The Bustling Awards Ceremony (5)

Like most modern societies, America has adopted the system of disclaiming inheritance. If the legal judgment deems it appropriate, a parent's debts won't pass down to their children.

But just as in most human societies, there's often a gap between legal judgments and reality.

Especially when the debtor is a relative, and you've been designated as a court-ordered child guardian. In those cases, the phrase "raise them and get paid back later" stops being ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a joke.

At the very least, Aislinn's late brother was foolish enough not to ignore it.

"Long time no see, Aisy. Never thought I'd run into you here of all places!"

"Megan..."

"First time since Joseph's funeral? You were bawling your eyes out over your brother back then—was it all fake? Seeing you crawl back here like this."

"......."

Aislinn gritted her teeth unconsciously at the sight of her sneering guardian—or rather, her uncle's daughter.

"I paid it all back. With interest. What do you want?"

"Aisy, Aisy. That's just the debt your parents owed. The cost of raising Aislinn Lewis and Joseph Lewis? That's a separate calculation, don't you think?"

"Cut the bullshit."

"Oh, in my opinion, Aisy—the real bullshit is you crawling back to Broadway after running off like a disgrace. Why the hell did you do it?"

"It's all because you squeezed Joseph dry like that...!"

Bruises formed between her clenched fists.

"Where the hell does a firefighter get that kind of money! What was that interest rate! That idiot was even sending you money for groceries!"

"Aw, getting all worked up. How tragic."

"You...!"

There was a time when Aislinn Lewis dreamed of becoming Broadway's next big thing.

It wasn't impossible. Even accounting for the natural predator who tormented her in the industry, she had that level of talent.

But it was impossible. She needed money right away.

The gamble of Broadway's rising star diving into Hollywood amid disappointed stares and whispers somehow paid off. She earned enough cash and fame to pay off the doubled debt on her own terms and grab her idiot brother by the collar, spewing curses.

But soon enough, it all became meaningless...

"Because your brother kicked the bucket, right?"

"Shut up."

"Ooh, scary. Calm down, Aisy. You know this isn't the place for that."

Megan laughed.

"American Plan, huh? Stuck doing the same crap as me."

She retreated with exaggerated gestures.

Then, as if on purpose, she scanned the audience and raised her voice.

It was the famous Shakespeare play Macbeth. But the lines had been heavily altered.

No—beyond alteration, it was a blatant attack on one person. And only one soul in the room grasped its meaning.

Aislinn's mind went blank amid the murmuring audience.

Megan Lewis wasn't a brilliant actress. But she had an innate talent for seizing weaknesses and dragging out traumas.

With three male actors more like servants than colleagues, she leisurely pulled out scenes one by one.

All dredging up memories that were traumas for Aislinn.

The night at 3 a.m. when she heard of her last family member's death,

Racing over to find the half-charred corpse being recovered,

Colleagues with heads bowed, drunks bellowing about the money inside,

Her fraying patience,

Police,

Lawyers,

Reporters,

Funeral,

Police again,

Lawyers,

Reporters,

Reporters,

Reporters—

Her limbs trembled.

Her head spun.

It's not my fault—the words that felt solid yesterday held no power in this extreme moment. She felt utterly alone in the world.

Megan smirked at her, eyes cruel from childhood: You're better than me? Doesn't matter—you're still beneath me.

Ten years more had passed, but then and now, Aislinn could only tremble helplessly.

Even as an actress, amid the jeers erupting from the audience.

Hmm.

Sir Bennett, owner of the Averbay Theater, watched it all from closest range and finally shook his head.

I need to stop this.

He never intervened on stage if possible—that was his long-standing rule. But his decades of experience screamed that if possible didn't apply here.

Veterans who survived this world for decades could distinguish refined, tempered emotions from chaotic, unrestrained outbursts. This was closer to plain violence.

Of course, letting it end like this would traumatize the trembling actress further—but

Leaving it be would be worse. No choice.

After agonizing, the theater owner clicked his tongue and called the stage manager. He couldn't air this mess, so he'd end the show early.

The staff, sensing the dire mood, nodded and moved to act.

But before they could, a young man interjected casually.

"Mind if I take a shot too?"

"Hm...?"

The theater owner turned.

It was an East Asian-looking youth. Frowning, he gave him a cursory glance.

Even masked, he looked neat, but his aura was faint. On the street, he wouldn't warrant a second look.

And oblivious to the onstage mess? No tact at all.

Tsking, the theater owner waved him off.

"No. Show's over. We saw something pretty lame."

"Well, it's already lame, so a bit lamer won't hurt."

"What?"

"Trust me. If you're dropping the curtain anyway, might as well make it less pathetic."

"......."

Arrogant nonsense from someone clueless. Normally, he'd curse him out.

The assistant manager was already frowning, ready to do just that.

But the pitiful onstage farce swayed the theater owner slightly.

"Give him one."

"Sir Bennett?!"

"It's pathetic anyway. What's wrong with more pathetic?"

"Wise choice. As there's a bottom beneath the bottom, so too are there grades of pathetic."

"Madman."

Despite the bite, the youth nodded along, took the mask, and headed onstage.

The assistant and staff watched with mild displeasure. To them, this fool was ruining a chance for a clean end.

The audience reaction was lukewarm too. They could spot auras.

"Who's that nobody?"

"Saw him with that woman onstage earlier."

"Oh, stepping up 'cause his partner's in trouble?"

"Spirit's good, haha!"

"Spirit alone... yeah."

The apathy hit the stage too.

Megan scowled—what the hell?—while her burly backups snorted softly. Only Aislinn gaped: Why are you here?!

Hmm.

Whatever, Kang Min needed to shift this stifling mood first.

And the ingredient? Always the same one.

He grabbed his throat matter-of-factly.

"Gahk...!"

"?"

"?"

"...???"

The actor who ascended the stage, twisted in agony, and collapsed heroically.

Flowing silence.

Historic Broadway's first encounter with something new was, like all before, filled with stunned quiet.

What.

What just happened.

Did he really die? Call 911?

No way—that can't—

If that's not death, what is?!

Kang Min's killer move landed perfectly, as always. Even onstage, Megan faltered, unable to process the shift. The audience too.

But Aislinn snapped to instantly, forgetting her shakes, rushing to shake his shoulders.

She choked up unwittingly.

"A-are you okay? Why suddenly—!"

"......."

"S-say something! Anything...! Why, why this...!!"

"...Hm, good at drawing eyes, but now what? I don't know any plays."

"Just die already!!"

Aislinn nearly strangled him ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but held back.

It was so convincingly pale, he'd actually die. Infuriating that his mouth still worked.

Amid the stirring audience, Kang Min shrugged.

"With that performance, what choice? You strutted like you'd own the next scene—what's this?"

"That's... uh..."

"Related to that mean-looking lady or the beefcakes?"

"......."

Silent affirmation. But explaining? Too much missing.

Aislinn lowered her eyes.

She'd brought him to show them up confidently—now this. Better if they'd ignored each other at the awards.

Self-loathing welled up...

Hm.

Kang Min studied her face.

Then, casually concluded, as always.

"Anyway, this play sucks. Time to ruin it."

"Huh?"

Utter nonsense—Aislinn's jaw dropped.

"Are you insane?! This is Broadway! And Min, you don't know a single script! Thanks, but get off—"

"Wait, I remember spotting something earlier."

"Huh?!"

"I know Don Quixote at least. And I've got the vibe of this place now."

"......."

Now Aislinn gaped wordlessly—madness.

Undeterred, Kang Min sprang up.

Audience sighed relief: What? Too realistic... Megan recovered, sneering.

"Ah, I've seen you. The guy with Aisy just now?"

Sneer curled her lips.

"Watch out. Nothing good comes from her. All shiny outside—total nightmare inside. Her file at news desks? Two trucks worth of dirt on how viciously she—"

"?"

No room for persuasion.

Kang Min collapsed again.

This time, a slow fade—agonizingly pathetic, heroic, painful death.

What the—

Megan froze blankly; even Sir Bennett's jaw worked soundlessly. Perfect.

Thus, utter bafflement.

Chaos silence again.

What...

What does he want...?

As audience blinked dazedly, Kang Min rose.

Then his absurd antics flipped to acting.

"Huh? Hey, wait—"

"......."

No one nitpicked river-ear-washing from Eastern sage Xuyu or Preston-as-mage-not-giant.

Kang Min grabbed a nearby mop like a lance and charged the beefcake.

But the Macbeth prep with Megan wielded a prop greatsword, smirking at the slighter man.

Acts death well? Fake a slip, knock him out—

"?"

"No, Min—you're the one getting thrashed happily..."

Overmatched, the beefcake summoned his two backups.

But La Mancha's knight stabbed and swung the mop, handling all three deftly.

They couldn't overpower easily, proceeding cautiously—yet still edged back.

But optics? Totally different.

Jeers poured, different flavor.

"Kinda cowardly, no...?"

"Boo, cowards!"

"Three big guys beating one and pretending pain!"

"Not even men!"

"Ganging up?!"

Beefcakes gaped absurdly as the knight retreated wearily, wiping sweat. Scattered encouraging claps for Kang Min.

What the hell?! Where'd he bring that from...!

The flipped mood was poison to Megan.

Gnashing teeth, she drew her dagger: venomous lines again.

Macduff's wife's lines from Macbeth bit Aislinn's lip again.

Paraphrased: Didn't you kill them? Tremors returned to her calmed hands.

But not for long.

The knight boomed.

The charging knight flew off with a "Gahk!"

Self-launched—before beefcakes moved. Jeers dwarfed priors.

Beefcakes speechless in shock.

But that was just Kang Min's revelation's start.

Slowly, imperceptibly,

But thoroughly—

Kang Min raised the threshold of his falls.

Comedic deaths gained value in the flow.

Knight's face grew grave.

Body wearied.

Will sharpened.

Audience, at some point, captivated by the pathos.

Fight,

Fall,

Fight again,

Fall again,

Endless fight,

Endless fall,

Yet rise—

How many dozens?

Venue mood fully reversed.

Disdainful assistant and staff gawked.

Sir Bennett couldn't steady trembling cheeks, mouth agape.

And foremost, a dazed actress watched.

All passed,

In the final moment, staggering up—Kang Min embodied pathos itself.

Not just lost in self, but exposing just enough to the outside as desired.

Even in death acting.

Usable.

Stumbling body,

Shaking limbs,

Limp jaw,

Quivering shoulders.

But beyond: clear eyes.

The knight in utter pathos opened solemnly.

The iconic line widened eyes.

Kang Min didn't continue. Unnecessary.

Silence brief—heavy step, and throats tore in unison.

Roars everywhere.

Mood reversal: pure magic.

One actor did it.

No plot, no direction—just overwhelming emotion.

Theater owner and staff stared blankly. Audience roared on.

Explosive heat.

Flushed faces.

Mania over cheers.

Mop lance held it all—

But in the final strike's moment, beefcakes couldn't help thinking:

Pain? You didn't even get hit once...

"The most godawful mess of a play I've ever seen!"

Megan fled jeers; Kang Min dodged endless handshakes. Sir Bennett's beard ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠quivered as he spoke.

Meant stern, but excitement garbled it.

"That...! No aesthetics, no story— not even theater! And that final singalong?!"

Korea forced "corpse theater" in musicals/plays, but America had etiquette too.

Varying by person, but no fist-pumping audience choirs.

Kang Min just shrugged.

"Still, better grade of pathetic, no?"

"Who said no...!"

Sir Bennett grabbed and shook his shoulders wildly.

Mad eyes.

"Proper training! I know troupes! Hell, I'll beat friends to book Majestic or Minskoff—big Broadway houses! You're too good to rot here!"

"I, uh, do acting already."

Kang Min shrugged off the mask; Sir Bennett blinked blankly.

Then exploded fiercer.

"William White! Wasting that brilliance on dumb ads?! Blind idiots! Hollywood ruining everything!"

"Never signed with Hollywood."

"Perfect! No issue! Prep now!"

"......."

As Sir Bennett ranted, Aislinn stood dazed.

Flushed cheeks still burned.

Brain echoed stage memories.

White void, knees buckling urge.

And that scene—

"Damn, what do you need! Honor?! One-year lease here?!"

"What would I do with—"

"Two years! Need K-pop? Fine!"

"Can't sing..."

Rarely, Kang Min tiredly turned. Tilted head at blank Aislinn.

"You okay?"

"Y-yeah..."

"Good. Let's bolt. That old man's trickier than he looks."

Koreans would've gasped—Kang Min's first weary retreat. Aislinn oblivious.

She hesitated, then asked softly.

"One... one question."

"Shoot."

"Who was Dulcinea?"

"Pardon?"

"You know, dedicating the win to Dulcinea... She's based on someone, right...?"

Meaningless really. Obvious. Just reconfirming.

Aislinn clasped hands, awaiting.

Hm.

Kang Min answered without fuss.

His usual one-liner, killing all lights.

"Bom."

"........Pardon?"

"Ah, that won't click. Seo Bom—my little sis type. She's nuts for this stuff, sulks if ignored. When's she graduating, marrying off... Anyway, habit to say it's for her."

"......."

"Her name 'Bom' means 'Spring.' Nice, right?"

"......."

"......?"

Silence flowed.

Long quiet, long hush.

Kang Min tilted head, shrugged it off. Job well done, satisfying.

"·········I see."

I see—

Aislinn nodded slowly, utterly expressionless, watching beaming Kang Min.

And next day, held a press conference.