I'd even feel a pang of disappointment.
What worried me was her health, nothing else.
After finding her collapsed in the rain—after seeing that "Devolut Immunity" notification—I never wanted to feel that powerless again.
"How about catching some sleep in the break room?"
"Right now? We've got ten minutes until curtain. You're not seriously thinking of pulling me off stage at this point, are you? Today's the last day. A few more hours, and we're done. Oh my, what's this? Are you scared? Hmm? Hmm?"
A teasing smile crossed Ella's face, and without quite thinking, she poked my ribs with her finger.
Caught off guard by the sudden gesture, I could only stare at her blankly, at a loss for a retort.
Meeting my eyes, she flinched and yanked her hand back.
She realized what she'd just done and looked horrified.
The Jester and the Clown were close friends—that was the in-story setup.
Ella loathed Wonderstein, yet on stage, that had never been an issue.
That was just a character trait assigned to smooth over their emcee dynamic.
She was only playing a role.
But had she gotten too absorbed in the act these past few days?
Just now, off-stage, in everyday life, she'd instinctively behaved like a friend.
'I've lost my mind.'
She felt her face flush bright red.
She grabbed at the nearest face in the waiting room and pivoted the topic.
"Anyway, why does Umon look so dead inside?"
I noticed her desperate attempt to steamroll past what had just happened and played along.
"Heh heh, he's been modeling since morning. Over twenty sittings."
"Somebody giving him a hard time?"
I gave an awkward smile.
"Half of those sittings were... in the maid outfit."
A maid-dress Red-Blood Ogre.
Ella felt her stomach turn.
"...Some people have seriously weird tastes. So why's Yurakne looking so angry? Upset she didn't top the charts?"
"No. A customer brought in a blank misprint card and demanded a nude session."
"Ridiculous...."
Time slipped by.
A ratman entered to announce two minutes to curtain.
I watched her unsteady gait and spoke up.
"Miss Ella, I'm not going to call this a contract breach or anything. You can go rest."
"Ugh, you're relentless. I said I'm fine. This much is nothing. And stop bringing up the contract. I..."
She stopped mid-sentence and clamped her mouth shut.
"Yes?"
"Oh, no, it's nothing...."
She couldn't bring herself to finish and swallowed the words.
The contract.
It was the tool binding Wonderstein and her together.
Nothing more than that—an obligation to help him lead the troupe competently.
But that wasn't the only reason she stood on stage.
She stood there because it was fun.
Even if she could never forgive that man.
Even if she could never like that man.
Even so, it was fun.
When they stood on stage together....
She couldn't deny it.
"Miss Clown?"
At the sound of Wonderstein calling her, she opened her eyes.
He was looking at her from the opposite side of the stage.
What?
She looked around.
She felt hundreds of eyes staring back at her.
"Huh...?"
The sudden shift in context left her disoriented.
Wait, what just happened?
Her head was blank.
She couldn't grasp what was going on.
She scrambled through her memory.
She soon realized: she had fallen asleep while standing on stage.
Standing under the hot stage lights, a wave of drowsiness must have overwhelmed her in an instant.
"Ah."
Panic surged through her.
What part of the script are we in?
Am I supposed to deliver a line now?
What were my lines?
She floundered for a moment.
Just as the Jester—her on-stage friend—was catching on and moving to cover for her, someone in the audience shouted.
"What's this bitch doing up there!"
At the same instant, something came flying from the edge of her vision.
Her dynamic vision registered it in a heartbeat.
She was a woman who could snatch a thrown blade out of the air.
With her reaction speed, dodging a sluggish projectile like this should have been trivial.
Maybe it was the accumulated fatigue. Her mind detected it, but her body refused to move.
Smack.
Her vision flooded red.
The impact made her stagger.
"Ah."
A sour, grassy smell tickled her nose.
She knew exactly what it was.
She'd been smelling it for days, sick to death of it at their concession stand.
Tomato.
She understood the situation now.
Someone had thrown a tomato at her.
"A clown who earns her bread with her talents can't dodge that? Tsk, tsk. Pathetic. Just pathetic."
Guffaws erupted from a corner of the auditorium.
A handful of young men in cheap suits had claimed the seats there.
A few audience members who'd recognized them started murmuring.
Gambling-house thugs from the Rouge betting circuit.
Among them stood Baron Dosville, wearing a smug, scornful grin.