Chapter 71: A Tale of Loss And Love

FLICKER.

The light of the amphitheater came alive as I settled in my seat to watch the play.

CHATTER! CHATTER!

The sound of the audience interacting amongst each other filled the space as I sat comfortably in the front row. The polished wood of the stage gleamed under the glow of the lanterns, and the soft hum of anticipation hung in the air.

"Ah... it's starting."

I heard someone whisper behind me, and shortly after, the crowd fell silent, as if a spell had been cast.

TMP. TMP.

My gaze wandered over to the stage where a man emerged from the shadows. He moved with measured steps, his presence commanding attention. The murmurs ceased entirely as he came into view, stopping at the center of the stage.

Oh...

I took a good look at his face and felt my cheeks tint slightly.

He's hot.

Indeed, he was.

With chiseled features, gelled black hair, and a jawline sharp enough to rival the blade of a knight's sword, the man on the stage exuded confidence. His sense of fashion was equally captivating—an expensive linen vest paired with tailored pants, a crisp white shirt beneath, and a flowing black mantle that added an air of mystery.

I licked my lips seductively, making a mental note to send Albert to inquire about him after the performance.

One night won't hurt.

With that thought, I turned my attention back to the stage.

CLICK! CLICK!

The sound of his black boots echoed across the stage as he approached the center. He paused, surveying the crowd with a warm smile that was both disarming and enigmatic.

"Thank you for having me, esteemed members of the noble class," he began, his voice deep and melodious.

I smiled softly.

Hmm... polite, huh?

"My name is Williem Nightingale, the third heir of the Ice Flower Sect."

At the mention of his identity, a wave of murmurs rippled through the audience.

The Ice Flower Sect...

The name carried weight. I twirled the umbrella in my hands thoughtfully, my interest piqued.

The Ice Flower Sect was one of the fastest-growing factions in the Aesea Continent. In just a century, it had risen to rival even the most established states, including the Kingdom of Fire.

Its founder, Aula D. Nightingale, was a prodigy—a child sage who spoke fluent languages at three months old and mastered advanced magic by ten. At thirteen, she had created the Nascent Nature Arts, a groundbreaking Saturation Technique that harnessed magical plants. The sect's rapid rise was a testament to her genius.

Now, Williem Nightingale—the fifth child of the legendary Aula—stood before us. A dual affinity wielder, they said, blessed with both charm and power.

"This should be fun," I murmured, leaning forward slightly.

Williem took a deep bow before straightening, his dark eyes glinting under the spotlight. The audience watched with rapt attention as he raised his hand, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips.

"Audience, may I humor you with a question?"

The crowd leaned in collectively, intrigued. The theater was deathly silent, save for the soft rustling of fabric as people adjusted in their seats.

"Have you ever loved to death?" he asked, his voice soft yet resonant, cutting through the silence.

Huh?

"Ever cried till you laughed?"

"Ever met a dead loved one?"

"Ever gone mad?"

The questions hung in the air, strange and unsettling. I raised an eyebrow, my curiosity deepening. Around me, the audience exchanged puzzled glances, their expressions a mix of confusion and intrigue.

He smiled faintly, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. From his sleeve, he pulled out a flower—a delicate bloom with petals that shimmered faintly under the light. It was an exquisite lavender flower, one of the best I've seen.

The flower seemed ordinary at first glance, but the way it shimmered under the amphitheater lights hinted at something extraordinary—something only a Nightingale could conjure.

A person sitting next to me, whispered, "What a beautiful red rose."

I glanced in his direction, and raised an eyebrow.

Was he blind? That was obviously a lavender.

I heard another voice, "I've never seen such a wonderful marigold."

My eyebrow raised as my head turned to the source, it was a man who seemed to be in his late-thirties. He was neatly dressed and held an elegantly handcrafted walking stick.

Surprisingly, I wasn't the only one who turned to him, several other members of the audience were gazing at him. Their brows furrowing in confusion.

"What do you mean, marigold? That is a sunflower.", a robust woman in the crowd, voiced out her opinion.

"No, that is a lilac!"

The crowd was momentarily thrown into confusion before being drawn back to the Nightingale with a click of his boot.

"Calm down, ladies and gentlemen."

He smiled as he raised the flower in his hands up before suddenly with a slight sleight of hand, it was gone.

POOF!

In the same instant the flower in his hands disappeared, a peculiar flower each appeared in the laps of everyone seated in the amphitheater.

"A lavender.", I whispered before turning over to the next person, theirs was a rose.

Illusory magic?

A wave of astonished sounds spread through the amphitheater, before they turned to one of cheers.

Williem Nightingale smiled as the crowd cheered before he suddenly raised his hand, and in response, the crowd halted, awaiting his next act.

He remained silent for several moments, building up tension before he slowly brought a hand to his hair and plucked a strand.

Under everyone's astonished gazes, the jet-black strand of hair morphed into a gorgeous white rose.

The astounded audience slowly grew quiet and watched him, Williem's expression had suddenly turned into one of melancholy after the appearance of the white rose.

"This flower," he began, his voice carrying a weight that made the air feel heavier, "is called the Wailing Bloom. A flower that only grows in places steeped in sorrow."

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. I leaned closer, intrigued.

"Its petals carry the memories of those who have lost their way," he continued. "And its fragrance... is said to evoke the deepest regrets of the heart."

He held the flower delicately between his fingers, turning it slowly so the audience could see its ethereal glow.

"Tonight," he said, his tone shifting to one of somber reverence, "I will tell you a tale—a tale of loss, love, and the fragility of the human soul."

The crowd was spellbound.

Williem's expression grew serious. He gently plucked a petal from the flower and held it aloft. It shimmered, catching the light like a shard of crystal.

"Every petal is a story," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "and tonight, I will share one with you."

The plucked petal floated out of his hand and flew to the top of the stage before suddenly scattering into several pieces.

The lights dimmed, and the stage seemed to shift. The backdrop transformed into a hauntingly beautiful scene—a small town bathed in silver moonlight. The atmosphere was heavy, tinged with melancholy.

Williem began to speak, weaving a tale so vivid, the illusory world seemed to come alive. The scent of lingering dust, the hustle and bustle of trade merchants and the ruthless clamor of distant steam engines.

Every word he spoke, seemed to invoke feeling and capture attention, pulling the audience deeper and deeper into his tale.

He spoke, he cried, he roared, he screamed and he laughed.

Williem expertly captured the various emotions of each character he portrayed.

His words held power; they held emotion. Raw and unfiltered, he had everyone's attention.

Which was why the world stopped when the stage of the amphitheater suddenly collapsed on him.

CRASH!!!