A Performance Behind the Wheatfield

"Aaagh—!!"

I scrambled up onto the window frame and hurled myself downward after Yang Myeonghyun.

He had gone out the window without a moment's hesitation, so I didn't even have time to be afraid. And yet—no matter how long I fell, my feet never touched the ground. This is insane!

Isn't this fall taking way too long?! How far down does this go?!

I am not someone who enjoys this kind of thrill. I'd never ridden a single amusement park ride in my life, so I had no way of knowing.

Forget rides—this is falling out of the sky. I'm going to be smashed into the earth and die!

But then.

Suddenly, my feet met an invisible floor.

"Aagh!! …Huh?!"

Trembling with mortal terror, I had squeezed my eyes shut.

Fortunately, the moment my feet touched down, my plummeting body came to a gentle stop. All things considered, it was a rather graceful landing for someone with eyes clamped shut.

Yang Myeonghyun, who had touched down before me, blinked and marveled.

"Jisan-hyung, your voice certainly carries. I nearly went deaf."

"Aren't you the more impressive one, not making a single sound while falling from all the way up there? I mean, what kind of second floor is this high?"

Embarrassed, I looked back up at Arles's bedroom, the one we had just escaped. Sure enough, the room sat at barely a second-story height. Infuriating. They had designed the quest specifically to make us feel pointless, unnecessary terror. This tower really is the worst kind of malicious.

"You've got mail~"

It was the mail carrier's voice—the one we'd handed the letter to outside the door earlier. I turned my head forward to find her holding a letter out toward Yang Myeonghyun and me.

"For Mr. Vincent Willem van Gogh. That's you, correct?"

"……"

She beamed brightly as she delivered it. Well, we'd written the letter pretending to be van Gogh, so we'd have to stay van Gogh until the end. Yang Myeonghyun and I exchanged a glance, then accepted the letter.

"Yes, that's us."

"A letter from the year 1801. Lovely moonlit night tonight. Have a good one~!"

Waving her hand merrily, the mail carrier vanished away into the buildings in the distance.

The envelope bore the name Vincent van Gogh. I tore it open and unfolded the letter inside—

"We did it!"

A small leaflet floated up above the letter to announce our success. Once again, we had narrowly scraped past failure and would be climbing to the next floor.

The instant the leaflet appeared, Yang Myeonghyun bowed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠deeply at the waist and gave me a formal salute.

"Thank you for clearing the quest, Jisan-hyung."

"I didn't do it alone."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Uncomfortable with the ceremony, I hurriedly straightened him back up. This was a quest the two of us had driven to success together. The truth was, I'd learned something from what Yang Myeonghyun had said earlier, too.

'I believe the purpose of this quest is for the visitor to step into van Gogh's shoes and try to understand his heart.'

If it hadn't been for him, I would have used Soul Rental to borrow van Gogh again. To be fair, that's exactly what a perk built around borrowing people is for. But thanks to Yang Myeonghyun, I held back—and in the end, I was able to help van Gogh, even just a little.

"It may as well have been you alone, Jisan-hyung. I couldn't come up with a single idea. I only had doubts."

'Not exactly wrong, but his self-objectivity is cold to the point of cruelty. He could allow himself to savor a win right now.'

Yang Myeonghyun lowered his eyes with a troubled expression and let out a long sigh.

"I am… a lacking human being."

"Don't beat yourself up that badly. We succeeded together—that's what matters, right?"

His excessive self-reproach had turned me into the one offering comfort. I couldn't understand it. He'd been so easygoing and composed all this time—why was he so stingy with himself?

"Let's give it our best on the upper floors, too."

"You wish to continue our alliance?"

"Of course."

When I lifted the corner of my mouth in what I hoped was a dependable grin, Yang Myeonghyun swept the shadows from his face as well.

Shhh—

'So this time it's Beethoven's soul.'

A bonus perk leaflet that only I could see had appeared before me. That meant I currently held the souls of two artists. Even if I used Soul Rental again, one soul would remain in reserve—some small comfort.

"The yellow wheatfield road. Over there—do you suppose that's it?"

"…Let's go."

Yang Myeonghyun narrowed his eyes and stared at the patch of yellow earth far in the distance.

We set off at once, walking toward the wheatfield mentioned in Beethoven's reply.

"It really is the wheatfield."

Before long we reached a golden stretch of yellow wheat. The village street came to an abrupt halt, and beyond it the wheatfield simply spread out—the scenery felt strikingly artificial. But the blue night and the radiant moon remained just as they had been.

Caw, caw—

As we walked down the dirt path, crows that had been pecking at wheat grains burst out from all around us. Black wings beat in a flurry; their cries were raucous.

This was supposed to be the road to the next floor after a successful quest, yet the atmosphere couldn't have been more bleak.

"This scenery… it's Wheatfield with Crows. We're walking into the last painting van Gogh made before his death."

"Mm. I've heard there are arguments that it wasn't actually his final work."

The landscape of Wheatfield with Crows, the painting that marks the end of van Gogh's story. Whether or not it was truly the last piece he made in his lifetime—

"But I think it's right that the museum uses the 10th floor to part us from van Gogh."

Bang—!

"……"

The moment my words ended, a gunshot rang out through the wheat. Crows scattered upward around the source of the sound, filling the sky black for a moment before dispersing in every direction.

Vincent van Gogh took his own life with a gun. He was a fictional person created by the tower, but the bitterness was the same.

"Regardless of your efforts, Jisan-hyung, van Gogh's ending remains the same in the end. It must simply be staging we cannot escape, given the tower's structure."

"…I suppose so."

Like the ones we'd seen on other floors, he would rise again, take his own breath away again, and rise again once more. I could only hope that he was data formed together with the tower from the beginning—not a visitor turned part. Like the Skeleton Monster.

"Then it's a mercy that, this once at least, we were able to bring van Gogh a little joy—even if it's fiction."

I nodded silently in agreement. And yet I couldn't help imagining it: if I had chosen to live in the world of the 10th floor, would van Gogh not have died?

'I can't give up my wish for a fictional van Gogh. But still—I wanted him to live.'

"Jisan-hyung, stop."

Yang Myeonghyun was running his hand across the endless sky. No—not empty air. Van Gogh's sky was a wall painted with a mural. If it hadn't been for him, I would have smacked my forehead straight into it.

'The mural is moving.'

The painted clouds drifted apart to either side, and a dark tunnel opened up inside the flat wall. At the tunnel's end, a staircase climbing upward came into view.

"Let's go."

Widening my stride, I pushed forward faster than before. Thanks to the moon and stars shedding their light, my vision wasn't pitch black, at least.

'The texture under my feet is…?'

At some point, the clinging mud of the path had given way to something soft and dry. It wasn't the feel of any natural ground. …It was fur.

We passed straight through the tunnel and climbed the stairs. My mouth pressed itself shut, tight with anticipation over what the 11th floor might hold.

"!"

The moment we topped the stairs, bright light flooded everything around us. The sudden glare stabbed at my eyes and I winced. Gradually my vision adjusted, and I was able to take in our surroundings.

'A performance hall?'

Red carpet and rows of audience seats. And a golden chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Everywhere I looked, there wasn't a single thing that wasn't lavish.

"Jisan-hyung. The door we came through has disappeared."

"A performance hall with no entrance. I'd say we're meant to sit."

Shrugging, I took a seat in the center of the front row. Without a word, Yang Myeonghyun followed me into the chair beside mine. Well, there was nothing else to be done.

"?! Jisan-hyung, what song is this?"

"…I have no idea."

Unlike the piano pieces we'd heard on the 10th floor, an orchestral performance swelled with grandeur. What sounded like violins and flutes struck hard at my ears, then just as quickly melted back into a languid melody.

'It's a song everyone knows, so is it my knowledge that's lacking? Or is it just not that well-known a piece?'

Shhh—

The red stage curtain drew open, and the performance began in earnest. Backdrop set pieces, apparently made of plywood, stood at either edge of the stage.

And then dancers came up onto the stage, dancing with elegant grace.

'Costumes like something out of ancient Greece or Rome. A musical? An opera?'

Crowns woven from blades of grass. Long lengths of cloth wrapped and draped around their bodies. Armor and helmets, too. It was the ancient Greco-Roman dress we all knew from paintings and films.

'And here I was wondering what kind of show it was—this time it's ballet!'

One by one, the dancers leapt lightly into the air. They kicked their feet together midair, or spun like tops with one leg raised.

'This is the first time I've ever watched a ballet.'

For someone like me, who'd never seen any kind of performance outside school productions, it was an overwhelming shock. Mouth hanging open, I drank in the dancers' ballet with my eyes.

Dancers performing light, airy steps to beautiful music. Even holding real, burning torches aloft, they still rose onto their toes and twirled in perfect circles.

'Balancing on the very tips of their toes like that, over and over—it's incredible….'

…?

There was something wrong with the pointe shoes of the ballerinas standing curled-toed on their tips. The bare feet of the male dancers, unshod, were no different. We were in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the front row, closest to the stage—why hadn't I noticed sooner?

'Maybe it was deliberately hidden so we'd only catch it late.'

"…Jisan-hyung."

"I see it too."

Goosebumps raced across my skin, and I shuddered without meaning to. Every time the dancers stamped across the stage, fresh red blood was painted onto the floor beneath them. Their feet, and the stage itself, were smeared head to toe in blood.

Jolting upright in shock, I sprinted toward the stage. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Seen up close, the dancers' faces were a wreck as well. Their makeup had smeared long ago, the colors bleeding into one another, and their lips were cracked and swollen.

"St-stop it! Stop dancing!"

Even at my shout, the dancers didn't so much as pretend to hear; they kept on dancing. The corners of their mouths curved upward in unnatural arcs. They barely blinked, their eyes stretched wide and grotesque.

Wearing smiles as stiff as if they were masks, the dancers danced on.

'They're being forced. They're dancing against their will.'

"Jisan-hyung, what do we do? They will not heed us."

"Then we stop them with our bodies!"

Right now, the only thing that could hold them back was sheer physical force.

I leapt onto the stage without hesitation and planted myself among the dancers, blocking their paths—if I did at least this much, surely they'd have to stop.

"?!!"

At that moment, a soft, clammy hand appeared from somewhere and seized my wrist. Dragged by that hand, I fell straight off the stage.

"Ugh…."

"Jisan-hyung, are you all right?"

Yang Myeonghyun steadied me and helped me to my feet. I groaned, my face twisted in a scowl. More than the pain of slamming into the floor, it was the revulsion that hit hardest.

"The Curator…!"

The feeling of that human hand grafted onto the Curator's shoulder—it was, truly, the worst. He had been used as parts, so at least the hand wouldn't rot, but still.

The Curator had appeared out of nowhere and deposited me below the stage. And now he was preening his shoulders in that signature, insufferable posture of his.

"Dancers being covered in blood—that counts as a performance?"

At my question, the Curator's robes rippled like a wave. He had no mouth, so he couldn't make a facial expression—but no doubt he was sneering at me in his heart.